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B"H

Reaching Infinity

Introduction

Life's like extracting sweet tasting fresh fruit from a walnut and partaking in a natural joy

of life. From the moment of birth, we face with the tribulation of loneliness and concomitant

yearning for graciousness and closeness that had encompassed us the nine-month journey into

this world. The cries of an infant are expressions of craving to return to the state in which

satisfaction was intrinsic to the rhythmic beating of our heart attuned to the surrounding

environment that's organic satisfaction. Thus, the entirety of life is seeking appreciation for

the individuality that beyond our control is dependent on finding pleasure in the eyes of the

forces with whom to be reconciled. This is true of our adaption and performance of tasks that

ensure our survival, and those that bring us into contact with other beings associated to our species.

The same applies to trees; the leaves are dependent on the flow of nutrient and fluids

drawn against the force of gravity that are intrinsic to the soil and that are conducted in the

xylem and phloem to heights and a longevity beyond imagination. What is it that makes a

man more than his physical being, what to be valued more than talents he's developed to

establish his feelings of worth, express his importance, and make his mark on the world; to be

remembered. The funny thing about a person being remembered is that he'll never know if he

will be or not. Just the same, he goes through life imagining how people will cry when he's

gone, how they'll talk about him, and what’s even funnier; how he consoles himself to know

how he'll be missed. Through creative productivity such as writing literature to preserve one's

thought he thinks to achieve immortality; the reach beyond the physiological reality of death

sure to come. This idea is common in people's practice of religious and spiritual mannerisms -

- they can thereby attach themselves to eternity.

As I passed the hurdle of the golden years, I realized that freedom of expression is to be

treasured, no matter what else may be happening to me in life. As I learn to respect ideas that

differ with my own, I'm no longer influenced by espousals of a religious nature not in

accordance with my own beliefs, where I tolerate but not accept. My opinions don't have to be

correct anymore; I can be satisfied to discern forces that are distinguishable within presently

finite parameters, not portend to know will become of me in the future. I can spend my efforts

to communicate by writing and talking, and though may find it difficult to explain the

transformation of thought into spoken words, discover someone important who happens to be

myself. The main topic of my "era" of introspection is a concept I came to term "insane

jealousy," to wit, my repentance. I wring out the character of my past mishaps and hang them

to dry.

One reads a written text and hears the words, thinking the words are somehow audible in

his brain. This is because he or she mutters the words silently as the actions of his or her lips

stimulate the auditory levels of perception within his mind. We can never explain the

molecular structure of sound, though we know its essence is the force of percussion causing

an impact on the space in which it is articulated. When we clap our hands, the air is forced to

collide forcefully with its containing environment, and we hear a reverberation of air

molecules. What within the molecule of air produces a noise? Sound arriving to the brain is a ramification of the memories we attach to the implication of words.

At the specific moment the physical world came into being, the percussion of the sound

that emanated must have been a form of energy. Prior to the first act of creation, there were no

particles with which to collide, so the sound it caused is a noise of nothingness beyond our

comprehension. Therefore, we can only apprehend reality by admission of our ignorance; the

conceptual structure of sound is as intangible as the infinite, and can be believed but not

perceived. All styles of communication such as the nod of one's head, movement of the hand,

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a smile, or the spoken word are expressed as energy in the realm within which it acquires

mentative significance. The mind contemplates meaning based on experience or knowledge

codified within our memories.

By a quick peek at the notion of creating something from nothing, creation ex nihilo, we

may endeavor to understand the preeminence of thought in the realm of human interactions.

According to basic and even sophisticated logic, there could have been no motion of air

currents waves producing sound waves prior to the universe, only ethereal waves; thought, as

we define it, something so intangible it has no physiological characteristics. We can only

conceive of creation if we accept that the act of creation (masculinity) and the receiving

(femininity) environment were formed simultaneously. Elsewhere, I have likened this to the proton and electron of the hydrogen molecule.

Our presumption that the foremost and thus original force of energy emanated from a state

of silence, was an existence of motion such that its bearing created not only air and sound

waves, but yielded light (according to the speed at which energy travels), moisture, and form

as well. "Motion is the universal language until it all returns to the silence." Silence is noise of

nothingness, the receptacle of action; when the force of motion ceases, molecules of energy

no longer vibrate on the space of its containment. Regarding the various accounts about the

transformation of thought into a "big bang," or "spoken words:" Primary Motion, the

containment of its energy, and the entirety of the outcome shall be the heretofore referred to

as One; primary thought (the very first being in the realm of existence). One that its

quintessence originated from silence that we deign to perceive in terms of measurable dimensions of time or space.

Theocrats, and philosophers postulate ideas that are utilized to subjugate and exploit the

masses, but it's a misapprehension to claim that religion is the opiate of the masses. True

religion is intended to allay fear of the unknown, to instill man with what we call faith; that as

long as the universe retains its harmonious state of balance everything is copasetic. The tenets

of this faith are what prevent man from succumbing to his natural instincts. Ants go to their

death by the thousands when trampled underfoot. Is their species less fit for survival than

humankind? The obvious answer is that there are so many of them that the species' survival is

guaranteed by their nature to reproduce, inhabit, and remain intrinsic to the earth; to act purposefully in accord to the design established as the premise for their existence.

When a person thinks poorly of him or herself, every time they'll finds themselves in a

tight situation they'll suspect the worst outcome is going to prevail. Of course, modern society

has endeavored to cause everybody to feel weak and incapable, dependent of the goodness of

those who control power. One therefore should delve in in the contemplation what is his or

her true purpose in life, to seek satisfaction in our being our most functionally best in our

living environment. Was humankind to abandon the basic premise of their role in the

maintenance of our universe the species would become extinct. Our survival is a vacillating

function dependent on our conduct.

This leads us to the issue of what our presence in the world is supposed to accomplish, in

whom we imbue the authority to decide that, and to what extent abuse of the physical world

must be restrained. We may ponder whether the cherished priority called freedom is a virtue

of the design preconceived by One (the Primary Motion) during the act of creation. My idea

of freedom includes sensitivity to every fiber and thread of creation that has been strung into

the makeup of life universal and eternal: birth, growth, interaction, and natural death (not

enjoying pleasure at the expense of the whole). There are laws urging people not to cut a leg

from an animal to satisfy their hunger, and just let it gimp around until they become hungry

again. This ethical premise goes beyond the issue of whether someone claims a right to

ownership of the beast he eats, it has to do with preservation of the whole universe as a

singular unity; certain acts cause an imbalance in nature and are prohibited. Freedom is measured by limitation!

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The essence of freedom is so intricately wound in the existence of beings that one will

attain to lofty wisdom would that he becomes sensitive to his environment. Two leaves will

grow to the opposite sides of the stem, thus offering balance, support, and the security to

enhance development as an inclusive entity. One question troubling the author of this treatise

begs askance if one can extrapolate from an example of freedom intrinsic to the nature of

vegetation to the yearnings of one mentally imbalanced; whose instinct to flourish freely will

hamper the natural growth of other beings? As to divine concepts of creation, the whole

purpose behind them is to give license to the values beyond any comprehension of intellectual

espousal. The effort I am investing is this literary effort is intended to arrive at a personal and independent appreciation of my particular place in the Unified Universe.

Stating my point of would be subject to a quasi-scientific method of eliminating untruths in

order to establish s concise verity. Let's compare the superiority of the Northern Hemisphere

Caucasian species of man, to that of insects within the arthropod phylum. The Northern

Caucasian have maintained a historical subjugation over indigenous populations throughout

Asia, Africa, South America, and Mesopotamia. He has denuded the female sex, perpetuates

crime and greed, social depravity; and propagates ungraciousness towards the needs of our

fellow creatures be they animal, vegetable, or mineral. With no arsenal, a Nile mosquito can

put a man down with a tiny bite. Was humankind to utilize the entire arsenal at our disposal

we would wreak gnarly destruction, but insects would continue to propagate, grow, and die

naturally. Disease, rebellion, war, pollution, depletion of resources, traumatic weather

changes, and social disorder seem adequate indication of grandiose and disastrous imbalances

in nature. We can conclude that humankind is faced with an inferiority complex from birth

until the time of death, and is therefore laden with obligations to assure his survival and

liberty, if not only prove our worth beyond that of insects!

Remarkable Beings

Perhaps humankind is too aware of itself as distinguished in the framework of the whole,

and being so ignorant of the balance in nature we have brought about a situation that could

make our lives on this planet unbearable. The theme of Women's Liberation is an example of

a perplexing contradistinction, especially in light of the Biblical account that depicts female

kind as the temptress who caused male kind to eat from the Tree of Knowledge. The ideas

represented serve as a clear warning that things we desire most are likely to bring about a

calamity if we disregard our propriety in relationship to the same. Heretofore, I shall put to

test my theory that the only perfect knowledge is ignorance. A man walking down the street,

told by a passerby to turn around and run the other way, will be faced with a conflict between

blind obedience and curiosity. Should he rebel against the warning and suffer non-fatal but

severe damages there is a possibility that he'll hold a grudge against the passerby for not

having warned him strongly enough. This compares only in slight measure for the disdain and

mutant disrespect male kind has demonstrated towards the dignity of womanhood. Her

individuality, nay, her humanity has become degraded by the disregard we dare not show

towards insects. The darling Eden family could have existed in the euphoria of a harmonious

paradise, only in so much as they would not partake in fruit from the Tree of Knowledge (not

to engage in pleasure for pleasure's sake).

Shall I not point to the following treatise as a preponderance of my role in the universe; the

primary characteristics of my life in the universe I inhabit? I was an "abuse-aholic," trapped in

the anger and arrogance characteristic of my insecurity complex; this book is my only

recourse to change the old wares for something human. Abusive behavior is inhuman, a

human being is humankind, and kind is human. I typically sought a sense of false security in

the "acceptance" of my body becoming appreciated as worthy in what we called lovemaking

relationships. Teenage male dominance over the prurient molestation of the female body was

a point of arrogant pride. The force of this distortion drives men to subject women to their

every whim, and the social amenities were adjusted to offer approval of this conduct.

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Returning to our example, the historical abuse an alpha male heaps upon his wife, sister,

daughter, and mother; we find womanhood portrayed in museums of trash and decadence. In

the decades of the middle twentieth century, there was a moral prohibition to portray the

nakedness of women, which made it, ipso facto, a manly achievement to acquire pornographic

publications. Nowadays, female kind appears in so many degrading postures: in many public

forums, in order to earn a buck, to advance their careers, to parade their beauty in tempestuous

drama, and allow themselves to become the object of banal pursuits. This subjection to male

kind's caprices is not women's liberation, and neither is sexual emancipation; i.e., the radiance

of freedom that is typical to nature, ergo growth, propagation, and natural death.

I would further suggest that the importance of limitation as it pertains to freedom is the

fundamental of religiosity, as not every desire is given to be satisfied. To obtain something

out of the routine and very expensive one may have to invest labor time to achieve the goal.

Stimulation, awareness, and excitement accompany the scrumptious pleasures we savor in our

five senses, but after a few seconds, the search must begin anew. People want to be thought

knowledgeable, and go to extremes in order to prove they're never mistaken. Social scientists

and archeologists are willing to assert that the Indians of South America migrated from Asia;

using a theory of shifting landmasses to explain how they got there. I debated this issue by

asking whether they can pinpoint the origins of the various species of birds, or trees, the

abundance of color, shape, activity, and location of so many millions of different creatures

that make up our world. Freedom can exist only insofar as balance between motion and

silence. When an individual is not steeped in the pursuit of comfort and luxury, he or she can

enjoy simple pleasures.

Chapter I -- Being Child Becoming Wild I murmur these thoughts within my brain, convinced I'm lucky to have someone with

whom to discuss them. Prostrated two meters beneath Ground One (the face of the earth), I

make a quick scan of the hole I've affectionately come to name, "Rose Cavern." I've dug my

own grave behind my rose trellis on which grows voluptuous vines of jasmine; together they

emit the fragrance that will mask the stink of my rotting bones herein I be buried. Above,

alongside a peach tree, the cactus natural to my sweet home in the Negev desert sprouts new

oval-shaped leaves. The cactus has grown to the height of several meters, and at each different

level, the leaves sprout at specific angles so that leaves at every level will grow to their full

and heavy potential ne'er to collide with the leaves at level beyond. This pattern of liberty and

justice prevails throughout nature.

The philosophical preponderance as whether man is intrinsically good or evil is used to

explain the behavior of those habituated either one way or the other, but I have only to look at

myself to know that neither is true. I perpetuated sadistic manifestations to disrupt people's

inability to ignore me and ultimately developed into a social revolutionary. During my youth,

I fantasized about underground escapades; and culminate my arrival to old age; underground,

lying in my open burial plot. Actually, this should not be alarming at all since throughout

history people have made their homes in caverns. I accomplish much, entrenched here in my

darling "Rose Cavern," surrounded by flowers, spices, grape vines, and other fruit trees, that,

even in the desert grow to beautiful proportions.

These aforementioned sadistic manifestations were characteristic to one aspect of my

fractured personality. I was called Mickey (with reference to the cartoon character) and it hurt

my pride because I had big ears that stuck out, was named Marshall at birth, and though have

monkey ears in my old age am not bothered by them anymore since I'm referred to as Moshe.

These distinctions lend credence to the saying there is much to be said about a name; the

distinction between who one is and what occupies that self is sometimes described with given

names, sometimes with nicknames. Many times people stick a name on someone that is laden

with character defamation, and in contradistinction call them an angel or the like. The

interesting thing about this is that the English language is structured to countenance the three-

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way split in a personality by application of the infinitive, "To Be" in every sentence that is

applicable to one's identity: I am Moshe! I am degraded! I am psychotic! Description and

reflection, inscription and essence, existence and derivation; engravings of the soul etched into the physical presence that requires nominal description.

Sitting there with my back propped up on a dirt mound, posture-designed by scraping and

patting mud pies, I stare at the etchings scratched into walls tunneling beneath Rose Cavern. It

behooves me to explain that the idea for this tunnel developed over the years of my

enrollment in elementary school. I was subjugated to the oppressive cruelty of the "bigger"

kids who liked neither my ear span nor my adamancy to accept their premise of my right to

exist. Alas, in those days, my brother and I used to imagine a magic tunnel that would be

accessible to us on the way to school. We had to walk about a half mile from our home, up the

block, around the corner and the length of another whole block to where the school guard

would cross us over the busy intersection. It was from that point until the school doors and

waiting for the school doors to open that we used to have trouble with the bullies arriving from other neighborhoods.

This then, was my training to traverse the difficult straits through an imaginary tunnel, the

idea being that no harm would befall me therein. Noteworthy to assert here that mental

configuration imbue the mind with a false confidence, and sometimes that's all it takes to

traverse the dangerous passageway that threaten to lay siege upon our well-being. These

memories are inscribed in belief that Rose Cavern can shelter me from the demise certain to

overtake me. Sunrays penetrate into the mouth of the tunnel, and are mystically deflected

through the passageways of the throat; illuminating the depths beyond. The shadows that

follow on the heels of sunshine are so forceful they cause an appearance of lines to arise from the surface and seemingly emanate into thought passageways pulsing about my brain.

I had put them those lines there, scratching with various tools not the least of which was

my fingers, a tool most adapt to labors upon the earth's substances. It's remarkable what

fingers can do; shovel into the ground, chisel delicate lines, shapes, and figures, and polish

even the coarsest surface. Thereby the inner waves of thought within my brain are transmitted

thereby unto the hallowed walls of Rose Cavern. By the time the glare of the sun has receded,

with the day's passing, my lungs have filled with breath of these historical (perhaps hysterical)

impulses mapping the way to secret episodes hidden in the future. As such, I lay here

contemplating how to record all this information so you'll understand what I'm being.

The beams of light and the vibes emanating from my etchings, these exclusive of those and

those inclusive of these, are gallivanting through the opposing sides of my brain. The

engravings on the walls of Rose Cavern picture people pouring gold into underground

streams. Beside them, in the manner of hieroglyphs -- images of people sickened from

substances they ingested, and thereafter becoming well having consumed produce that

absorbed particles of gold. In the dissertation to follow, I shall record the experiences of how I

tunnel to a distant time where nobody is disrespectful to authority; an aberrant form of

harmony has replaced the human character of individuality. Here, now, now here -- nowhere

the Rose Cavern is but a pupil in the eye of my garden. Above an infant swing is clicking

back and forth as the leaves from the peach tree laugh in the rhythmic sweetness that only

succulent fruit can communicate. A radio controlled microphone and Web Camera transmit

my prescience to a computer so you the viewer may participate in the occurrence of my death.

What; me condescend to rot in a field with stinky carcasses stuck in the straight and narrow of the neighboring pits alongside?

To some extent this research will focus on the cultural dereliction, which a part of me I so

abhor. Like a filmmaker, I capture vision from within my brain; filming a mirror image in

slow motion; I'll zoom and quick jerk hither and thither in order to depict the human situation

quite the opposite of what perceive it to be. We are not superior by virtue of intelligence; but

are dependent, destructive, and despised despite the grandiose achievements we accomplish

using our innate capacities of perception, articulation, and manipulation. This has been the

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focus of my progress deeper into the innards of Rose Cavern, at each conjecture leaving the

mark of my having passed this way. A nervous scratch; a furious flustering fingernail forcing

an impression, and these squiggly inscriptions unto gorged stony walls give evidence to the

appearance of unified essence in a universal dimension. Motion is the universal language until

it returns to the silence.

I once scratched and splotched the intricacies of lines representing the blossoms of my

peach tree unto the walls of Rose Cavern, and miraculously sensed the motion of forces

digging from the inter-sensual realm of Native dwellers-ancestors who had immigrated to

these lands with pockets, buckets, and every type of container filled with sprout and seed.

Should one take this book literally, you're invited to join me for a glass of my homemade

wine and delve into abysmal depths absolutely disconnected from anything that could be

described as intelligence. I can dig this; my body lay still, resting against the upper soft palate

that welcomes one into Rose Cavern, ergo my burial plot. The sorry truth about life is that we

are persecuted from the moment of birth, and I'm not talking about the proverbial spanking

the obstetrician gives the newborn. Think about what goes into the occidental obsession with

making the birthing process sterile, as though to optimize healthful circumstances for mother and child.

The thing is; is that formation of early brain cells leads to communicative functions of

language acquisition, the only assurance to our intellectual development as human beings.

Where non-academic language prevails in nature, we find aggressive behavior: presumptuous,

impatient, and greedy conduct amongst children who sometimes never grow out of it. By the

age of two, a child learns to apply motor and reflex actions such as facial expressions and

voice control and at seven conceives of fantasies, but not yet concepts of time. Until puberty,

the brain cells continue their development into specialized functions; such as depicted by the

five senses combined with reasoning power. When toddlers undergo trauma, these cells

develop into a defective mechanism, to the extent they are irreparable, and for an adult to

achieve a minimal normalcy is an endeavor that makes him dependent on the nurturing society.

The issue here is not to counsel mothers how to cuddle the newborn and allow him or her

to adjust to the sounds and sights that'll invade his sensations, before cutting the umbilical

cord. Somewhere in my mind, I'm trying to figure out why my life has been so hectic, what

have been the influence of traumas that make humanity feel lonely and insecure and

concomitantly dependent on those who seek to oppress us. The reality that for each of us,

"me" is not what I really am; it's a concoction devised to control people, abuse them, and

usurp their strength and talents. Each of my distinct identifications (Mickey, Marshall, and

Moshe) have been systematic attempts to adjust to circumstances that prevailed at various

points in my life. I can sketch my first six years of life in my memory and the next ten sets of

approximately six years apiece, and what I see is exactly the same characteristics of

personality that predominated during my youth. The perception mechanisms of the sixty-year-

old were established at the time of my birth and formed by the environment in which I grew until maturation. Vast networks and repressive machinations enslave our bodies and minds.

From the moment Mary took her lamb to school, she was to be deprived of love and

warmth; she was going to have to produce! A child can neither remember nor sense what he

has no real reason to perceive. The ability acquired for storing and drawing upon memory is

proportional to spans of time. When we cannot express thoughts and react to the lack of

human warmth dementia will overtake the rational processes. A child needs to keep close

proximity to something soft in order to preserve the security it knew in the womb. I can

remember being called a crybaby, and even from infancy, my mom got uptight when I cried. I

was shaken around, twisted upside down, and thrown high above the pull of gravity. I

flashback to Anna Mae, a woman hired to babysit; whose calm breathing and humming while

holding me, securely, was the only comfort I needed. Suffice to say the only calm I might

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have known as a toddler was shot, blasted, shattered, crushed, and devastated by the time I reached kindergarten.

The general scheme of human nature is clearly indicative of other systems of collectivity

whereby each species acclimates to those of like genealogy; ants an ant society as do lions

roam with their own kind; and so it is with people whom live amongst those whose external

and internal characteristics are similar to their own. Most nations and cities have legitimate or

implicit class differentiations: racial, socio-economic, and religious. I grew up in the Jewish

neighborhood in the Northwest section of Detroit. The city was divided into industrial and

residential sectors, with a thriving downtown along the Detroit River, a geographical marker

that separates Canada and the United States. The Northern Caucasian people decimated

reddish skin-colored people, and took deep-brown colored skin people from their native

African habitats as slaves to fuel the economic vehicles and mass-production furnaces.

Believe you me, the day approaches when steel and oil will be scarce (we shall overcome).

Woodward Avenue is the main drag from the river all the way north; along which Jewish

people migrated en route to suburbs where they'd escape to reestablish their communities,

with the exception being areas where it was forbidden by law because of anti-Semitism.

On the topic of Judaic liberty

I feel compelled here to explain a tiny verity that being every word I compile is done with

motivation that requires endeavor to face up to characteristics of my personality that often

bring me to wish I was dead. Albeit, I live in a state of deprivation to wit have stripped myself

of pleasure I was wont to pursue a raison d'être, though not bereft of comfort, neigh luxury -

that typifies the Occidental lifestyle. Hand in hand, I encounter those facets of my personality

niched within the shadowy reaches of a materialism bred in America; fried in the grease of its

death economy, and anybody who dared to oppose was degraded as a misfit. You can't sell

guns and tanks if there is no enemy; Russia incited Arabs to war with Israel and America sold

them arms. While we're on the subject, and since I've read this entire book I feel it's my duty

to discuss the Israeli Arab conflict. The Israelis, similar to the Americans and the Russians,

fuel the world's war economy, whereas by means of conflict resolution these peoples finding

themselves along the pathway of peace and justice would be paving eternal bliss on the road into universal freedom.

There are unjust wars fought for colonial gains, and those that arise out of natural or

inevitable circumstances. Every animal and creature in nature is imbued with the instinct for

freedom, to guarantee its survival, if necessary to expand their communities, and to defend

their life and property. People, however, conquer lands, form allies, perpetuate wanton

destruction, and produce miscreants out of the female members of their family, and human

community. Israel is driven to exert military supremacy in a world where even if they killed

everyone they could still be conquered by national insecurity. One may assume the

government in is cahoots with the imperialist weapon's industry. Having been in the heat of

the flame I can tell the reader, I am one well-baked potato. Deep within the pits of oblivion, I

perceive the Judaic tradition a livable tenet.

To elaborate on the Israeli mentality might take the better part of a lifetime and since I've

invested in the effort to do it, so here we go. Firstly, there was the pride of the gentiles that

Christianity and its stepbrother, Islam would act upon a wishful thinking they would

ultimately wipe out any trace of Judaism in the world. In 1973, the ghost of the Jewish Nation

Israel had come to conquer the world, at least insofar as resuming the national characteristics

of a demographic reality. It was a joke against modernity and I became the laughing stock,

hated in the world abroad because I was a Jewish male, and hated in Israel because I was an

American male. This time warp landed me here now- now here, nowhere. I spend a lot of time

now-here.

Couldn't they see from my (hippy) appearance that I had rebelled all those years when the

U.S. waged the war in Viet Nam? Yes, in the 1970's the citizenry of Israel wanted to be

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dissociated from the appalling lack of rectitude concomitant with the image of cruel

militarism, though convinced that banishment of Arab populations would bring peace to

modern Israel. What had I not gone through to get here? My mission, on the micro level was

to restore the family ties shattered by the years of revolutionary reaction to all the benefits of

my nurturing society. I realized this could not be achieved without finishing university and

perhaps associating to my heritage. Applying the double whammy I enrolled at the university,

I had attended in Michigan decades earlier, to do an "independent study," arranged a

scholarship, and flew to Israel. The accounts of the six months I spent here, shall they not be

recorded in my memoir anal?

I needed only an additional four-credit course to matriculate my Bachelor's degree at MSU,

so I also enrolled in a course on Anthropology at Tel Aviv University, making my fete

accompli a quadruple whammy. To elucidate, I had rebelled against the militaristic premise of

research in the college environment, and revolted against the "establishment" such that it

became an issue of accountability not to graduate. Little did I know how pleased established

society would be to know that I'd go through life without a college degree. When I tendered

the credits earned at TAU the registrar flipped-a-wig! Knowing how to "doctor" a theses and

dissertations was an academic skill in which I was trained. Before the end of the school year, I

went to the Western Wailing Wall and concocted an anthropological study consisting of

statistical evidence regarding the way people place their feet in different positions when we

pray. When MSU finally processed credit from the courses, they awarded me a BS in psychology.

I had spent a few months on a kibbutz where I harvested grapefruit and almonds, and

wanting to get some religion into me, had started to attend religious services on the Shabbat.

This infracted work ethic of the kibbutz anti-Judaists' policy since they thought the modern

Israel had to shed its religious traditions. They ejected me and somehow I managed to be

accepted as a volunteer worker on a religious farming community in the south of Israel. There

my good memories have remained; ah yes, many leaves withstand the winters and never

wither. During those six months, I succeeded to nurture warm and friendly relationships with

people whose expectations from life were moderated by the simplicity of common cause.

Fields being muddy in spring bogged me down and I had considered myself above the

dictums of planting melon seed in muck to the height of my ankles, so I flamed out of here as

fast as I had arrived. I was shipped out to the "city of Torah," Bnei Brak, wherein I meandered

my way into a ba'al teshuva yeshiva (Torah study for Jewish people with repentance on their

hearts) that had dormitory facilities. Therein, I insisted on eating wholesome pancakes even

during the heat of preparations for Passover, which brought about my imminent ejection. We

know that brain dead people can experience the mental pleasure of those truly enabled to partake in actual events, which goes to say these things really happened.

Keeping cool, that's the rule! Nevertheless, I had landed up, ascended, into the fissure of

destiny. Really! I enrolled at a yeshiva on Mount Zion where the dorm rooms were carved

into the walls of the Jerusalem hills. I had traded the guitar for a violin; somewhere back my

father had told me that his father played the violin so that was a fast way to get in touch with

my past. It was a manifestation of my becoming more Jewish and Israeli style cultured. I was

so strung out I never took a bow. Not long before his death, I had played the tune of Kol

Nidre to augment his respect of my achievements. I had cut my "hippie" locks, been awarded

a college degree, and was conscripted into the work force as my father's office boy.

Spring is a rare occurrence in Israel and one learns to appreciate the passage of time

without any ability to keep track of it. I shall heretofore apply imaginative capacity to cloak

my thoughts in the garb of fiction. I was like a drug addict going through withdrawal because

the rest of the guys I had bummed around with were reformed hippies and I couldn't pull the

wool over their eyes, so it was either with them, or against them - and I chewed surf. I remain

truly, the loner I have always been, left to my own wares to propagate revolution as a

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principle I refer to a conflict resolution, to which nobody has the patience to attend for reason they are heralded into pursuit of comfort.

I left Israel after six months, the last words I uttered before departure being my promise to

return within ten years later, which I did! To whom was this promise made? A woman

standing next to me at the check-in at the airport expressed concern for the fact I was leaving,

not giving up the comfort of Occidental régime to shoulder the burden of building modern

Israel. The story until this point has eluded to the type of training I received as a product of

occidental modernity. By the time of my second coming to Israel, I was married and a father

of four children. I was a petty crook, into drugs by manner of habituation, a derelict and

abusive husband: and despite it all, ordained as an orthodox rabbi. Learning to fake off

college matriculation was peanuts compared to earning rabbinical ordination, the latter

serving to authenticate my arrival to becoming conclusively a Ba'al Teshuva. Pertinent matters concerning the in-between are soon to be discussed.

Look at the America's Jewish populations who have distanced themselves from tradition;

dress immodestly and purport loyalty to the culture pertinent to legions other than our own:

As though this fascination advances their status in the modern world! They reside in

materialistic facades, not aware that danger lurks from within their habits of self-abusive,

denial of Tradition as it should pertain to their modus operandi. Matrimony has become so

unfashionable that the older generation who culminated nuptial vows and raised families did

so with purposefulness; are unable to communicate to their children why marriage was

sacrosanct, and the result is petrifying. Such unspeakable demographic computations prevail

as calamitous ramifications that throttle progress into a nationalist schemata for the near and

long term future, not only of modern Israel, but also in the lands everywhere where Caucasian populations have ruled.

If that's not bad enough, look at the situation in Israel. Fifty years ago, the Jewish people

came to inhabit that land of Israel, which had been their national homeland some two

thousand years earlier. One should analyze this fact by questioning the right of the United

Nations to reverse the historical process of Christian and Muslim efforts to make Jewish

people an extinct relic like prehistoric creatures. The Arabs of Palestine claim to be rightful

owners of the land and say the Jewish people should make their national refugee in Europe,

Russia, Africa, or New York. I dare say, one should be respectful of exchange of residences in

terms of forbearance of the ideas on may bring to new locations, as said, "When in Rome do as the Romans do," and other epithets such as, Live and let live."

From another point of view, the Rabbis of Europe, before the Holocaust, also said that

Palestine was an unfit location to replant Jewish populations of Europe, though for different

reasons. It also seems likely that if it were a matter of survival they might agree for the

religious communities of present day Israel to relocate to Europe, Russia, Africa, or New

York, as such, if the Arabs keep hitting hard enough they might succeed. This is not

conclusive so perhaps we should question further.

In many cultures of the world, people have become fed up with ancient traditions, and to

their thinking are relics that have become extinct. The Jewish tradition has a staying power

that offers an example to humanity. The influence of Jewish tradition is incorporated in the

New Testament, is imparted by the teachings in the Koran. The unity in creation is also the

basis of far Eastern ideology; at least since the inception of Buddhism in the sixth or fifth

century BCE. All the major religions teach that life and death are part of a cycle of

compassion, disregarding desire, and acceptance of suffering in which a person is simply at

one with his surroundings. Suffering heaped upon the Jewish people drove them to establish a

modern state in Ancient Lands. I'd like to avoid, but shall briefly mention of the politics pertinent to this discussion.

Looking at this issue, we see the ferocious conflict of the Palestinians to believe not, i.e., it

is they who are the indigenous; while the Israelis assert it is their Holy Land. Taking my

assumption that staying power is a person's being at one with his surroundings, we see the

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demographic threat to Israel is the population increases of Arab people amongst whom we are

living in the Middle East. This is, to some degree, because Jewish people won't sacrifice their

quest for selfish acquisitions in order to bring more children into the world. Their

acculturation to immodest and materialistic remnants of Greek culture is their downfall.

Families profess that by limiting the amount of children they bring into the world they procure

enhancement of the material comfort of those children they bear and raise within the

framework of modern society.

The military organization of the Hezbollah or Palestinian fighters can overwhelm tanks,

ships, and jet bombers, not because of their instinct for conquest alike to the ancient Roman

culture, which has no staying power. Religious warfare runs contrary to the underlying unity

of Judaism and Islam, and is but a manifestation of man's projecting his fallibility unto his

own image in order to rid his conscience of its inadequacy. The question is whether a United

Israeli and Palestinian Nation will emerge as a single nation or a divided land drenched in

blood. I am committed to the Return to Zion of Jewish people from anywhere to the Holy

Land, and don't relate to human rights' organization as either leftist or radical, labels that do a

great disservice to the principles of freedom, justice and brotherhood within the hearts and soul of people everywhere.

I appreciate the world's concern with the governance of this nation and think Israel has a

lot to learn about qualitative educational aspirations, equal economic opportunities, and the

principle of voting suffrage. It will require a whole generation of children to be raised by the

shared value of intrinsic human worth of people who are people. The Israelis intrusion into

areas in which the Arab populous would stand eventually to threaten the Jewish plurality in

that region and the state as a whole. A fact seldom recognized by Israeli politicians is that the

declining demographic borders are an ipso facto decrease of their rule over the land

historically sanctified as the Jewish Nation Israel. The present day State of Israel has limited

legal propriety over lands contested by Syria, Lebanon, Egypt, and Jordan. Alas, the

militaristic Israeli government was pushing an Israeli settlement in Gush Katif, known in the

West as the Gaza Strip. They pushed the people in; they pushed the people out, did the hokey

pokey, and got in a bout. The Israelis will have to reconcile themselves to bipartisan rule; one

man, one vote democratic authority in the lands from Eilat up to the Golan Heights and from

the Mediterranean Sea to the Dead Sea: by everybody who inhabits it!

The substance of these thoughts does not readily convince people that they have to reject

anything that contradicts their materialistic lifestyle. Man's overt tendency leads him to

represses conscionable truth, such as values professed by the wisdom of Torah sages,

wherever it conflicts to his habituation to pleasure. What hath one to say concerning Greek

and Roman academics that gave the world a tradition of relentless attacks against the Jewish

Nation Israel? Who will pay attention the groans of our weeping, the lonely voice within alike

to the garbling of a pigeon, a constant hum vibrating in its gasp for breath of communication

with life? Who can take stock of a world seeped in destructive weaponry, a global crisis

where climatic condition inundate the security of innumerable communities? Where does little

old me settle down in recognition of the prevailing situation as regards the future of the

generations to follow in my footsteps?

Every Circuit Needs Be Grounded

Who, what, where and when questioned the wise old owl. Who is what, when where and

why has this little boy come into the world? It was a world of hidden lies; liberty and justice,

racial equality, and religious freedom were empty epitomes. During the fifth decade of the

20th century, technological apparitions had begun to replace man as a fundamental player in

the cycle of their owners acquiring wealth that heretofore had been paid to laborers.

Everybody felt he or she could be replaced by machinery or destroyed by a raging fanatic

pushing a button, anywhere in the world. The first fatality in the war for minds was "com-you

n'I–cation" between parents and children, between man and wife, worker and employer, and

those who governed and those whom believed they were being served faithfully by our

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elected representatives. As far as most people were concerned, "life goes on," so they took

little heed to the warning signs. I grew up alienated from everything; somehow, the vibes

irritated internal bearings that kept a person on track. Through the march of decades, I've identified most of those parameters.

By the age of thirty-six hours, I was alienated from my mother. I figure it like this; she

grew up in the limelight of Jewish Class Assimilation and didn't know even how to boil water

when she got married; on a stage and in the drama portrayed to a get your kicks in, while you

have the chance. The drama scripted tedious endeavors as boringly mentality, and

responsibility to home and hearth was projected on menial laborers. As such, communication

between parents and their infant or growing toddler was superfluous; they had to be fed,

clothed, and clean up to standard, and that's all there is to it. Jewish Class Assimilation also

adopted the prevailing philosophy to hire help to perform the mundane chores of putting the

babies to sleep, so nursemaids were hired to sing us lullabies. Our Anna Mae's face glistened

like the moon, but she was deeply aware of hidden truths. In the time of her ancestors, people

heard breezes singing when all the jungle creatures to become restless, they learned to

articulate sounds that enabled them to respond calmly to any situation. Something might

move in the late night forest, it's a nocturnal creature and nothing to be wary of, no fear,

certainly no sweat or fret.

I wish I had enough film to shoot scenes and the wild gesticulations of many Northern

Caucasian mothers trying to stop a baby from crying. This pattern of social hysteria was given

over as a tradition that the care professionals proffered to a society no-being human people

who themselves were weaned and raised on hedonist folly. Those who could, hired people

whose history was rooted in the natural harmony of sounds; women of African descent in

whom was imbued a nature to woo their infants to sleep; to bathe, change, and bottle feed

them while humming their hymns. Our Anna raised us on us nursery rhymes about the slavery

to which her ancestors had been unjustly subjected. The words could have meant nothing but

the voice patterns became intrinsic to the development of our spirits, "don't you cry, cause

you's in that mean man's boat: Youh mommy hears your sad song an's gonna make it sweet,

so you just go to sleep. What we gonna do baby, you just sleep little baby, mommy's gonna bake an apple pie."

That's what's called being a soul brother, when memories haunt far into the dark of my

sleep, or I'm uptight trekking down the street; can't forget Anna Mae's love for a minute, it's

cool right now, here and nowhere too, caus' I got soul. I Mickey am Marshall throbbing into

Moshe the imperative "to be." I am being that gives structure to the inner essence, connected

to the any action performed within a framework of time, utilization of the "ing" thing

expression unique in the English language. I move in silence, just action on the physical level

is being described, but when I'm moving the whole globe spins around the sun, and as such

the verb depicting such action becomes continuous. Let's take a brief overview of what is

involved in communicating thoughts. In order for a normal child to develop his capacity to

speak, he needs a healthy auditory system, visual acuity, adequate memory, speech facilities,

and mechanisms within the brain that switch and transfer the flow of thought into a proper

response. Most sensations never arrive to the realm of perception because we filter out all but the pertinent details of our existence.

That some people go beyond viable and the simple may be attributed to man's creative

potential, they tap into a realm beyond the rational and tune into the soul. All energy intrinsic

to the world emanates from a core at the expanse of time and space; it is forever bound to its

source like an electron orbiting around its neutron. This does not postulate either the

destruction or creation of energy, it simply states that energy is a force that travels over the

expense of time but was generated in the original space with which it forever remains

identified. Action of a body emanates from mental forces sending impulses from the brain to

the body, so you've got soul and if you've got brains try to keep it together. How does a blob

of flesh called the brain arrive at cognitive realizations? The physical and cosmic entities in

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the world are fashioned out of the same substances -- the basic elements, wind, light, water, and earth. The universe is energy infused into a form the brain comprehends at the right time!

When linguistic scientists discuss language processing they start with the ability of the

mind to formulate representations. These representations are described in terms of external;

broken down into categories of either linguistic or pictorial, and internal; either prepositional

or analogous, the latter being compared to pictorial. Yet, it is obvious that a picture does not

maintain physical proportions of an image during the mental processing, regardless of

whether it is a sensation of external events, or a perception that is internal in its entirety. The

object we perceive with our five senses takes on a meaning that translates into sound and

other images: letters, and words! Animals express a variation of sound that requires no verbal

representation; their lives are less complicated. Their affinity to nature is more highly attuned

than that of the human species.

Say hey, for Anna Mae's devotion to raise Northern Caucasian children, and all like her

who while working for Northern Caucasians invested mitochondrial soul in the bones of the

offspring of the young ones with whom they had contact. Such deep individuals of African

descent served in the menial capacities that Northern Caucasian mothers and fathers abhorred,

and sowed revolutionary breath and deep secrets of their faith into the flesh and blood of

those for whom they cared. Faith is not a destination it is a heartfelt deposition, it's there just

like the heartbeat. The issue of human language is of particular interest especially to people

who distinguish between the cognitive processes and intelligence. Know that the first sounds

an infant hears are the basis for all later language acquisition. This ability is one of the

strongest forces in nature, the imprint. Imprinting occurs geese and ducks and is essential to

survival of the human species.

That being the case, so I kind of flip out when I think of the hissing and battering,

screaming (not to mention the visuals of my mother being bashed); hysterical ranting like

incessant horn blowing during rush hour. I offer these thoughts here as a contradistinction to

the steady stream of soul sounds that flowed across the span of time that comforted me when

Anna Mae held me to her bosom. Rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham, so tell me father

gone and deceased what was going through your mind; how would you like me to think of the

love you emphatically shared through the hateful and perverted manifestations of your

inhumanity towards my brother, sister and I? I would willingly forgive you and if it were

possible, also to forget you but I am what you fashioned in the living of your self-image.

I am inclined to harp the sweet song of the jungle's harmony that imbues ancient African

civilizations with their appreciation of the human role in the wide realm of nature. I mean;

nature with all its ramifications expands beyond the environs of Africa, so it stands to reason

that historical inhabitance of the same inculcated wisdom in the people who would ultimately

transmigrate. Though Northern Caucasian society was bent on enslaving the indigenous

population of the African nations, what they didn't realize is that the traditions of these people

includes the realization; that after all the manipulations, no matter what the Northern

Caucasian society thought was mastery, in the end human nature will be restored. They will

be the masters of their own destiny. This wisdom was passed down from generation to

generation -- to Anna Mae, from her ancestors. She cuddled me to the degree I felt the spirit

she has imparted into my soul.

The basic premise of human existence is that a person can effect any specific reality, which

prevails at any given moment, only insofar as he remains true to an internal identification. Our

will power extends only as far as the will to grasp a perception. This was known to the little

old great-grandmother and transmitted in the soul sounds that she would utter in harmony to

the nature of the fierce jungles of Africa. How could people live amongst tigers and elephants

and believe they were in control of their lives? It was a matter of faith; the beasts are as

intended to be, and one needs to go about life, so what is there to understand? Words are an

expression of sounds that accompany actions learned through imitation, practice, and

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perfection but have little meaning unto their self. Anna Mae told me how her granny felt

plenty bad on that boat, the while tears pouring down her cheeks almost drowned me. Hush

little baby, you're rocking the slave ship; it's just old Anna Mae singing a lullaby, and if that swing takes you high, grab yourself a piece of sky.

If only to climb out of Rose Cavern and run to Anna Mae (AM), but we AM, I is singing

the song I learned of love for life, we be it for you all. The weaving of breath from within the

rhythmic beating of my heart, as sounds reverberating therein make themselves felt upon the

earth beneath; like an ethereal Morse Code impelling words beyond the reaches of eternity. If

you were as smart as an ostrich you could tune into soul faith, if as sensitive as an elephant

you could catch my breeze. What of the gestalt in which this development took shape? By

contrast, we must dare a glance at the physical, cultural, or social accomplishments of man in

the modern age. We have become intellectual perfectionists, idolizing and arrogantly

defending the correctness of mentality, of knowing we are right about our views of things or

events. The important thing is to know how life is found breath of a mantra: Motion is the universal language and it all returns to the silence.

Perfectionist Intellectualism Debased

I've aged considerably during the decade of my descent and deliberate seclusion into a

conception of death that has sprouted from within Rose Cavern. I can see the wobbling

characteristics in my mind's playback, of the imagined film episodes portraying me as a

toddler grasping my plastic baby rattle and manipulating it with my lips and tongue. I was

consigned the very best, and this model had the approval of Dr. Spook. Such multifaceted

levels of sophistication involved in how a rattle arrived to the hands of an infant. The design,

including material, shape, and color were the outcome of studies and consultations on the

highest level of social and physical sciences such as psychology and engineering. In addition,

the marketing techniques were piqued to the finest infinitum, such as pertained to a whole

range of baby products, but that's not even the main point. First, they deprive you of bodily

warmth; and from the moment one's security blanket is grabbed away from him; the modern

Caucasian society dictates gaudy display of consumerism as a way for him to regain an

increment of self-assurance. The consumer economy was based on deceptive strategies to fleece people of their income, money that would have better been invested in a secure future.

Toys were designed into order to maximize the specific quantity and effect of the

stimulation that the object would have on the child's brain. The Greeks had the culture of

sensation; drama and art, the Romans; sport and conquest, and each strived for perfectionist in

the realms that depicted the nationalist ideal. Intellectualism is a realm of striving that has

superseded every other consideration in honky societies in both the occident and the orient.

Up to date parents were encouraged to ensure that their children would have super-ultimate

ability to climb rungs of social mobility, so they bought every educational gadget that

promoted "youthful development." The idea was to train parents to acquiesce to the

nationalist suggestions that promote excellence in the academic arena, the "only" assurance

that could guarantee the security and liberty of their children. Failure, of course was built into

the system, and factories thrive on those who didn't make the grade. It goes without saying

such pursuits were very expensive.

I can depict here the feeling of parents whose children are rejected from the college,

parents of those who flunk out of high school. The issue a hand is to bring to awareness that

certain ideals concerning academic indemnities were not based on the principles of a greater

human society for the largest number of citizens. Calm demeanor is the responsibility of

adulthood, specifically to avoid greedy yearning as one's main occupation in life. Parents who

were enticed by styles and purchases when fashions became outdated should have learned to

communicate to their children as beloved members of a family. Our existential sustenance

depends on the utilization of resources we procure in the world we inhabit. This then is the

character of survival imbued in every species that for whatever reason has been placed in this world. It is important to know our place in the larger scheme of things.

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Is this preponderance not a most difficult truth to absorb into our mentality? Doesn't each

of us have our own, a right to possession? I deign to answer that a system of academic

research called the scientific method is based on the one aspect of truth that remains after

eliminating the untruth. The above-mentioned objectives of commercialism are the strategy

effectuated by Society's Community of Unjust Barracudas (SCRUB) whom; though a small

percent of the world's population, claim the right of ownership over more than 90% of the

world's resources. They had to take the risk of higher education in in order to devise better

and more efficient systems of corruption and persecution. My assertion stands to question

whether those who chased the proffered rewards of the system can get their goose out the pot

of delirious devastation in time to regenerate their intrinsic spiritual aspirations. Are we

inextricably dependent on the SCRUB (Society's Community of Unjust Barracudas) system?

At a conjecture of two decades into the 21st century, we wonder if the cumulative abuses of

the ecosystem have shifted the globe from a state of balance to a state of imbalance. We are

face with a calamity of irreconcilable demographic ramifications. The escape from the

melting pot of assimilation is the new era introspection and for many individuals the chosen

path is a return to the roots (teshuva) from which Jewish tradition has been eternally

nourished. Those brave enough to burden himself or herself with personal and national

salvation are in for a surprise. The baggage of cultural taboo is not some baggage he or she

leaves at the train station as he climbs aboard the train of mitzvohs. It is a process of

restructuring one's habituation, culture affiliation; denial of all that he believes to be

scientifically true, and yes, deprivation (in proportion to his level of depravation). This story

is a twenty years journal of weeping and sniffling, and patting my tears dry with the paper on which the ink is cast.

Subterranean Currents

I was about three-years old when a fire-breathing dragon decimated my fragile family

shelter. "Young sister," "older brother" and I were playing and fooling around in our

backyard. The swing arches forward as neighborhood children push young sister gently in

harmony to branches of the pear tree swaying in the summer breeze. Trees, you see, need to

sway in order to strengthen their trunk. Elephants' trunks are not relevant to this discussion,

but it bears mentioning their feet become flat from their stomping them in frustration of

finding no refuge from the Society's Community of Unjust Barracudas. Older brother, a

neighborhood girl, and I were standing in the garage taking turns to break the glass window in

the garage door with a stick that had come to hand. My turn arrived and the honor to break the very tiniest last piece of remaining glass.

Others besides me have remarked that events in the first five years of development form

the character traits the individual carries throughout life, so yes sir; we'll follow out that

theory starting here. This, however, does not contradict that each of us can strive to achieve

anything we set our minds to accomplish. Even people with neurological difficulty or those

wanting to learn a skill they've never studied, don't have to defend to the national character of

doing society's bidding. Every limitation can be surpassed if one channels his strength into

contemporaneous levels of talent. My point here is that I was socially and emotionally

handicapped because of a tragedy, and the way my nurturing society handled it conformed to

the SCRUB (Society's Community of Unjust Barracudas) authority to abuse, batter, and

condescend towards everybody, and to lust after wealth obtained through corruption that resulted in ends justifying themselves.

The (Post) trauma (Stress disorder), not the tragedy -- that's the point being made here! My

parents treatment of one another was atrocious, the school authorities at best insensitive, other

children conspicuously obnoxious, and my efforts to dismantle the injustices society has

perpetuated against their own citizenry at best frustrating. As to my personal neurosis

resultant from glass piercing Joanne's eye, the "protectors" reaction to "the accident" was

more distressing than the trauma. This, because of each parent would assert alibis and

castigate blame in order to pin the crime on the other, a child's game of pin the tail on the

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donkey. Dad held mom culpable for not standing guard to prevent the occurrence, mom

claimed he authorized surgery that was the cause of blindness, whereas a different treatment

would have saved the vision in that eye.

What a (laughing to avoid crying) joke, the Jewish people in middle classless modern

society have made of the richness of true and pure faith, wisdom entrusted in the soul of man

instructed as tradition; and I'm not even talking about observing religious strictures. Want a

real laugh, look at the pictures of the counts and established patrons of the monarchial

societies with pomp as the ultimate glory passed on to the offspring of the aristocracy that

maintains social appearances above all, and then figure out how people of natural human

societies (African, Asian, Aborigine, Native American) mange with skin bare attire. I mean,

the genetic coding of one human is the same as any other, and has nothing to do with the

vessels or fashion with which we adore ourselves. My ancestor's originated in Mesopotamia,

were strewn about Western Europe, then Eastern Europe and when things got hot under the

collar, from there emigrated to America.

My paternal grandfather was notorious for trade in semolina he'd ground until one of his

biggest hoists rotted in the warehouses of the Chicago gangsters. His ancestors had traded in

gold so he readily fell into the sewage line of the gangster underworld. Dad would have

married a Canadian had not mom's father ran away from Canada in order to abandon his faith

and family. She was apparently attracted to the lights fantastic that the shores of Lake

Michigan reflected from the beacons the Windy City, reflected in the jazz skills dad pounded

out of the keyboard. They, as did many other Jewish teenagers in the after-roaring twenties

sought to avenge themselves on poverty, did so by stripping their soul of anything worthwhile

to humanity. These historical facts are universal currents of energy that would influence the

generation of progeny in the modern scenario of Jewish inhabitance in the Modern Occident.

Suffice to say that sins of the parents are visited upon the third and fourth generations.

Reconciling himself to the truth was the last thing that came to my father's mind; but I became

a chozair b'teshuva (adherent to the laws of Judaism).

The wind whistled soundlessly as the projectile rocketed into the speck of light hidden in

young sister's pupil. The stick utilized to break the window in the garage door, from where did

it hail? Was it a splinter from a witch's broom, which the puritan yenta threw away before she

was burned at the stake? What forces of gravity destined the stick in my hands to bat a piece

of glass into such a small circle of tissue as an eye? Can man avoid retribution because he

turns an eye when "master" whipped slaves, the hoodlum robbed a bank, or a storeowner or

the sales representative profaned the Sabbath?

While the scalpel was being sterilized, the steam was howling from the train ride that took

mom to distant relatives, part of the scheme pre-meditated by dad so he'd carry through with

the surgery in mom's absence. The shifts of blame covered the history of civilizations buried

under the threat of reopening wounds. I made so many excursions to Canada so many to

Chicago, to unravel confusion buried somewhere in the past, not even knowing where I was

or how I got there, and in the end I drew a blank, I was buried up to my neck in self-hatred.

The force of guilt from an affliction of pain upon a beloved companion can never be forgotten, no matter how many times forgiven.

The patch on Joanne's eye was a badge of my shame that was met with the cruelty of

reality, being accosted by everyone telling me "your sister is cross-eyed." Maybe I wasn't yet

even four years old the day after a picture taken (that portrayed her as a darling toddler who

was never again to enjoy such faultless features), but it wasn't until dad was in the throes of

death that I breathed into his ear the singular word of the true version of the story. Life was a

hot bed of castigations and there was no time for discussions; it was easier for my dad to

blame and persecute my mom, and punish her with the abuses he heaped upon her in the

presence of older brother, younger sister, and I. Confession could never repair the damage, never would have prevented it.

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He used to scream at her, "Fang," and call her a snake and added the effect of a hissing

sound as though it proved his accusation! Even if the next-door neighbors hadn't heard the

shouting, which certainly they did, there were other people aware of what was going on. The

name-calling, the expressions of belligerence, the hate mongering were not isolated

expressions, did not occur in a vacuum. They staged a contest, each who thought they could

degrade the other into a state of humiliation that would signal defeat, admission, and

culpability. A war raged over the heads of family and community that would never abate as long as the combatants survived.

This and many similar tribulations throbbed within the heart of a Jewish child, his family

and community in Northwest Detroit. As stated previously, a punishing accident can be a

tragedy; the trauma levels depend on the way the stress is handled. Neither of my parents

listened to the other because they were too busy arguing, first off as to whom was to blame.

As tension increased when the eye could no longer be saved the dissension on this point was

drown in the habit of alcoholism to which dad became addicted, which led to marital demise; business failure, emotional collapse: and to my childlike thinking, I was suspect!

What a trip, my brain is still harangued by the constant arguments, mom's sobbing, dad's

detached bitterness; the sin became the permanent modality of family life in our home and the

edifice of our role in the eyes of the community. Teenage rebellion against authority runs

parallel to exercising one's physique to fit an image of self. I ran from the torture until I felt I

could no longer hide my disgust with life. On the grandiose level, I rebelled against people

because they chose to ignore despotism and planetary injustice. Underprivileged peoples are

economically enslaved, Jewish people are being assimilated out of existence, and the globe is

inundated by natural catastrophes. My life's effort was to find reprieve from committing existential suicide, to wit people referred, trying to escape from myself.

My life began in the parental environment that preceded it, my father was rude and

arrogant towards my mother; it's not only in the movies I saw men drown their sorrows in

whiskey and become involved in raucous bouts of drunkenness. Violent eruptions at home

were impossible to avoid; name-calling, calumny, and shouting were the backdrops for every motion, emotion, demotion, and continual demolition.

Good old dad had become a Northern Caucasian; dressed, spoke and acted in accordance

with media purported ideas intrinsic to manliness; hoodlums drank, cowboys drank, socialites

drank, and he was a drunken failure. By the time he had made it to "alcoholics anonymous"

mom had filed for a divorce. A year after its being inveighed into law, they were remarried.

He remained "dry" until his dying days, during which time he was a workaholic and in his

spare time a sport-aholic.

A couple of decades later, I booked passage on a mystical train ride that took me away

from the swamp of oblivion. I went to Chicago yeshiva, ostensibly, to revisit a path taken by

my cousins, in the very same environment that nurtured dad's upbringing. One of my fondest

recollections is the breakfast I shared in the home of a second cousin before going for the

interview at the Rabbinical College. Trying to fool the pain that haunted us, I traipsed through

the streets chanting, "Left, right, had a good job and I left. First they hired me, and then they

fired me - had a good job and I left."

The issue of each parent proving him or herself right in the arena of marital conflict knows

no boundaries of shame as the flames of inequity spread to the hearth of the neighbors. It

became an activity such as a sport's event, like boxing or wrestling matches were a spectacle

in the Aryan culture, a heritage of Rome and Greece. The literates of yore have their myths of

the strongest or wisest amongst them pulling a sword out of a rock, while the crowds cheer

until the victor arises. Accounting for my own anxiety was like chasing corn kernels popped

in burning oil, the amusement shared amongst all the neighbors. The patriarch of the neighborhood was sure he'd get the truth out of me.

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I loved to hear him repeat his fable, a drama of someone who treasured a pink ping-pong

ball; and upon his marriage was asked by his wife, "why?" He was almost able to reveal the

secret, but never did, neither to her or their children and nor to their grandchildren. It was only

on his deathbed that he started to tell everybody about it, but he transpired taking the secret

with him to his grave. The idea was to get me to cough up the feeling of guilt I eventually

harbored inside for the length and breadth of fifty years, and everybody knew; it was I, who

poked out Joanne's eye. Only I refused to validate the reality.

I was friends with the "patriarch's" daughter, so he wanted to help, but I dared open my

mouth the whole sewer would back up, so how could I have told him? I saw my father argue

violently with my mother. One time, the issue was whether I should drink glass of milk that

he ended up throwing it in her face. We three heard his drunken rages of degrading her, and

where my mind blacks out when it comes to have actually have seen him beat her, I saw the

bruises. I tried to stop his abusive brawls so many times. A child sees things in extremes, a

monster and a fairy princess, no in-betweens. Someday I would triumph in battle.

Dragons of disharmony parade unhampered within children's minds; wreaking havoc in the

hearts of one whom gleans a sight of puss oozing from its chambers. I was alone in my

inability to battle the inner torment; forced to encounter the threat to my life by any nothing

that spontaneous combustion that would ignite into a confliction at every turn with my

surroundings. I was a prisoner of a man who terrorized his captive wife and appeased her by

setting up a façade of banal luxury that would distract her from the violation of her human

dignity. In this melting pot was prepared the brew of disregard for the human quality of life: greed and cruelty were the fuel and flames of assimilation.

Nobody dared chastise this monster for having caused blindness in the eye of his daughter.

On the other hand, my mom was seemingly being beaten as an outcome of my having not

owed up to my guilt (as per misconstrued perceptual babbling), as per his having held her to

blame. Only someone who has been violent can describe what goes through his mind when he

acts that way, but since he's ashamed that he acted that way he'd rather not talk about it. I

think I can help on that score. The violator is under stress having desired the to-be-violated to

act in a certain way, to say something particular, or offer no resistance to his nuances. At

stake is his self-importance or the loss thereof; complicity becomes compulsion no matter what the cost.

Sticks are good for beating drums and the percussion of this projectile crashing away from

the window frame was destined to reverberate for more generations than those that preceded

its arrival to this trespass in time. The vibrations of it hurtling through space arouse a peculiar

sensitivity in anyone, touched by the horrific waves of concentric energy that were essentially

traumatic ramifications. Eye for an eye the tomatoes grew green and the bigger they became,

the redder they got. When popped forcefully all the gushy pulp comes pouring out, just like

the blood I witnessed pouring out of young sister's eye. It left a trail from the garage unto the

back door of our house. Planting tomatoes alongside the garage was the therapeutic lesson

intended to displace the disturbing memories of the accident. The whistle of the projectile was

a cosmic percussion, a repercussion. A spin off from events that had transpired generations ago.

Examples of the concentric circles that ebbed from the force of "the accident" were

innumerable. The domestic unrest distracted all my energies in efforts to escape the same,

projecting my feeling of inadequacy on hapless targets. The many banal manifestations my

mind fears shot forth lest the darkness of my abysmal guilt feelings swallow me alive. Slimy

memories seeping out of my brain moisten and fertilize the soil of time and spice it for the

weevils therein creeping. Reversion overcomes my instinct to communicate with anyone

fearful they'll perceive the degraded nature that from within my soul causes an overload on

the autistic equalizer. Oh Rose Cavern, there's no place like home, you are my comfort, my

hope, and my only tranquility. As I lay upon the cushion of my darling Rose Cavern I can see

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myself for what I am, to withdraw into me and delve deeper beyond the presence of my being into the essence of my purpose in becoming I am.

I was a microcosm of being subject to the pathos of guilt. Accusations of culpability for an

action by one person or another or by one nation against another has been the manner by

which man has controlled other people, the weapon with which he would fire hatred and

brutality throughout the generations of humankind. As it pertains to my development, on the

individual level, one can picture the youthful boy who had to cower in fear of being

discovered (he obviously identified himself as the perpetrator). Guilt can exist only where

insecurity prevails, an outcome of human dependency on one's society or nurturing

community. Thus, the value of traditional Judaism as it applies the method of inculcating faith

in its adherents, in word and deed even from the moment of birth. This faith expresses itself in

mutual devotion of spirit, comradely action, and direction even if it all leads to an infinite nowhere -- now here!

Virtual percussion of stressful recollections permeated the hearts and memories of the

neighborhood. Anna, about my age, became a twinkle shining in my distraught heart. Behind

each house that was constructed ten houses, row upon row, was a backyard, each separated by

a gate from the neighboring yard. The rambunctious children climbed over them and trampled

flowers back from, and forth to people's homes. At some point, my dad prevailed over the

other homeowners to tear their gates down, thus connecting our yard to all others. It was as

though the effect of the accident dissipated in collective guilt by virtue of association. The

extra-curricular days of my prepubescent years were idyllic for their simplicity.

The image that seemed to prevail over my pubescent consciousness was being a tough-

guy; habituated to abrasive manners, sarcastic responses and offensive remarks, the hoodlum

type. With an end to the 1950's baby boom, and due to declining enrollment during my

elementary schooling, many new pupils transferred into my class. Behavioral adjustments

became the key to popularity. The early training grounds were the nightly prowls through the

neighborhood, together with a small band of boys doing everything we could to be an

annoyance and cause disruption to people settled restively in their homes for the night. During

daylight hours, I instigated a system of cliques based on territorial considerations; children

from different streets were excluded from the group that identified "us."

On my street consisting of the row of houses previously mentioned, I had been an

experienced as a leader of the "Fighting Blue Devils." I had not yet found acceptance amongst

the new group who quickly became fed up with my shenanigans. My expanse into these new

realms only reinforced the walls of the secret chambers into which I had plummeted. I knew

that I couldn't fit in with anyone and there was no one with whom I shared anything of value

to me. I thus experienced consternation and impelled to perpetuate some form of social

manifestations that enabled me to avoid confrontation with my inner ugliness. It never took

long for anybody to hate me. The neighborhood gang outgrew childhood, whereas my guilt

remained an infestation, affliction, and dereliction plaguing my innards.

The Quinns lived across Santa Clara but so did Chana who was Anna's cousin and within

that sphere evolved attempts at conquest, so that whole block became part of us. Then there

were my classmates who were from south of Six Mile Road, not part of "us." When the Board

of Education widened the school district, new terrains were introduced. Babushka had lived

north of Curtis, and now that I could cross Curtis without an accompanying adult, these areas

became a new dominion for expansion beyond my personality confinements. I was an

immediate novelty in new arenas but spurned quickly.

While the projection of my image shined forth, "Super" dad had to make good so we'd

know that no evil could be attributed to him, no matter what abuse he heaped on mom. Every

week, every Sunday morning during the winter, he took the neighborhood gang tobogganing.

One wintry morning, happening together this aura of special reprieve from my feeling like an

outcast: crash the ice broke and big brother went tumbling into the freezing puddle! There

were no more tobogganing Sundays; maybe we were already too big to fit in the car. He also

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organized Little League sports organizations but was relieved of his duties, probably for double dipping into the kitty.

As I involuntary consider at length the explicit conscious memory of the swing set, it has

disappeared, with a swimming pool being placed subliminally in the spot it once occupied.

The pets went in with us and it was too disgusting even to discuss, so the pool was

dismantled. Ultimately, the haunted garage and the backyard became a parking space for my

dad's car. Grass and shrubs were ripped up, the esthetic beauty achieved by neighborly

conformity discombobulated, and most unfortunately, the guy who laid the cement for the

driveway ripped off. That's how SCRUB (Society's Community of Unjust Barracudas)

gyppers pride themselves on getting something for nothing.

People who justify taking everything they can get their hands on; for their lonely selves,

end up standing alone in the thick-walled steel reinforced vault protecting their cherished

values - in a safety box (the capitalist equivalent of a security blanket), where they dare not let

anybody join in their life. I learned to be greedy and to cherish unjust gain as evidence of my

value as a person, in short, a materialist. Like, the story about the pink ping ball nobody knew

what drove me to such extremes. Nobody senses the tears under the painted faces of a clown,

because they laugh so hard until they start crying. That's the only way he can become part of

their lives. The nationalist ideal of intellectual perfectionism allowed for no expressions of

emotion, a person was either cut out for academic excellence or destined to be a blue-collar laborer, a non-entity; straw for consumption by the run of the mill the donkey.

The playback zooms to my youthful development as I do corner turns on my two-wheeler,

leaning far over and exerting noise to imitate the motorcyclists seen on TV. Cultural

acceptance of the people, by the people who make up the constituency of the capitalist

America of the 20th century, translated into a miniscule fraction of the people who acting as

societal power brokers took hold of the reins. They succeeded to manipulate the power with

which they would design, manufacture, advertise, distribute, and profit off all human

endeavor by anybody who benefited from the establishment. The generation was trained to

accept as authoritative the views that were popularized by the media. The strongest, wisest, or

richest amongst each segment set the pace for others in their groupings. By the time I had

reached five years old, I could pull back the reins on my bike (with training wheels), standing

it upwards on the hind wheel and charge stealthily forward to victory for the motherland and a

hearty slice of apple pie.

My kindergarten early morning hours with Mrs. Roll were exercises in the fractured

society's scheme of molding the national character to produce gullible, loyal citizens who

would sacrifice riches and their very life for the well-being of the SCRUB marauders. Each

morning, hand upon heart we recited the Pledge of Allegiance. Boy's ultimate development

into soldiers meant they were trained to be obedient and cruel; a verity nurtured in back

waters seeping from the mainstream of repulsive greed, unconscionable ignorance regarding

those whom we despoiled, or provisions for the generations to follow in the future. Actually,

this book is a story of the modern society exploding fireballs of assimilation in a cultural

genocide aimed at families of Jewish origin. Materialism, evolution, destitution, dissolution, disruption, corruption, eruption, and perversion accompany our descent into a melting pot.

The wobbly lens is focused on a little boy arguing he doesn't want to put on his rain boots,

and a generation later forcing his own son to wear those yellow canvas-lined raincoats. If

somebody had a certain style raincoat, everybody had to wear whatever everybody else wore.

Somewhere a style is introduced; it becomes the fad because an actor who's idolized has

purportedly used that brand. How did the actors and sportsman become famed as heroes?

How can people cough up their hard-earned bucks to view them while they degrade their soul

in pursuit of idiocy and immodesty? Such charlatans earned millions and some laundered their

fame to become politicians. Glory and greed were the cultural mores that fashioned my

upbringing, my demise the harbinger to the downfall of SCRUBism. Detachment from

materialism is possible in the framework of Traditional Judaism, at least in my case.

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Chapter II -- Wild Style Riled Let's contemplate the millions of people who may've lived in a communal location, used

the same roads, woke up and invested hours of labor, materiel, and time in banal pursuits such

as those to which they flock into the cultural and sport competition arenas. I'm thinking of

lifestyles mostly in the occident whereby every channel of the multimedia, gimmickry, and

advertising inundate the children of mankind and dupe them to consume idiocy and expend

frivolously, the same materialist greed haunts the whole of humanity. A dog, acting goofy is

animated under the tutelage of a mouse that is so talented there's not a child in America who

would want leaders less charismatic than Mickey. The subliminal commands were meant to

imbue people with a disposition towards racial and religious hatred, sexist greed, and chauvinist lusting after the comforts of the world.

This is not the place to belabor the point, but people employ most of their strength and

talents in specific scripts choreographed by SCRUB (Society's Community of Unjust

Barracudas). People used to say they were cogs in machinery, but today we are controlled like

digital sparks that flash across electronic circuitry. This style of life debases the human

character to the extent the masses are programmed to fulfill mechanically; decisions as to how

we live, eat, sleep, dress, work, play, and die. The emotions we experience are like canned

vegetables and expressions such as grief and joy are canned into phrases that make them

delectable. Imagination is scorned as mental illness; independent thought considered a

ludicrous imposition; pursuit of liberty a scandalous disposition, and as such being human has

become an endangered rarity upon the face of the earth.

When I was between the ages of five and ten, I used to play with friends after school and

run around doing nothing until called home for dinner. I had a youthful inclination to make

friends with whom I would share moments, and experience physical recreation. Most people

sustained a relationship with nuclear and extended members of their family; this ideal had a

middle-class designation of being the preferred destiny of human development. Being a

SCRUB (Society's Community of Unjust Barracudas) meant enslavement of the

downtrodden, productivity, military service and our childhood games intended to train us to

perpetuate the same crap as perpetuated by the elitist class during those times. Academic

opportunity, job offerings, and mobility were the flames of the dragon that imbued people to

loath settling down and raising a family.

A look close-up view zooms in on us watching the wrestling matches we used to watch on

the tube. My brother and I whiled away the hours gouging at one another's eye, him bending

my arm behind my back, subjecting me to the spit torture (sitting on someone while a spitball

hanged from your mouth) until the opponent surrendered, and vain swearing. We invented

sport games to play when trapped inside the house during rainy days, nary a moment spent in

silent contemplation. The door to our parents' room was the "net,'' for basketball games until

the wall was bedecked with dirt. The time had to be spent doing something entertaining, an imminent distraction to keep us out of trouble; we had no responsibilities!

I was inquisitive sort and during the course of life learned something from the ways dogs

mark out their territory by urinating. When a dude is stressed out, it's probably because he

feels ashamed of something, and if it's never properly discussed it'll start to get him pissed off.

Literally, meaning he'll do something to draw warm currents of attention upon himself; wet

his pants, pee his or her bed and urinate frequently all over the place. I became habituated to

such conduct until it spread to the realm of unconsciousness; I peed in my bed even as a

teenager. I wet my pants because I was the only territory left for me to mark within my

exclusive control. I hated school; the teacher would send me home to change pants. Enuresis

hunted me like the pea under a mattress; being subject to the best treatment non-withstanding:

when the world slept, I asserted imminent domain!

My parents quarrelling polluted the home environment while stains and the stench of urine

on my pants hampered socialization outside the home. Maybe the lack of being hugged drove

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me to be pissed off at my peers, after all, mom came running to attend to my having failed to

keep clean at school. Perhaps warmth that seeped along my flesh was surprisingly comforting.

I remember the merciful grimaces that were proffered as a sacrifice to the psychological view

of expressing empathy to those who endured traumatic stress, and herein is revealed an

important secret of child development. Many of us suffer from emotional problems that

diminish our ability to give and take, to create the pathway that leads us to outgrow infant

care, and move beyond physiological childhood. A spontaneous glance at autism can

elucidate the significance of unconditional love; the only way to relate to such people is by

expecting little; in order to avoid or diminish aggravation, the caregiver must patiently smile with them so they know they're loved.

Taking a closer look at autistic individuals, we may see that their brain development

doesn't shift into the "giving" phase of post infancy; they're stuck in the "take" only disaster of

the human condition. The national unnatural greed of people that take, and won't share is

worse than any form of mature autism. We have to learn their individualized language of

warmth and body contact in order to communicate with them. People in the occident are,

incidentally (not accidentally), ground to "to make the bread" of those who have claimed

possession of the world's resources. Once there, they'll demand illicit privileges, usurp and

hoard our private resources, enslave people, and do other political or economic machinations

intended to guarantee their bogus feelings of power, respect, and security. I was not at all

prepared for adult life; having not being in control of my kidney function or the insecurity that wracked my emotions and whose toll left me in a loner mode for the rest of my life.

This then, is me doing it "my way," telling people to "learn from me.'" I have gleaned from

my research that the human personality is formed by the age the child learns to communicate.

Look at yourself and make a comparison to how you would get your way when you were a

toddler, if it is not similar. From the ages of five to ten, I was thrown in with the beasts that

roam the modern jungle, and thereafter given a little exposure to a watered down version of

religious training. If you think the appellation jungles beasts is a bit harsh, recall for a moment what the social workers and news report about children at the dawn of the 21st century.

A social recluse, I came home from school and watched television. Seeing the thieves pull

off such daring capers was tantamount to sociologic insanity; the messages became engrained

in my personality, and I found a way to act them out. I learned to cheat in school, rob sweets

and treats from the shopping markets, to lie, and abuse people with sadistic expressions of

cruelty. This was part of the chauvinist system of training boys not to falter because of

emotional infirmity, emotions were girls' stuff; boys will be boys, meaning destructive,

insensitive, and selfish. My personality distortion was evident by the time I entered

kindergarten. A child who grows in an intensely stressful environment is most certain going to be a nervous person, meaning over reacting to most stimuli, be they positive or negative.

Whether it's true doesn't matter, it's the security I seek, and when someone hears such a

reply he quickly understands that to pursue the matter would only bring the hare to shameful

defeat in its race against the turtle, we know who wins in the end. I recall my childhood as an

experiential insanity, and the people with whom I associated were trained to see the problem

as me. If I would just strap my bootstraps and walk the straight and narrow everything would

be all right, meaning I had to be refashioned into something I was not. Throughout my adult

life, I identified with popular views labeled "prophecies of Doom." I have girded my loins to

overcome the dragon of disharmony, and battle for universal freedom and survival. The normal people can take life easy.

There are Jewish People who are fanatically loyal to the USA, to whom criticism of

America is like spitting in the plate from which one eats. It's true that religious freedom is

protected in American statues, so it's hard to convince anybody that that a typical Northern

Caucasian is a virulent anti-Judaist who is planning our decimation through a quiet SCRUB

(Society's Community of Unjust Barracudas) process of assimilation (silent holocaust); no

mess, no compensation to victims. The SCRUB force us to use our grandparents' tears to

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burnish the evidence, "they're old fashioned," the young generation shan't make life choices based on their opinions, or traditions.

We were taught to be ambitious, successful, and competent members of society. The main

objective being financial security, degrees of success not to be restrained by the burden of law

and order where it hampered upward mobility. The corrupt values of society inculcated within

us the demand to achieve even through dishonest means, but not to be caught; rationalized by

the hypocritical tenet, the richer the better. Students were motivated to graduate and succeed

to greater loftiness of unchaste pleasure; to dismiss every moral propensity, the outcome of which seems to be the demise of society in its entirety.

I would like to measure the severity of my negative reaction to corruption since there's no

doubt my silence could be bought. The issue is whether humankind is imbued with an instinct

to perpetuate goodness or whether we are imminently corruptible. Here too, I must use myself

as a measure of personality factors, some of which are learned and others of which are

genetic. When detectives investigate crimes they present the accused with a list of charges

against him, but when nations press charges against other nations they charge them with

crimes against humanity. Of which am I guilty? When investigators pursue the evidence of

criminal conduct, they start with the question as to whom benefitted, what were the motivating factors.

I can recall the expressions of disappointment when my parents confronted my failures.

We've provided you with everything, given you everything money can buy, sacrificed

ourselves in your behalf! So how could you do this to us? One thing is certain; they wanted

their children to perform within the strictures determined by the Society's Club of Raving

Unjust Barracudas (SCRUB) in order to get ahead. The idea was not just to receive average

grades, those who did would grow up to be a garbage collector and the like. Anything less

than excellence was criticized, why didn't you, next time you better, and so on if you don't'

want to be a street cleaner. The idolization of wealth succumbed to the idol of intellectual perfectionism; children without academic skills were relegated to trash bins.

Children can learn by being forced to act out of complicity to parental demands, and adults

often have to be forced to be productive. Contrarily, there are many lessons we can learn from

nature; ivy growing in my garden reaches to new heights only during the season of its growth,

and only at its natural pace. No attempts on my part will persuade it to grow higher and spread

out faster, so having planted it, I assume the responsibility for its growth; the roots have to

receive water and proper nourishment. I am convinced of the expressed opinion, my praise of

the vegetative development, speaking of its beauty within hearing range of the ivy and so

forth, and perhaps loving vibrations of standing in the proximity thereof can encourage strength and development of every living being.

Children need to be trusted to grow independently, given incrementally increased

responsibility, and praised warmly for what they are and will become. Rattles, bicycles,

cowboy boots, sports equipment, gadgetry, stereos, gimmickry, card games, wild parties; the

bottom line is that we get parental warmth or find a surrogate, regardless of when where what

who or why that may be. The best my parents gave me was no match for the stress and trauma

that accompanied my life, and ipso facto, I remain in dire need of relief from over sensitivity.

For instance, five generations later I still ostracize myself due to shame of childhood

encopresis (elimination disorders) and urinary incontinence. Nobody wanted me around for so

long, it became second nature for me to prevent them the pain of my being present in their

lives.

If this thing is of such personal of nature, how can I offer it as proof to my views of what is

awry in the occidental culture? As concerns "the accident," it was the trauma and not the

tragedy that wrought destruction, so the microcosm serves to portray how the macrocosm

related to perceived rejection; the historical paranoia felt by the Jewish Nation Israel and

particularly the use of collective guilt as a weapon to gain acceptance in the eyes of anti-

Judaists. I can only use myself as a reference to set the framework of what has become of the

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me that is how people see themselves and are in the same situation whether they know it or not.

During that time and in those days I took notice of my father being in bed at all hours of

the day. He had lost his business to drunkenness; unable to face up to his malfeasance blamed

his father-in-law; to whom he refused to speak, his wife; who he battered unconscionably, the

former business partner; who he claimed robbed the register; all this because the shame of

failure was more than he could bear. Mom started a business selling clothes in the small

basement room where the house cleaner had resided years earlier. He destroyed the merchandise and facility as a disproof of his impotency to provide for the family.

Dad's virulent and drunken fits continued several years, well into my teen-age years, and

yes, I think the lines on my face can be read to divulge something about the feelings off a

child seeing his mother consumed by a prehistoric monster. Quite curiously, he was possessed

of a fanatic belief in self-determinism and because of his love for children made great strides

for them to make their world a better place. It was from within this bramble that I became a

warrior of justice particular to the fact I would not slay the dragon, no, I would teach him the

value of using his flames to be creative and kind. The result is that I have known misery as

my lifelong companion. The deep hole in the garden behind the rose trellis is my only solace, Rose Cavern my devoted friend.

Apathy in the modern society is not necessarily indicative of detachment from life. People

hate being manipulated to produce as though nothing but cogs in machinery, and the feeling

that they have no control over their life is most certainly depressing. This perpetual injustice

is deep-rooted in the social milieu of a repressive governing authority; implanted unto the

family relationships between parents and children, and into the civic realms of interaction

between the malingering bureaucrats and the tax-paying citizen. Personality traits such as

submission to domestic abuse are doled out; the police and court system do little to protect the

victim. We were programmed to feel that inter-personal relationships should be the least of

our problems: but, is this not the disease of assimilation, when human is downgraded to

something insufferable?

The fact of good manners and a decent attitude being instituted as paradigms of SCRUB

society is one of the tools of the establishment to keep the masses under control. My

socialization during the years until maturation included speaking respectfully towards adults,

punctuality, and obedience to authority. We donned the masks of civilization to hide the

purposelessness of existence that was evident from the empty expressions on our faces. Our

existence was not felt, nor were we permitted to feel our essence. Bad dreams were a less

harrowing experience than waking reality. Seeing my father enter the same room as mom

became a paranoid scenario that would lay waste emotion; how prevent him from beating my

mother? How could a deprecated infamous raven, rotten extensively within, ever find

companionship in a world without, where social grace was the minimal requirement on which

to base an interaction with a member of the opposite sex?

Liberty and Justice

There are recognizable areas of marital conflict and its adverse influence upon the children

growing up in the environment thereof. The first is the identification of a boy with the father

image, and a girl with the mother image as their own personalities are fashioned. The second

is that they are apt to mistake their own role in the perpetuation of the conflict. The parents

add fuel to the flames by encouraging the children to take sides, often a natural outcome of

supplanting the love of the child for that of the spouse. The thing about spousal abuse,

whether it's against men, women or children, is that the SCRUB ideology holds to the

principle that it's incumbent to first save the women and children from a sinking ship. Since

men are dominant, they can't adequately treat the miscreants of their species.

They arrive at a conclusion, that according to nature the future abides in the survival of

women and children, and as such apply this principle to save them from a sinking ship. The

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issue of how the men deal with their abusive nature remains unsolved. How do we explain the

contradiction? Violence toward one's spouse is tolerated in the SCRUB world, since women

are a commodity doled out as compensation for binding one's soul to the malignant SCRUB

(Society's Community of Unjust Barracudas) exploits against humanity. Displays of tender

emotion were relegated to the status of weakness likened to criminality against the species of

mankind, and since everybody had feelings, they were convinced they were insane if they

dared to express them. My withdrawal from society was a drama of habitual faltering, which later became a presumption of correctness.

The violent displays of my father during his spells of drunkenness were catastrophic in my

eyes for reason I considered the secret I was hiding to be the main cause of his blaming my

mother for the object of his wrath. I felt an urgency to defend my mother against his assaults.

Yet, I was no match against the repressive might of the offender. I therefore held myself liable

for cowardice, and at the same time concocted all kinds of schemes to do something about the

oppressive circumstance that encompassed my life. These conditions bred my delusive

inclination to grandeur, a responsibility to take up the cause of the oppressed, to affront

people who demeaned, degraded, and harmed other people. There was, however, a dangerous undercurrent beneath my altruism.

Hooligans like me live with the impression that nobody loves them, but knowing what

banal impulses lurk within my soul I never wanted them close enough to take away the pink

ping-pong ball (the hallowed secret). Being alone is alright if you have split personalities,

perhaps have several of them and can even hold meetings and avoid being lonesome, always

having somebody around to keep you company. The problem was that I was trying too hard

not to be like my father, and had only the example of how he tried to mold me into something

other than I would optimally grow to be. My mother had obviously seen herself as victimized

by it, influenced as she was by the sacrilegious view of how my father saw it. I was not to be

satisfied with cheap imitations like the apathetic concern both expressed towards me, I could

only find solace somewhere far from reality.

Did Ben Franklin not profess liberty as his compatriots annihilated and decimated Indians

to whom they dished out death with a forked tongue? Was the motivation behind his sayings

not to reprove the citizenry in Colonial America? History teaches us that most his wise

sayings never reached the heart and soul of the people whom he addressed. The politicians

always entice us to trust their utilizing the flowery national epithets, but have done this so

long they can no longer hide their corruption. Laws of compulsory education are designed to

convince us that genuine principles are the laws governing our lives, but they are never

instituted. The SCRUB enforce a system to proliferate their schemes of getting rich at the

expense of the poor.

The contradiction is not as invisible as they'd like to think it is, it's just so strictly enforced

that the only way to beat the system is to be more crooked than those who perpetuate it. As

previously stated, the purpose of my writing in the first person is to not autobiographical in

and of itself, except to prove the thesis of my historical premise that I was the fall guy to a

corrupt system. I now recognize in my compulsion to steal things a perverted way to prove

inner worth. Many stories are written about children with a compulsion to shoplift, though

money be readily available to enable their making purchases of the same objects they'll steal.

A quick analysis might offer some insight to this problem. Whereas the shelves of stores

are filled with desirable commodities, and the rip-off artist can think of many techniques to

procure them without paying, the question of propriety hovers. While children grow up, they

receive every object they'll come to possess with neither effort nor expense on their parts.

Needing only one pair of slacks or a single shirt from a store filled with attractive apparel why

not help oneself to what he or she wants. So it's probably a good idea for parents to explain to

children how the money is earned with which the products consumed will be purchased. To

teach by rote until it becomes inscribed in the memory of children that we have to pay for

what we wish to buy.

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Once upon a time, people shopped in the stores close to their homes, and were

recognizable by, and familiar to the shopkeepers. As such, the opening of the Northland

shopping center opened avenues for my wanton pursuits, and I would go there with friends

just to steal things in their presence, to show off my cunning. Color in the absence of light is

black, so in the changing room I would wrap the object around my waist, and explain nothing

to the clerk as I left the store in dignity. Supermarkets displayed objects far from the scrutiny

of clerks who serviced the customers, so it was no problem to swipe many articles and pay for

only one or a few. The integrity clothed the dishonesty. Seller beware, today they have

cameras scouting the aisles!

An integral part of my prepubescence was collecting coins, and I took the most deliberate

and tedious path to success. No businesses in the immediate vicinity of my home catered to

this consumer need, but at the above-mentioned shopping center, there was a coin store. One

could purchase special Coin Folders for pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, and half-dollars -

with slots identified by dates designating the years in which the coin placed therein was

minted. After school, I would go to the neighborhood banks and took home rolls of coins until

I found those dates I needed to complete my collection. Hours upon hours I sorted and

searched the extent of many years until only rare coins like a 1909 "SVDB" Lincoln penny

were the only ones I hadn't found.

The idea of ripping off the coin store held particular interest since the net take was cold

cash. This is where pride and deceit played havoc with my moral inclinations. After all,

sayings such as "all's fair in love and war," and other epithets of capitalist indoctrination had

well established the idea of conquest by any means as the route to a goal, in my case

possessing the only penny my coin collection lacked. It was available at the coin store but the

price was exorbitant. The owner / salesman wasn't aware that I was ripping him off under his

nose, would give me the book of especially expensive coins and turn his attention to cash buyers. Forget about it man; you'll never figure out who took it without paying.

What expense of suffering I paid, not because of the theft per se but as an outcome of

repenting the successful manifestations of my desire to acquire something for nothing. In the

end, I dumped an invaluable coin collection for the face value of the coins, the proceeds of

which bought me a couple lids of grass. For four decades, I have mulled over the illicit

acquisition that fashioned my coin collection into a unique and marvelous accomplishment,

maybe the only thing I ever did that could have been considered successful. Many times

have reflected deeply what foolishness brought me to part with my treasure. In the end, I

simply accepted that as a repentant Jewish individual I could never have delight in the object so tarnished with dishonesty.

Does this relate to Brother Kuhn becoming the leader of the club I organized in the Jewish

Community Center? I had brought together a group of friends and in accordance with official

policy; they took a college student who wanted to do his thing for society by volunteering to

be a group leader. In the end, he turned out to be a great guy who shortly thereafter started

working at the coin store from which I had shoplifted on a regular basis. He penetrated my

thick skin, burrowed into my heart, showing interest in me as a human being, but it turned out

otherwise. I confided in him and thus to help rectify my character, he went to such extents to

bring about a righteous culmination of this life episode. I was hanging on for dear life and he represented the noose in which I was bound to swing.

Searching for causes, I'll take the elevator to the depths where their origins can be mined.

Encrusted in the jags and cracks of my personality I perceive an importance my dad had

attributed to his precious coins, occasional gifts of true and pure silver dollars that his mother

sent us. At first, I stole the precious silver dollars that my father hid in the hollow of the

closet, locked in a combination safety box that I penetrated without leaving evidence of

having intruded. When the depletion of coins was noticed, I concocted an alibi to blame a

child who was the son of a neighbor my father had hated for having been reproached by him

for corrupt mannerisms.

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The one way I knew to get pals to hang around me was getting them to accompany me

after school, taking them to the supermarket, and showing him how I could walk out without

paying for something. The above-mentioned friend loved pistachios so I used to go the

supermarket chain and steal some, but also candy, film, and even watermelons! This behavior

was inculcated in my personality at a tender age; I was drawn magnetically to oppose

authority. Catching the drift is out, man, nobody is going to grab hold of the functional

prescience of insanity in my intellect. Those precious coins were identification with fatherly

love. By the time I grew out of adolescence, I had perpetuated enough grand theft to be

incarcerated for decades.

A Shadow Lurks Behind

The shame of the blame game is that nobody cares about sin and correction; just a process

of trying to prove oneself greater than another, but there are always factors that we fail to

consider. There are many factors that prevail over human consciousness, the most prominent

being fear of the unknown. In that category falls the notion of conscience, punishment, loss,

illness, and death. The Freudian theory has alluded to the name of a mythical being, Thanatos,

to promote an idea of the death wish. Death is loss of control over one's possessions and this

fear applies to every painful experience that could involve loss of life or limb, personal honor,

or interpersonal attachments. Sometimes we just want to get over the materialism of existence

but the survival instinct kicks in and we go on with our lives.

Certain societal influences prevail over our everyday affairs, and there are influences that

may yet come to bear, forces that cannot be anticipated. I'm not talking about walking to a bus

stop or riding on a train and the concomitant fear of criminal offense causing one harm. The

circumstances of institutionalized corruption, my family's and community's reaction to "the

accident," would not have prevailed had my parents adhered to a different life style. The

attitude of people in the neighborhood was to be supportive but could not have been helpful.

The fearful circumstance of feeling oneself hated is unbearable, especially in childhood.

The wide-lens view of the situation will probably lead to the conclusion that teachers in the

elementary school had little to do with the SCRUB (Society's Community of Unjust

Barracudas) system of indoctrination, though schools did the job of educating students. I'm

trying to sort out causes from the resulting evil, disentangle its detriment, and learn to apply

what of the good can be of value in efforts to improve the present situation. Loyalty of

citizens to national ideology has magnanimous ramifications. I am striving towards a

universal community in which citizens can apply knowledge and their strengths in efforts to

restore global balance, universal freedom, and a reasonable prospect for the continued

planetary survival.

A preliminary scan of the subjects taught presently in the international arena lends to the

impression that mathematics has become an issue of remembering one's credit card number,

literature a performance of copy and paste functions done while surfing the Internet. Talented

students are conscripted to promote nationalist aspirations of wanton lust and anarchical

exploitation. The judicial, executive, and legislative authorities maintain authority over

distribution of resources; for education, media presentations, national priorities regarding war,

scientific research, technology, and basic rights such as privacy and free speech. The culture

of possessiveness is built on acquiring cruelly anything that someone does not sacrifice

willingly.

I repeat here that the cultural apparitions of the Occident in my child rearing took place,

indoctrinated us to principles marital infidelity, immodest dress fashion, entertainment, and

sport activities were aimed to circumvent forces of value that are essential to community, and

family life, and intended to bring about bondage of our mentality. By the conclusion of my

elementary school years, I was a thief, hooligan, racist, and anti-Judaist. We see, however,

that worldwide movements in the early 21st use that very strength to defeat them. To

persevere, we'd better act cunningly and quickly. The first lesson to understanding the

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weakness of those bent on destruction of any established government is to know origins of their strength.

People of the baby boom generation had labored most of their lives to make a living,

whereas many of their children grew up to be professionals. One disastrous side effect of this

fact is the breakdown of the nuclear family. My siblings and I live at the farthest reaches of

the globe distant from one another, and we have seen one another no more than twice during

the last three decades. It was with this knowledge I set out to make my home in Israel, where

length and breadth of the country is all within reasonable travelling time. What cannot be blamed on the mean man, can be repented only if Jewish people will return to their traditions.

In retrospect, I contemplate the system against which I rebelled. Dealing with the subject at

hand, I'll recall briefly the rocking ship in Mrs. R's kindergarten, wetting my pants and acting

cuckoo though somehow, they gave me a pass to enter the first grade. Graduation from each

grade to the next was a celebration for the teachers who passed me, as on a one to ten rating,

my conduct was extremely reprehensible. Obedience and mature participation in classroom

sessions was a basic requirement of the system, though emotional problems were overlooked

to a degree in someone who achieved high marks in his studies. Motivation to succeed in my

studies redeemed me from the repressive disdain of my parents, so it was the least I could do.

First, we were taught the ABC's, the particularity of the five vowels and their nuances

when used with the consonants. The old school of learning encouraged rote practice, repeating

an instruction until the student committed it to memory. The reason for this system pertains to

the functions of the brain as regards short-term memory and the fact we need to practice,

exercise, and review a matter until it becomes a long-term memory. This enables children to

retain information they can draw from memory quickly and correctly. In my fifties, I created a

learning system for teaching English quickly and correctly, available at: http://www.englishquickly.com/.

The writing skills we were taught included flawless cursive writing learned to perfection

by the age of eight years old. A neat handwriting supported the development of an organized

thought process, and by the age of ten, we took examinations in the various distinctions of

English grammar. No one needed to know that the progressive structure had to be connected

to time. We wrote essays and kept journals well into our college years. We studied the various

formats for letter writing and styles of literature learned by reading the classics.

Other aspects of the English language required instruction that made it simple to use

properly. Not all languages require a subject and a verb in any sentence; and few object to

having an objective of the relative structure. It's not for nothing the woman who taught us

English referred to me as "nutsy cuckoo," I would clown around the whole classroom session.

The "i" or "e after g makes it into a guttural sound, "c" followed by "e" or "i" in all cases

hisses like an "s." Little did any of this matter to me. That could explain why I'll be the only

person who ever reads the literature I produce.

Concentration, attentiveness, practice, and gradual progress and curricular design made it

possible for devoted students to reach the heights of academic intellectual pursuits.

Mathematics, similarly, was a slow climb from integers to computations, and the basics of

numbers were acquired as an entity unto themselves, as were the basics of language

development. Only when students could feel the space and distance that numbers are meant to

represent did they start to use the skills together. By the time we enrolled at university, we had

perfected our skills in non-Euclidian geometry, trigonometry, molecular biology, and some physics.

A toddler will speak of yesterday and be thinking of a year ago, whereas tomorrow can be

any time in the near or distant future. Algebra was taught only when our minds could

conceive of combined dimensions, such as the complex reasoning and cognition of our globe

circulating around the sun in reference to a twenty-four hour span of time, and a plane

travelling in the opposite direct at half that speed. The science classroom was constructed with

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a dome shaped roof and special window blinds so the teacher could dim the lights and

illuminate the positions of stars with equipment specially designed for that purpose, so we

learned to appreciate the feat of Creation.

Connected to that room, was a greenhouse and we learned gardening and agriculture; about

the secrets of nature, such as planting, watering, weeding and a wondrous fragrance that

penetrates a young mind. The higher grades learned about electricity, chemistry, and textbook

biology including dissecting various species according to their place on the

phylogenetic scale. Music appreciation was taught by the teacher sitting at the piano while the

class learned to sing nursery rhymes, the national anthem, and to read music. Our artistic

talents were explored and developed, extensively taught in a specially built classroom that included a kiln.

We lived in the wintry northern climate, and just the same, waited for the school bell to

ring until we were permitted to enter the building. This too was a lesson in climatic variables

and learning to adjust to them. The gymnasium served as the lunchroom with tables that

folded into the wall, and climbing ropes that could be hauled by pulleys up to the ceiling. We

played American sports and spent time in the outdoors, strengthening our bodies, developing

coordination, and if nothing else; learnt the value of teamwork.

Nonetheless, our minds were plugged with multimedia heroes like the Three Stooges,

Mickey Mouse, Little Rascals, and American dream rodeo stars and military conquest. The

teacher in the last classroom by the northern entrance to the "penitentiary" school was a short

man, who was habituated to instill fear in everybody who even glanced at him incorrectly, but

not me! I promised to show the older children how tough I was and came through his entrance

one morning with a wisecrack about him being such a short guy. He ran through the halls in

hot pursuit. Tearing through the crowded hallway and up the stairs, I avoided immediate apprehension.

He was the Jewish man who taught history, I couldn't imagine what went through his head

when a punk like me could act so audacious towards a man who'd been through what he

experienced. I could sense from an early age that the school system was trying to make a

sucker out of me. At the southern entrance to the school building, the teacher named "gun"

was posted, a military relic of sorts, this man could stand on his heels and rock his toes while

he took attendance in front of the class. His main technique of discipline was to instill trepidation into the minds of his students.

He was the gym teacher and in his class, I was willing to do nothing; the class weakling;

wouldn't climb the ropes, couldn't run a straight line, wouldn't do push-ups and couldn't hit a

ball. The only lesson I enjoyed in his class was dancing, but he did his job and taught me to

play sports. No sooner did I learn than I became the school stunt man, and a career of always

standing up to Mister Fear who generally turned out to be as frightening as a helium balloon. I

endeavored constantly to show off to all my classmates that I could get away with murder.

I was sent to the principal's office probably more times than the total sum of all the

children who were enrolled at the same time as me. Mom always came to pick me up, bawling

like the rapids of a turgid river, until exacting vows and promises from me allaying all fear

that it would never happen again. That was cool, and so the habit developed to find many

ways to land myself in the principal's office. As the years passed I knew all about the

management of the principal's office, but I was too hyperactive to sit there, so I expanded into

other extracurricular activities, anything that could distract me from the internal discomfort that putrefied my insides.

Slowly I return to the prescience of this day, I study the hieroglyphic paintings etched on

my Rose Cavern walls, grating my fingertips into the earth and digging-in ultimately etching

the whole story into a recognizable imagery. Herein, I can review the story about being a

fugitive from "the accident"; relive and relieve the pangs of conscience that harangued me

every time someone remarked about Joanne's eye. I had to fight off the bullies that made fun

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and abused my sensitivity in order to upset me during the walk to school. During class time, it

was entertaining for them to get me pissed off, until the teachers sent me to the principal's

office, to wit, exiled to my house.

Degradable Mankind

In a certain sense, it could be a bore to listen to someone go on and on about him or

herself, and I suppose that's why good authors cloak their stories in thrillers or romantic tales.

I try to spice this material with tales that have a scent of suspense or a taste of mystery, but I

prefer to let the facts speak for themselves, and anyway this literacy expedition into myself is

intended to benefit me during the wanton hours of disinvolvment in my old age. Above I

alluded to becoming pissed off, I might define the linguistics of that term as protecting one's

deflated self-image is the way humans mark out their territory; personal and private domains, in the way of dogs.

People escape loneliness through the formation of special relationships such as gangs and

cliques, racial and religious individualism, and romance that we compile and add to the files

saved in a "my significance" folder, unwanted intrusions therein considered security

violations. The more my feelings of having committed a crime against humanity festered

within, the stronger became a pattern of disobedience, just acting out of place to get the

attention I needed. To make a non-starter into a long story has been on and off for a few decades, the labor of which inscribed in these pages.

I knew that my misconduct was reprehensible, I couldn't really blame people for being

disgusted with me, but that made me need their affection, consideration, appreciation all the

more. The nearest escape hatch was to deceive myself into believing that people enjoyed my

shenanigans, thus allowing schizophrenia to ferment as the language with which I

communicated. The fact that I was a good child, meaning I succeeded at the core of human

interrelationships helped endear people to me, or maybe I learned how to please people. The

reader may here guess correctly that the word got out about my having emotional problems

and people pitied me, and as the rooster crows by the fourth grade I felt a modicum of comfort amongst the classmates with whom I attended school, and learned to obey the teachers.

As hinted to previously, socio-economic and quasi-repressive changes came to bear on the

neighborhood. The baby boom of the 1940's and 50's had petered out and the public school

system had to deal with diminished school enrolment and consolidate buildings so that money

could be saved on their maintenance. Population transfer took place on a micro scale, as

school closures cropped up throughout the American cities. My family lived in a typical

Jewish neighborhood, neighbors were Jewish, we had a Jewish community center around the

block, and synagogues were established in locations where attendees could arrive by foot,

since there exists a prohibition to drive on the Sabbath. So extensive the community

development of Jewish people in the major urban areas that when a distant school would

close, new Jewish students came from wealthier neighborhoods and others with deep-brown

colored skin (black Americans), a novelty at the time, enrolled and joined our modern school

community.

All this meant was that my comfort zone was burst open; new "problem kids" competed

for the attention of my staid friends and companions. I was forced to readjust to a new social

atmosphere. There was one newcomer, who was a master of heretofore-unknown avenues of

secular pursuits. He was a rich guy, a natural sportsman, downright gnarly, and could bully

someone without the winch of an eye. Marcus Bullus, encroached upon my social domain,

bullying my friends into despising me, leaving me to befriend nobody but children with whom

nobody else was willing to even talk. I sought refuge in the home economics classroom where girls were taught to use sewing machines and make their own clothes.

There was reason to that madness; the boys had carpentry shop for the last hour of school

before the final bell to go home. By placing myself out of reach of Marcus Bullus I could plan

an escape route to avoid the routine of torture he inflicted upon me when school let out. That

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was not enough in itself but I drew on a line of credit that had made it impossible for him to

overtake me on the mad dart home. I had befriended a boy who had been subjected at their

previous school, to the torment of Marcus Bullus. He would meet me each day at an

appointed spot outside the school and while holding unto his arm he would run so fast that

nobody could catch up with us. His skills as a sportsman went rewarded generously throughout his high school and college years.

This decision cost me participation in the carpentry class, a subject I really enjoyed, as in

this class we were taught how to make simple things out of wood, plastic and metals. The

main instruction was to learn how to use tools like saws, drills, hammers, files, and to care for

them properly. As a compensation, my father bought me an official carpenter's table and

jigsaw that together we installed in the basement of our home. The male children in many

societies are deprived of meaningful social education, become habituated to act cruelly as

though it's part of their nature, are disciplined to do train for security or army jobs, and in rare

instances receive education that is valuable to their controlling society. Most lead their lives from pillar to post doing whatever comes to them.

There were undercurrents of turgid waters roaring beneath the river's pathways that led to

adulthood. The ringleader, mentioned above, who was amongst those who had joined my fifth

grade class had many new ideas that were real attention getters, like smoking cigarettes. He

could talk fast and loud and was a class clown. He even bettered me at that occupation; I

wonder to what abuses he had been subjected during his early youth. As my days were turned

into nightmares, I needed desperately to outrun Marcus Bullus, and spent my school days avoiding his hunting me down in the corridors during passage from one class to another.

Generally speaking, it’s the neglect of parent that allows misconduct to take root in the

behavior patterns of their children. That's true as pertained to my parent but not me as a

parent, so I have what to say on the matter. Nowadays, adults are more detached from their

children and communication between people is downgraded to less interesting than electronic

pursuits to which we devote a lot of time. Violence amongst schoolchildren has become a

serious issue in contemporary society. As a sociological premise, I shall try an anatomical

dissection of violence, much of which is precipitated by cultural prejudice to circumstances,

ideas or objects that each of us pride ourselves to think are better than somebody else's, and

all of which is generated by lack of communication. When children feel lack of control over

their life, they react negatively until provided a means or a system to embellish his or her creative tendencies.

I think it's worthy to venture here an application of the invariance principle to the process

of human interaction, to wit the principle asserts that everything remains in a state of silence

until there is a force exerted to make it move. When a person has suspicions about his self-

worth (insecurity), he easily mistakes peoples' remarks as depredatory. Being involved in a

traumatic incident makes people susceptible to act weirdly because they're scared, people live

in fright of the unknown and will often get the wrong impression about others laughing at them.

Those who laugh at the demise of their fellow are subject to an unconscious mechanism

that elicits a camouflage to their inferiority complex. They wish to disguise the fear that they

too may be tainted by an imperfection that could cause them embarrassment. An individual,

when degraded, may withdraw to a realm of silence, darkness and emotionless, and if the

misconstrued interpretations overpower these individuals their imaginings can become

delusions of paranoia. When behavior is adjudged to be caused by mental illness, it should be addressed and treated.

I'm sure many books have been written about the trauma of a child who had a sibling with

a deformity. First of all, they shared the same genetics and it could have been one as well as

the other, and might affect both dissimilarly. Second of all, the attachment ofa stigma to the

healthy sibling because of his attachment to the less fortunate. Others want to see in the

fellow, a sense of their reflection as a perfected image, and are wont to express hatred towards

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anything less equal to their self-image. A momentary glance at Mickey as an entity detached

from myself, I can focus on me at the age when he was big enough to take "young sister,"

Joanne, to school. The first couple of times things went smoothly, until his friends identified with Mickey with Joanne, the girl who had something wrong with her eye.

Mickey was deformed and defamed by virtue of his association to one of life's

imperfections that it's in the nature of people to castigate. The subject of scorn by his

classmates, and his harboring guilt exasperated his kind intent during the walks to and from

school, which became excursions of her being put down by the bullies who got a thrill out of

torture. To diverge momentarily; the anatomy of torture elicits prickly feelings on one's flesh,

increased heart rate, mystery, challenge, and the grandeur of having someone plead for mercy.

Mickey sought to come up with excuses and refused his mother's request, one morning, to

wait for her; he lied about having to get to school early. Using the invariance principle, we see

the start of a vicious circle. I became paranoid of coming to school and started to picture the

ground opening under the sidewalk and forming an underground pathway of mental escape,

the imaginary tunnel that allowed Mickey to burrow his way, unnoticed, unto the school

entrance.

The walk from one point to another was four city blocks, the first two of which I managed

because the children whom traversed them were familiar neighbors. After the school crossing

at Meyers and Santa Maria roads, the "other" schoolchildren were also making their way to

the school building, and it was simply more to my liking not to have to deal with them. The

escape route in the underground tunnel was effective in so much as I had discussed with older

brother and Joanne and I made it real enough to believe in, while we walked together. The

idea was to keep moving as though we were not visible. Sometime, the air of confidence is a better protection than flight or fright.

I don't suppose the reader is at the liberty enjoyed by the author, that being to have written

this book over the expanse of three decades, and having edited it in spurts, opening, and

working on it and then leaving it for days and weeks over months and years. The whole

scenario is burdensome in that it reawakens the trauma of Mickey blaming himself for poking

out young sister's eye. He passed on feeling bad about himself projecting untowardly attitudes

to Joanne; she threatened, more by his gut reaction to ostracism than walking alone to school.

Unfortunately, this vicious circle was multiplied by the number of conversations in the school

with students who addressed their curious inquiry to ascertain a simple fact, to cause neither

pain nor harm. It's one of the ways people learn about unusual things; which to acknowledge

instead of deny, would have been adequate.

In those days and in the SCRUB culture, wisdom was a rare commodity. Years later, when

Mickey discussed his feelings with a wise peer he suggested for him to prepare a rote answer

to aversive poking of somebody else's nose into his business; something that would relay

information to fend off further insult. The only form of psychotherapy available to Mickey

was provided by Saul, the nurse's husband, who told him the story about the pink ping-pong

ball. I turned to venting my wrath on Patience (the neighborhood girl who stood in the garage

together with older brother and me during the accident). I raked her over the coals; abusing

her, frightening her, scandalizing her, until the day she submitted to my tortures (and let me

degrade her by touching her hidden parts), after which I could no longer hunt her down.

Pity on my young soul so sorrowfully soured surreptitiously. The main thrust of physical

abuse and mental friction occurred during my interaction with Marcus Bullus, the class bully.

He didn't come to school by the same route, but he could arouse fear in the linoleum on the

floor, so there was no hiding from his harassment. He had the pick of the pack on whom to

peck. He would walk up to someone sitting on a workbench in the carpentry shop that would

slap on the back of his head, saying, "Cop his head," to wit the teachers turned a blind eye. I

imitated him in order to convince him that we were on the same sides, but it was a plan

destined to backfire. The implication that it's better to be a bully than to be bullied in the end

taught me nothing of human value.

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I've been burdened with feelings of guilt after fifty-five years of dragging myself

unnecessarily through emotional consternation. If we subject ourselves to even a minimal

introspection, we'll quickly realize that it is when we are insulted, our gut reaction is to

degrade those who disparage our self-esteem. To this applies the saying you only hurt the

ones who love you, and contrarily one should strengthen his love towards those who hurt him.

Why does the negative comment cause pain, if not because I want to feel loved and respected?

By trying to appreciate the value of the rebuke, one may release themselves from untowardly feelings and adopt an attitude of forgiveness.

Such lessons were cultivated in the dark places of the modern mind. Northern Caucasians

persecute all peoples everywhere; gain, and maintain control over resources valuable to

materialistic exploits enabled by this socialization process. The young Marcus Bullus was the

prince of the alley cigarettes, and one who wanted to be cool would smoke with him, and be

his guinea pig to prove the greatness of his wrestling moves and holds. The most feared of

football opponents, he planned to hack me down by charging the quarterback right where I

was defending the line during one of our American football scrimmages. The strength and

talents of the masses are squelched under the sadistic wrath of the SCRUB (Society's

Community of Unjust Barracudas). My dad taught me the technique of somersaulting my feet

into his neck, which on this occasion I maneuvered successfully, and after that failure to penetrate the front line Bullus never attacked me again.

Children whose fathers were connected to power; wealth, or influence became targets;

bullies are driven by jealousy, greed, and glory seeking, but mostly the sensation of wielding

power over their helpless victims. I was the fox in the ritual hunt each day after school. I got

permission to finish my school day in the Home Economics Class instead of being dismissed

from where the while the class bully, Marcus Bullus, was dismissed from another door.

Another truly athletic individual (who eventually became a doctor on a sports scholarship)

was also despised by the aforementioned classmate. He would catch up to me after school,

grab hold of my hand and off we alighted into the blue yonder. I sped swiftly home, and

rarely ventured outside before dusk. It didn't occur to me to await Joanne; can only imagine

her fears coming home.

Linguists assert that phonological behavior is guided by the fact that people try to

communicate the most possible information with the least possible effort. I claim that a

perfect harmony exists between the celestial beings and the elements of the earth, and they are

upset through the misguided actions of man. Motion is the universal language until it returns

to the silence. When things get out of hilt, mankind is reminded how insignificant he really is.

The secret lies in the fact of nothingness and the obviously motionless absolute void, which

preceded existence.

I had accosted and had been abusing Patience, hoping to hear her confess to the crime I

had perpetuated when the glass flew into Joanne's eye. Upon extracting a false confession, I

would have presumably scandalized her until enough people would believe the lie, and

thereby convince me of its verity. The pain I caused her with nary a momentary consideration

was going to have long-range repercussions. The explanations as to why I heaped abuse on

her didn't hold up against the long-suffering she endured, never needing to explain anything.

The alienation from former friends, running home, walking the halls in fear of being attacked;

such terrible feelings that Patience had suffered, were being returned upon my head. I had

only myself to blame for my problems but I was wont to figure out who I am.

Focusing the microscope to take a closer look, we can see that castigating blame on

someone is a strategy used to win the egoist contest of thinking oneself perfect, or at least

giving someone else that impression. As the saying goes, one lie leads to another until one's

guilt is less of a concern of the pathetic trap of delusion from which he may never escape.

Woe to me, Patience, as if by thinking to pin a crime on you, I would free myself from guilt.

The pink ping-pong ball was a chunk of time that had been in exile from the harmonious unity

that wanders detached from a deep gravity within the universe.

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It's amazing how much energy I put into tormenting you. If nobody could figure out who

was making false accusations, it's only because they dared not to incur the wrath of my insane

and sadistic reactions. I was chasing phantoms in order to project my self-abasement into a

vessel that produced inane results; scandalizing an innocent bystander. Had my mother

cuddled me instead of sending me off to watch TV shows, had my father shown me a little

empathy I'd never have devised macho-minded scenarios to afflict you. My admission is my

apology, my writing, review and editing thereof a form of sacrificial prayer begging forgiveness.

The swill of sadistic insanity drew me into the pipes leading from the toilet straight into the

sewer. The idea of my escaping insecurity by manipulating the female gender into emotional

flights of fantasy became habitual exploitation. With the pass of childhood and years of

haranguing one young female associate, teenage years replaced them in a more nasty form of

virulence with which I spewed forth, with Babushka as my target. Impossible to imagine she'll

forgive me! Not her, not Patience; none of the women I abused as security blankets! It has

been revealed to me, in fact, Babushka didn't live past the age of 48; she's been gone to eternal

rest the last two decades.

Manliness Dispelled

The military industrial complex, the universities and government have funded scientific

laboratories; the suppliers of good and resources have sought to convince people of the

imminent threat to their survival, the fear of terrorism has been abused to promote the

SCRUB cause. This is not a bully's dilemma of needing to exercise control over people, we

are discussing crimes against humanity. We need further to understand that these devious

ends are achieved by coordination of the advertisement media, news reporting, and

entertainment industry, amongst innumerable agencies unbeknown. The international sales of

weaponry and electronic devices designed to exert control over humanity are not justifiable as

if developed to muster defense systems against a wicked enemy. The teachers in the

government schools raise the citizenry as players in this field as though loyal to principles of

ethical governance, but are as culpable as the corrupt politicians who legislate the wars.

Are we to believe that violence has gotten out of hand, and an end to it would elevate the

human species to a realm of interaction much to be cherished for all time? Police are trained

to shoot dead any suicidal maniac who pulls a knife on an innocent bystander. Perhaps greed

and cruelty could be explained as a genetic foul up that causes a specific person to live

sadistically, but if so, one should be able to discern that characteristic in an infant so born. We

might assume that male children have a propensity to aggressiveness more than females, but

we see women in the modern culture involved in the behavior that once typified only men. I

don't think girls are born to be soft and kind, whereas boys not, but boys are specifically

trained in areas their physiology is trained such that they can excel despite having to endure harsh treatment.

For a male child growing up in the modern society it was forbidden to express emotions

and certainly not to falter because of emotional difficulties. Occidental children are raised on

a curriculum that encourages ambition, and success. Competent members of a society that

professes the corrupt idea: it is not being caught, which counts; based on the hypocritical

principle, the richer the better. Students were motivated to graduate and succeed to greater

loftiness of unchaste pleasure, and the outcome seems to be the demise of society.

There SCRUB (Society's Community of Unjust Barracudas) authorities exploited science

to the perpetuate ideas that fascinate us, thus becoming more true than the faith inculcated by

religious verities. I mean, you could save a life with an endocrine produced in giraffe horns,

or freeze a cell from an endangered species that will be revived five hundred years hence.

They kept our minds busy with our development into brainy and brawny individuals,

programmed to be productive. The teachers were properly motivated to teach what was

required by the school system that employed them. I happened to grow up in an urban district where resources were allocated to give students a good education.

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That is, until the neighborhood changed and downgraded to discriminatory education

typical of neighborhoods in which de facto segregation prevailed. Somebody who had

merciful feelings towards an abused friend and would question the gestalt of discriminating

against certain people because of their race or creed, or somebody didn't fit the straight and

narrow would be brutally punished for adhering to the notion of liberty and justice for all.

Children can be raised by the ideal to be peace loving yet participants in a culture that

represses those unfortunate to grow up in the Third World.

The idea of cheating was unacceptable, but the rich kids paid well for someone to let them

copy their answers on the tests and give them the answers on the homework assignments.

School administrators turn a blind eye to falsifying the results of examinations that are a basis

for government funding of their educational programs. The fellow with a built-in pool and

another with a motor cart had friends. All kinds of weird things were proliferated as the real

purpose of existence, as we were taught to demand excitement and luxury while

manufacturers and service providers got richer and the poorer more desperate.

History digressed into the art of revamping textbooks to a specified point of view;

hypocrisy hailed as the appropriate way to measure distribution of resources. Man's ability to

organize occurrences and bring about anticipated results, has enabled him to destroy anything.

Perhaps such manipulations are conditioned by past experiences regardless of rhyme or

reason, and the neurological makeup of our brains boils down to the same chemicals that

makeup all the substance of nature. That being the case we have to revamp the entire

institution of education according to a value system that can account for the unique presence

of human beings in a world so intrinsically balanced it might be better off without our

presence upon the face of the earth.

Man struts about boasting of his ability to bring about cellular division, even combine

chemicals into a living substance, and implant semen within an egg inside his laboratory.

Billions of dollars are spent on fashioning a clump of metal into a rocket ship sent beyond the

exosphere, money that can be invested in the creative development of the entire population of

children around the globe. Propagation of the species is a talent at which bugs excel more than

mankind and nobody remarks how intelligent they are. Intelligence intrinsic to chemicals and

every element of nature imbues them with a role in the realm of creation. Perhaps we should treat the air, water, sun, and earth more respectably.

I observed ants working towards a specific end and nobody seemed to be bothered by

somebody else's bumping into him. Men act in their own interests and the slightest intrusion

on their private space can trigger an atomic explosion. It must be they are fearful of something

that we prefer won't be discovered. Men act like roosters in the presence of their female

counterparts but thoroughly disgustingly have dehumanized them, they are less concerned

about their individuality than cats. We claim to so honor and treasure the nature of

personalized relationships to a member of the species we mortify as a habit of habituated

degradation.

The only thing this has to do with ego and libido is the extent of pleasure man wishes to

conquer and destruction he will bring about until he achieves it. The challenge is overcoming

something that seems unconquerable, the pleasure but a fleeting instant. There are certainly

ways to sublimate this instinct in creative and productive expressions and yet there are less

cultural inclinations to promote them. The idea is to give man something to do so he can keep

his mind off his feeling of insecurity. There is a lifestyle to be valued such that a person

reaches old age he or she can create tokens (constructive projects) of his lovingkindness that outlive his or her mortality.

Chapter III- Circling Rapidly Around the Core

The fetus is borne into existence from within a state of independence, inclusive of the

surrounding environment. So too, we are a singular unity with the radiance coming forth from

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the sun, the sounds of leaves rustling in trees and the warmth of companionship enjoyed when

we stay close to our loved ones. I remember strolling along the beach and seeing an infant

chase the seabirds with an overwhelming burst of glee as they took off to avoid his pursuit.

It's an example of how I acted as a youngster, but not towards geese, toward members of the

feminine disposition. I can sorely recall how the better part of my energies was dissipated on

manifestations of hatred in my relationships to women. This deleterious nature was ingrained

in my character.

Very little of my behavior can be explained in terms the meaning of life or its essence,

except from a negative point of view. Perhaps this above-mentioned conduct is a Freudian

Oedipal dilemma, and a projection of blame to confront the weakness of my mother in light of

being haplessly attacked and brutalized. As boys, we were impelled to cultivate farcical

notions of why our female counterparts should be mistreated, as though it were a natural

outcome of our manly instincts. We were raised thinking that we can pass through life in

pursuit of enjoying every moment to the maximum, though it may be painful to the female gender.

This assertion by the author is intended to tweak the thoughts of the reader; perhaps we

should raise some pertinent questions. Did women historically tolerate the abuses of men

because of dependence on them for economic stability, sociological compatibility, and a

recognized acceptability? Are culture and science not concocting ideas to strip womanhood of

the unique capacity of bearing children? Will poly-glamorous relationships of three or more

also be included in the rights and responsibilities of those involved in homo-sapiens parental

relationships? Does the relationship of partners for the purpose of shared pleasure require

their having lawful status as a marital couple, or could they acquire children for a hobby or like some people who raise pets?

I could approach these questions using the scientific method but my conclusions would be

ludicrous, in light of the fact that the future is yet to see. I can only endeavor to measure the

influence that historic developments have had on the changing roles of intra-gender

interaction and interrelationships. Again, I am not a person who troubles to do empirical

research by nature so I'll make my point by depicting the past as I lived it. I was inculcated to

disrespect girls as members of the weaker sex from the start of the process of my

socialization. We made comparisons of their supposed inability to do anything as well as men,

other than those roles to which they had been historically subjected. Verbal abuse was

employed to subjugate their will to that of men. Nobody likes to listen to detractive criticism

of his or her appreciable goodness.

Included in the category of verbal abuse were multitudinous appellations attributable to

physiological distinctions typical to women. Pinching them on their buttocks, grabbing their

breasts, and enticing them to romantic encounters though offensive from a moral viewpoint. It

bears mentioning that the arrogant cannot see themselves as lacking for anything;

differentiation is seen as an insult that must be avenged. Skin coloration distinguished people

from the African continent, so the Northern Caucasian projected his inferiority on deep brown

skinned, ergo, Negroid individuals. The woman's distinctions caused the male gender

apprehension that he was a being of less worth than womankind, and he warred to disprove

the reality of his perceptions. There are no proofs of any intellectual or ethical deprivation particular to womanhood.

In a normal journal of literary endeavors, the expletive delete words would bring the point

home, but the reader will have to think of his or her own experiences with wanton

mannerisms utilized in verbal reference to women of the female gender. Suffice to say that

many "dirty words," relate to the norm of physiological processes to which are bodies are

subject, copulation, defecation, menstruation, in so much that body functions are decried as

vulgar. The thing that seems most obvious in the modern era is that women don't need men to

protect them, are no longer dependent, and could figuratively clone a cell or purchase sperm

in order to bear and raise children without men. These generalizations just go to say that man

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truly is inferior in the important features of womanly capability above mentioned. Most

cultures adhere to the claim that the bigger fall harder, the way to defeat them is using their

own power against them.

We may state here, women's empowerment and gender superiority is a predetermined

outcome of denigrating their uniqueness as those amongst the mammalian species who bear

children. The fierce opposition to this point has been institutionalized by SCRUB (Society's

Community of Unjust Barracudas); that which they forbade, obstacles they erected, and the

grandiose range of manipulations they market as though intended to enhance the general well-

being of society. We were taught to exert boldness and assert coldness as regards taking

advantage of "misfits," forgiving anybody who will prey upon them, and etcetera. Boys are

spoken to in harsh tones and handled in a demeanor during infancy that will toughen them as

they adapt cruel mannerisms.

Sex roles are modified by the way people respond to infants, girls are spoken to gently and

boys roughly. I've lived in a society where I garnered the impression that the boys were being

raised to serve as the straw in the military machinery, the girls to serve their biological

cravings. Toddlers grab things ways from one another, but boys are allowed to express

themselves aggressively and get what they want. Womankind is taught to back off, jump

back, and back down. Women who failed to resign themselves to that status were aberrations;

a tomboy, outcasts in the eyes of their peer group, and thus became helpless targets of scorn.

We chased after the girls during recess in the school playground; embarrassing them by

exposing what they wore under their skirt. The very design of their apparel was intended to

draw attention to what could be revealed be peeking into their blouses and gawking between

their legs.

The way people film or otherwise deprecate the female gender in pornographic exhibitions

is the most appalling debasement of the male gender's humanity. The secular culture of the

occident is based on pleasure seeking, not the case in underprivileged nations where all one's

talent and strength is devoted to basic tenet of survival. Work ethics, and family values have

little persuasion over the goings on of people fattened by wealth they've obtained by

disparagement of the same. People of moral fabric as pertains to the importance of family

could not have perpetuated wanton destruction of the African societies plundered so they'd

have slaves to do their labor. This would be redundant except that that it comes to elucidate

that the iniquity of pillaging the female gender for the momentary pleasure was part and

parcel to the arrogance of negating the humanity of the girls by the mistreatment we heaped

upon them.

By a systematic procedure girls were indoctrinated to "enjoy the inevitable," to become

willing participants in the course of affairs that could wreak social destruction on the personal

level, for instance becoming pregnant after an imbibing intoxication. At the age of maturity,

we had organized weekend dance parties that devolved into spin the bottle exhilaration. The

only involvement of a parent in the events taking place with us at these parties would be an

"as though" inspection too come down the basement to check up on us. The payoff was too

big to resist and we were hooked to kissing parties. Parents encouraged children to join

together in festive celebrations wherein both genders participated, and nowadays the

dormitories on the college campuses offer mixed facilities.

Rhythmic Rocking As pertains to me; the epitome of a lonely Jewish child in a society that treated me as

culpable in the murder of their deity, my brain being anyway over-circuited in an inferiority

complex. Affliction to the same disease as plagued the Northern Caucasian; ergo, to escape

internal discomfort by chasing after idle pursuits, offered no escape to anything of redeeming

value. The thing we were trained to do, the notion of heterosexualism to which we subscribed,

even at a youthful age, was for a boy to have a girlfriend. Even at a pre-maturity age I fostered

an interpersonal heterosexual relationship with the girl who lived down the street, and came to

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the dance parties I would organize on Friday nights. I remember the spot on the floor where I

danced the "bee-bop" with my dream lover, with my first girlfriend. These things were all

categorized so they would fit nicely on the shelves of our mental apparatus.

Older brother stole away the affective light from bright star, and I wandered haplessly into

bitterness of being unloved for many years, though I tried to supplant the requisite by

affiliating my attentions to the available another. It was during the school relocation project,

previously mentioned, that brought an influx of students to our school facility. I raised my

eyes unto the beauteous creation that entered the art room that day of her inception into my

class. She was to become the obsession that would permeate my emotion from the moment

when she joined our class for the first time.

My mental being clearly damaged from the days of my early youth now had an object and

direction to which I could affix my human yearnings, as this blessing descended unto my life.

Amongst the many new students were admitted to our class, a girl just my height. The

pervading aspect of my personality was to escape the insecurity that hounded me, not being

appreciated for a being to whom anyone would chose to befriend. Nothing can erase my

memory of the teacher assigning her seating place, and I even remember stealing a glance at

another dude to figure out whether he set eyes on her, satisfied with the fact he didn't. My

desperate insecurity drove me to assume she'd let me express my inclination to establish with

her, a child romance that meant the world to me.

I was afflicted by post trauma from the accident, and lived in present trauma of a violent

and drunken father. I was a bed wetter, irritable, deceptive, derogatory, and invariably peer-

secuted by friends and foes alike. I thought only of seeing her on my walks to school, calling

her upon my arrival home, and sending her notes during the class session, disregarding the

teacher's punishing grimaces. They must have known back then that to disrupt someone from

fiddling, who's at best hyperactive - would only result in greater disruptions. The moments

reprieve from my secret romance allowed me to concentrate on my studies. After school, I

often invited myself over to visit, more often strolled around her abode hoping to catch a

glimpse of her. She was reticent to reciprocate to my profuse affectations; yes, she was as aristocratic as a real princess.

Regarding the people who have emotions and act according to their whims, there are those

willing to jump in and usurp those emotions for their personal gratification, to sell

merchandise and offer services that cater to those affections. The culture of affection and

romance concocts celebrations such as events that commemorate Mother's Day, and a

February holiday that commends a regiment of normative behavior such as buying expensive

presents for girlfriends. There is some value to the expression of concern and appreciation,

but that runs short of making a business out of inculcating guilt feelings into people who don't

expend valuable resources on the acquisition of gifts.

SCRUB selfishly and cruelly divert the world's resources according to their whims,

utilizing their academic prowess to dissipate consumer illusion; wreaking vengeance for

domestic offenses against the officialdom. Their cultural malice was screened in the movie

house and on television such that people became habituated to a consumer style of life, from

their first step until the grave. Something like college education was of value, but moral

aptitude a disruption of democratic liberty. People were made to feel ashamed of belief in the

mystical or spiritual traditions. The religious school was considered a hurdle on the road to

assimilation; attendance therein became a token expression of doing something to appease

those who felt Jewish Tradition was to be valued.

I shall casually peruse the question of whether Hebrew School was a factor in my being

ostracized in the secular society. On the one hand, the youngster who got Bar Mitzvahed had

to know Hebrew, and could not spent his afternoons or Sabbath mornings on the sports field,

so was made fun of by his school buddies. This eight year-old Jewish child will be scorned

(for the next five years) by his classmates for being a sissy or something worse because he

goes to Hebrew School, so he develops a full-blown resentment of anything to do with

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religion. Furthermore, religion is forbidden to influence governmental decisions, so the status

quo demands rejection of religious principles. Is it, that the Jewish people are doing this to

themselves, or are they being manipulated by an unseen enemy?

On the other hand, his Bar Mitzvah studies culminated in a high style celebration that was

dinner/ dance party, at which a few old time Jewish melodies were played. Few of us would

even endeavor to disguise our participation therein as motivated by anything other than

materialism. The payoff for obedience to the somewhat religious rite of transfer from

childhood into adolescence, that took place in a somewhat of religious institution, with

somewhat of a religious decorum - was that each person who attends the celebration brings a

monetary gift for the Bar Mitzvah boy. Here too, the code of "get what you can and give

nothing in return" seemed to apply. There was "nothing of lasting value" to be gained

concerning prevailing views of the modern Jewish people.

Preparations for a Bar Mitzvah required five years of study, and instruction consisted of

knowing how to read Hebrew using a singsong rhythm in order to read a specific portion

according to the Shabbat readings recited weekly in the synagogue. I had actually enjoyed

classes, but if I "brought home" tidbits of information I had learned; they were discarded like

the beans Jack got in trade for the cow (that grew into the beanstalk). Religious education was

a non-starter, the tradition of Judaism reduced to a pittance of symbolic demonstrations. I was

not into cheap imitations of religion and quasi-religious phylacteries (tefilin) that had no meaning to a Jewish individual raised in a society that despised morality.

In most cases, the synagogue performance occurs during the week of the young man's

thirteenth birthday, but not for me! My father had been hired to a new position and his

employer required of him to be at work the Shabbat my Bar Mitzvah had been scheduled in

accordance with the date of my thirteenth birthday. The seed was planted deep in my

unconscious: I would avenge myself his working that Shabbat. I did nothing to prepare for my

role, owing to the fact an alternate date was a cheap imitation, flubbed the whole show

attended by friends and relatives, and paid no more attention to Judaism for approximately

another decade. All I can tell the reader is the great disappointment of my maternal

grandmother, which registered way up there on the Richter scale. I was unable to read the

Torah portion, and not even the simple prayer that was chanted by singsong as simple as singing the tune taught for learning the ABC's.

Renegade Running

A brief interlude where I seemingly concluded my discussion of Babushka should not be

apprehended as such. Even fifty years later when shopping for a hat, I wanted something to

remind me of her. She had knitted me a wool hat with a pom-pom and I cherished her giving

me a gift for what seems now, like eons upon eons. After her breaking up with me I would

lose control and that's just what the SCRUB authoritarians prey on, gobbling emotion like

monsters; they swallow whole-beings in a pulsating swig. Have the flowers gone into

oblivion, how long is this tension going to abide within me; can't it be neutralized by

magnetic erasers (like punching the delete key on the computer)? I tumbled down the hill into

a malignant culture that encourages promiscuous freedom, and my pom-pom hat had come tumbling after me.

Societies have established mores and taboo with regard to sexual behavior, like adultery,

premarital sex, voyeurism, pornography and especially as concerns abuse of minors. Freud

and Jung brought the Oedipus complex into play by asserting that male children harbor sexual

desires towards their mothers, and aggressive instincts to harm their fathers. Freud theorized

that all instincts are either Eros or Thanatos. From my viewpoint, mothers share more warmth

that is sentimental with children, so there is a natural tendency to seek connectivity to the

body of our mothers, but infants and toddlers do not have the brain development to express

sexual tendencies. The human body, by nature a homoeothermic creature craves affection.

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There is much to be said about an ability to imprint unique to a mother's body, which contains all the facilities to carry the fetus, and provide nourishment to the newborn.

The role of the unconscious in psychoanalytic theory can be disputed in the space of two or

three paragraphs, not including a theory of psychotherapeutic treatment. Let's start with

physics, Newton's Law of Universal Gravitation states that masses (all physical objects)

attract one another, and where a father may want to cuddle his son there are sociological

explanations (mistaken as Oedipal complex) as to why he does the opposite, whereas his

daughters he will cuddle. When two objects make contact, they produce friction, and an

exchange of heat results. Again, because were mammals, we have blood vessels close to the

surface of your skin, and there are specific areas of the human body that are heat zones. Heat is the lifeline of the continued existence of mammals, and birds.

The life processes all involve the death (Freud's Thanatos) of cells, and the regeneration

(Freud's Eros) of cellular material, as hair turns white but continues to grow in the elderly. It

is known that warmth is a catalyst of molecular growth whereas cold retards it. The human

fetus and particularly brain material of children grows a cell at a time, but our neural

apparatus does not reach full maturity until at least the mid-20s. A true social scientist must

distinguish what the psychoanalyst theory regards as sexual impulses, from what we can

appreciate as healthy tactile sensations. Human contact is an important modality for the

facilitation of growth; gravity and friction together have a qualitative status tantamount to an innate drive, like the need for nourishment.

As to aggressive behavior, it can be found as commonly in girls as seen in boys during the

stages of development. The normal retinue of educators processes the children's behavior in

order to modify such inclinations; in boys, it's acceptable because they'll be eventually

preened to fight wars against trained soldiers. Part of this conditioning teaches those children

to resist the authoritative control over their life and limb, to engage confront and attack an

"enemy" that assumes control of resources they wish to possess, and this is what

psychoanalysts mistake for an attempt of sons to wrest control away from their fathers. Many

fathers even wrestle with their sons in helping train them to do battle. The instincts are but chemical impulses guiding the being to the best possibility of survival.

This preponderance brings to mind the issue of infatuation, when the psychological

moorings of the brain direct us to achieve satisfaction. The manufacturers of pleasure

commandeer and utilize subliminal techniques to excite these basic inclinations amongst

people. For instance, cigarette and cosmetic manufacturers employ a legion of psychologists

and advertising experts to entice the consumer to spend money on objects that are thought to

promote, and/or satisfy the libidinal desires prevalent in one's personality. An example is the

epitome of youthful heterosexual interaction wherein the physical attractiveness of men is

portrayed as brawny, well groomed, brave, and rambunctious.

The query arises as to the physiology of sensual encounters and though I may only later

bring evidence to my theory, I shall surely assert that impulses should be trained and control

maintained, not to give license to whatever seems pleasurable to do. I did so many weird

things in order to be popular amongst the girls. I would get a special style of pants seen on the

teenage dance shows viewed on the television. They styles, of course, changed frequently so

that the apparel industry would have constant and profitable sources of income. One time,

baggy slacks, another season the thing was having cuffs, and yet another time the end of the legs so tapered there had to be slats in order to get one's foot through them.

The same applied to the music industry, there were listings each week of the top ten music

groups. The foot attire industry no exception; specific shoes were considered "in" only long

enough for the style to catch on and then the new style became popular. I can recall certain

groups of boys that wore pointed shoes, then there were the penny loafers, and for the frats,

saddle shoes. At one point, wing tips were the in thing. In terms of what was considered

fashionable, the male gender had to expend resources to entertain his date. As we matured, we

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became licensed to drive cars, so we were expected take to a date to a movie, and afterwards a

meal, or treat at a restaurant. The next to ultimate was the New Year's Eve date, the ultimate

being a high-school prom.

More so and so much more, as pertained to women's attire! The influence of conspicuous

consumption had been designed by artists of the human emotions and somebody who

wouldn't follow suit was treated as weird and left in a dump of overwhelming dejection and

depression. A teenage girl from a simple family would come excitedly home to tell her mom

that the football star invited her to be his date to the prom. The mother responds, happily,

expressing her willingness to sew her daughter the best dress of all the girls in the graduating

class. The exasperated daughter claims she'd be mortified to attend the prom in such a "rag."

She is socialized to value only the reality that other girls will wear the best that money can

buy.

Because of my raging insecurity, I was a disturbed child who was able to perceive his well-

being in a narrowly defined comfort zone. If I couldn't get my way, I refused to play. Here the

camera zooms in from within the chambers of 11 year-old Mickey standing along the wall in

the gym class; the curricular activity of the day was dance instruction, and I wait hysterically

for the opportunity to hold Babushka close. She, of course, was not limited to my range of

perceptions, so I stood there, tortured to near death if someone else touched her. This youthful

identification with a member of the opposite sex was built on detrimental fantasy, based on

avoidance of the dejection and depression that awaited someone who faced frustration in the

pleasure principle.

With the advent of puberty, Mickey upgraded his heterosexual sensations to include

physical connotations of touching the unique aspects of the female constitution. The reader

might wonder at the lack emotional arousal in these descriptions, but I'm describing the

process of socialization, not the actions or participation of parties therein. The peer pressure

amongst boys urged us to touch the more sensitive areas beneath the clothing and

concomitantly we went to movies where more interactions that were promiscuous, were

screened. Magazines and articles in journals encouraged promiscuity and anybody who was

unable to conform was dejected, rejected, complicated, emasculated, and en route to

heterosexual malfeasance and depravity.

The sages of Israel have touched upon the aspect of the sexual desires typical to human

character, depicted as capable to drive a man out of the world (unless kept under lock and

key). The delusion resultant from desire denied can bring a person to behave in such an

obnoxious manner as to become reprehensive to even him or herself for the rest of eternity.

This condition exactly describes the degradation of the assimilated Jewish people who have

no obligation to anything but the bask in the pleasure they seek from life. Hardly aware of the

subliminal enticements that drew them to this conjecture, my point here is to expose the

situation for what it is. I portray Mickey as the microcosm of Jewish assimilation into the

melting pot of oblivion.

The process of socializing heterosexual connection between youthful partners was chiseled

into their personality by masters of the mind and sculptors of the soul, mentality merchants

who taught the professionals how to market their wares. A young boy identified with his

girlfriend, and she to him, as though without each other life had no value, life itself nothing

more than a monotonous redundancy. In the traditional, nay; basic human society, the life of a

youthful member of the family consists of his role amongst his siblings, the involvement of

parents in his development, and communication between him the members of his extended

family. The SCRUB (Society's Community of Unjust Barracudas) stripped our souls of any

such "old-fashioned" identification and we became the slaves of desire, glory seeking, and greed.

This accomplished, the youngsters were indoctrinated to emulate the patterns of behavior

that were going to make them the most vulnerable consumers of waste and filth known

throughout the history of mankind. Worthless gadgets and social pursuits that lead to

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impurity, infidelity, incompetence, incongruity, insurrection, and dereliction. As I started to

say the process was gradual (subliminal advertising), and thus could be neither comprehended

nor apprehended. Girls were to submit to nuances that were performed on them as though

unspecified limits would guarantee their remaining chaste in the eyes of the their peers. When

it became clear that nobody was able to offer such guarantees, ideas of chastity were scorned heretofore and presently. I think this is called throwing caution to the wind.

The dress codes of the Northern Caucasian societies were intended to bare or emphasize

the hidden parts of men or women in such a way that they were linked to cultural

embellishments. These cultural facades included the levels of permissibility of contact

between the sexes, and as previously hinted to; promiscuity became imbued in the character

of the citizens of the SCRUB society. The dance steps of the aristocrats seemingly minimized

contact, but the attire and jewelry wore by women were intended to draw attention to their

breasts, which as such became tokens of sexual arousal. That is absolutely a relative

qualification since women in Africa never cover their upper torso, and this did not cause them to become subject to attacks by any man who would witness their nakedness.

The merchants of pleasure could utilize viral impressions of the tokens of sexuality such as

bombshell to badass in reference to attractive females. As known to culture merchants, this

type of slang makes it easier to usurp the banal instincts of the consumer. It bears repeating

here that the insecurity of the human circumstance drives him to find any exterior object on

which to project his loneliness. Without being able to think of Babushka as somehow close to

me, the world was an abysmal meaninglessness that I would never escape. Stillness fills the

mind of the desperately lonely to the extent any movement or sound by the object of their

desire aggravates them to increase their excitement. Imagine my trepidation at the dance

parties when the choice was given to the girls to select a dance-partner; and as the melody

filtered into my brain I scrutinized her graceful movements and clenched my mind to hope, if only this once, she would pick me.

Why should a ten-year-old boy be clenching his mind in hope of anything? We're not

talking about oppressed children who don't have enough food to satisfy their hunger, nor are

we discussing area of the world where bombs are falling on peoples' heads, such that children

live under traumatic stress to the extent it becomes difficult to inhale a breath of life. Mickey,

as a youngster was unable to face the possibility of rejection by a girl Babushka, upon whom

he had set his affections. As a teenager, he would force himself, unconscionably on any

member of the female gender who he had succeeded to woo into a private sexual encounter.

The maturing Mickey was socialized to envision security only in the idyllic heterosexual community of inviolable commitment.

The reader is being alerted to a point regarding the emotions of the child, mother, and

father; their acculturalization to values adhered to by those who claim membership in a

particular society. They are the grease in a process of building an economic society based of

graduated aberrations inflicted by the SCRUB upon the Occidental human, impositions that

reduce us to economic enslavement. This building process is ingrained into the minds of the

citizens according to the system of compulsory education imposed by law upon everyone

whose loyalty to a patriarchic society can thereby be molded by propaganda. For instance, the

bankers of whom the commoner lives in fear of their repossessing his home, movie stars,

sport heroes and such, who have comfortable lifestyles and inhabit abodes that the cost of

running is greater than the amounts spent in the budgets of entire cities.

Institutional Ineptitude Do people ever really grow up, what does it mean to act like an adult? For reason of

prejudices against entire species, such as racial hatred, religious persecution, and the like's

people kill one another all the livelong day. Here again we can say the origin of these

malevolent attitudes is fear of the unknown. I've heard of people who can offer interpretation

of future events by rolling bones, by numerical calculations, seeing the groundhog on a

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certain day of the year. People believe that objects made of metal and stone can ward off evil

happenstances, sacrifices of animals, specific arrangements of the limbs and organs thereof,

and words recited in verbal incantation can heal illnesses and bring cure to wounds. Of

course, such behavior by children at play would be considered deranged, yet there are people

who are afraid of their own shadow and will do anything to seek protection from ailments unbeknown.

As such, people adhere to cultural affectations, doing things that secure their place in

society; almost everything we do has a basis in our finding acceptability amongst the people

with whom we associate. This might even be a necessary part of existence owning to the fact

that the only threat we can't live with is fear of the unknown, but worse yet is facing it alone.

As stated by Jewish scholars, "man was not created to live alone," meaning that insecurity is a

given in the premise of the human situation, also evident in the entire realm of creation. A

brief glance at how we humans overcome loneliness. I dare say marriage and a family setting

is an idyllic recommendation.

Here we see the two interactive factors at play in the Occidental society in the mid-20th

century in which my personality matured. Unspoken mores decreed that little boys were

inadequate until they had a little girl, "they could call their own." I recall adults addressing

toddlers maybe two or three years old, while at play in the comfort of their home, "is that your

girl or boyfriend?", and saying to one another, "maybe they're right for one another," that the

relationship will develop into a marital bond. People are tormented by the thought somebody

could grow up without bonding to their soul mate. The idea of a marital bond and other

factors involved in perpetuating the essential composition of the families and community are

believed to be imbued in the very act of creation; imbued but not necessarily abused.

This emotion of loneliness was exploited in order to create the need for a specific way to

overcome it, an example being the gender discrimination in the kinds of toys with which boys

or girls play. Boys got soldier and other security forces type dolls, fireman trucks, erector sets,

and science games, to name a few. Girls dressed fashion queens and the most famous of all

came with its natural mate. A certain catlike figurine is painted on dolls, school bags, gloves,

raincoats and as pertains to this example, the creature represented doesn't even have a mouth.

Capitalist society can sanction several giant firms operating in the present toys and games-

market, maybe several stores in the same shopping mall, acres of nothing to do with real life

filled with consumer goods.

We can offer witness to parents concluding marriage relationships they'll establish at the

birth of their infant children, though in most of these scenarios the children don't play mommy

and daddy during their youthful development. What undercurrent in the human disposition

drives this urge for companionship? We see, on the one hand that monks, hermits, zealots, and

even the homeless seem to thrive without a disposition to human warmth. On the other hand,

there is reason to assume that security is directly related to human warmth -- love and

appreciation, and therefore a relationship that preserves this relationship in the flesh and

mentality of the species. Me, the Mickey of our storyline, for instance, the expression of a

warm contact with another human being was a life support that without I would've agonized intolerably.

Romantic attraction triggers a chemical reaction in the brain that we relate to immediate

gratification, and instills an unconquerable desire in the individual that allows them to protract

commitment to satisfy a need for affection from those loved in that way. Babushka gave me a

feeling that I was never to let anybody even attempt to express towards me. It goes without

saying that I couldn't live with the idea somebody else would assert a prerogative to share her

affection, a behavior chalked up to the competitive spirit between men. This, however, in the

personality of one subject to fits of jealousy can result in the feeling of dejection that make a

warrior out of him. I had never experienced a feeling of being appreciated until encountering

her. During many classroom sessions, I could concentrate on nothing unless I was in the

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process of getting her to exchange notes with me. If this, however, was only a matter of psychological dependency, perhaps I would be embarrassed to write about it.

It would be redundant to say these attitudes are sown in the minds of the body public, but

not a waste to say that these tyrannical exertions were aimed to dissemble religious morality,

often made fertile by the profit motive. The permeation of these ideas into the life of Jewish

communities was intended to corrupt the people who'd for generations, abided by the tenets of

Torah values. Infidelity, homosexuality, increased divorce rates, single parents, mental and

physical abuse, living together before marriage, a premarital pregnancy are all factors in the

declining birth rates and disappearance of Jewish communities. I have termed raging

assimilation as a silent holocaust. It for sure is having a disastrous demographic effect on the extinction of the Caucasian race of men.

Concomitant with these weird views, the Mickey emotions are being placed under the

microscope to see whether they are infected by a contagious virus that presents a real danger

to the Jewish People. What parameters are indicative of the insane jealousy that was bred by

heterosexual interaction amongst the youth? On an occasion when I had the merit of being her

dancing partner, somebody played a record about a girl leaving someone for a different

boyfriend. It was a spark with enough force to ignite a deluded stupor in my inferiority

complex, and I plunged deep into paranoia of heretofore-unknown animosities towards one

with whom I had detected that she had been dancing to that tune. I thus assumed that he was

trying to win her affections away from me. A fight was scheduled after school, as though such

chivalrous conduct that would prove the level of my devotions (the stupidity of my emotions).

"My best" friend showed up to the appointed place after school, where it had been decided

by Marcus Bullus the contesters would battle for their recompense. In a royal display, and to

intensify the drama, Babushka stooped to attend the event. I was the weaker of the two

contestants but had an older brother who had been wrestling with me since time eternity and

had learned how to get my legs around his stomach, apply an unbearable scissors hold. That

was the long and short of my winning strategy. Marcus Bullus decided to the referee the

debacle, and just when my friend was on the verge of surrender, the bully dude declared my

scissors hold illegal and separated us. I was furious, went home in tears, and found my

drunken father moping around because he had lost his business. He did however; share with me a tidbit of wisdom, "it's the strong man who can walk away from a fight."

Sociological circumstances that followed proved the worthlessness of my valiant arrogance

as once again my security was shredded into strips of emotional duress. It was exactly at that

time, the city government again imposed regulations on our already restructured class; certain

students, Babushka amongst them, would be allowed to go to summer classes and put up a

grade. My mother forbid me to do so because, "anyway" I was immature for my age, and so I

was amongst those who remained behind. Also during those days, and at that time, we had a

drama class in the auditorium and the teacher very empathetic towards me, so I would sit

beside Babushka and rattle her brains about her staying behind with me. She asked the teacher

for permission to change her seat and upon being refused; got up, walked out of the classroom

claiming she felt ill and would go tell the principal to have her mother come to pick her up.

This obliterated me; I had stayed behind while Babushka graduated to high school and a

truly more gallant boyfriend that had the maturity to satisfy her social inclinations. He was the

child of professionals, and I the progeny of the working class, so Babushka got a good deal.

SCRUB culture had impaired my vision; I could only see her gain as my loss! I never spoke

to her again, and she saw me only once thereafter, as far as I know. Yet, my whole life has

been a longing for a security that can only be achieved after tremendous accomplishments

will realign the ethereal content of the universe to exist harmoniously amongst the vibrancy

within my being, on the continuum of all energy expressed since time immemorial and unto

the infinite force that shall become the future.

I felt diminished to less than the importance of a fly or a cockroach, left inadequate to face

the upheaval caused by a major social earthquake in our school system. I strived to restore my

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pubescent manliness by going beyond the constriction of emotional worthlessness. I found

myself in a situation of self-hatred, the notion of ethical characteristics useless, on a

determined path to strike out at the world. Well, like the saying there are other fish in the sea,

I contemplated other possibilities, craved no less the combining of my forces to the

appreciative valuation of a female counterpart. The lens focuses on the child, Mickey, as I

digressed into a comic book, Archie, wooing his newly targeted object of affection with a

beautiful flower. Asked if she liked the fragrance she found therein a friendship ring (I had

ripped off) that I had placed inside the petals. When Veronica occasioned to ask me from

where I got the money to buy it I gleefully told her, and it was the last time she spoke to me.

Babushka, who excelled at academic achievement, had progressed in life, had enrolled in

the best technical high school in Motown. I certainly was not up to that standard of

institutionalized education, but only a year later I enrolled in that school, driven by absolute

obsession to recover my loss. The studies were difficult and required the utmost discipline of

intellectual, uncompromising determination on my part. I enrolled in the biochemistry

curriculum, thus convincing my parents to agree, "He'll grow to be a doctor." Just anything

not to be faced with frustrations of the affectations that were my only sense of humanity.

Anything just to rinse my vision a glance of Babushka, which anyway rarely occurred. The

system must have worked against me.

Universal forces, that stream silently until attaching themselves to structural formation and

contextual motion, destined my endeavors to futility. Succinctly stated, it was not meant to be.

I neither reconnected with Babushka nor became a doctor. Fate had a different idea; being that

I had a dramatic inclination, so the school selected me for a starring role in the annual play. I

don't know if Babushka even attended but it was just a dramatization of incompetence to exist

unless she sensed my presence in her life. Those long days I shoveled hot lava into the

volcanoes ticking akin to a time bomb planted in the disruptive nature of my personality.

We never exchanged another word; my insecurity was a bottomless pit into the abyss of an

inferiority complex, and I grabbed unto nothing as I pummeled downwards. With the end of

each school day and then late again at night, I would call on the phone and hang up after

making threatening remarks to scare Babushka's father into making her come back to me.

When I finally got my driver's license, I'd drive by her house and squeal the tires in an act of

malicious depravity, thereafter sneaking around the alley to try to catch a glimpse of her. I

yearned for a flashback of being seated around the glass table on which they ate in her

kitchen. My last visit to their home was to "pay my respects," as I was told to say by my

mother (who didn't know I had driven her father to his early grave). I wasn't even allowed into the house to offer my condolences, and perhaps rightfully not. Yes, most rightfully not.

The juices that oozed through the neural passages within my brain are those that infect the

thinking people who conclude they're unwanted, such as worthless psychotic murderers,

demented dangerous monsters, in short, a freak. I hurt, and caused pain as though by hurting

someone else it could lessen my pain; it would lessen the loneliness of the stark and abusive

reality. The world is round, so any energy that is projected away from someone goes on and

on until it comes closer and finally catches up the person who expressed it in the first place.

Bad energy approaches from the other side of the natural circumstances, gaining speed and

forces of wave like currents bouncing off the shore and returning upon their source. A

universal balance demands that every act, thought, or word of harm will meet up with just

retribution.

Baby, it's so cold in here and only your heartbeat warms my soul. Why can only third

person singular verbs get an "s?" Third world people, however, express soul thought by use

the third person slang; I's been dreaming of dancing with you. Thus have I gleaned, society

enabled a preteen boy to infuse a dependency on frivolity into the unscrupulous conduct he

developed into a mode of vicious attack against the privacy and liberty of a very human

family. Divide and conquer, in the realm of lost alone loneliness he'll grasp a hold of

delusions that have nothing to do with actual feeling towards a girl, intended to supplant the

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idea that he's been rejected by one. We's all third world people until we can feel accepted

socially, and this because the soul pirates embargoed our brains, mauled our hearts and raped

our souls.

I and you "be," but he, she or it "bes," would have been the only normal way to conjugate

the infinitive "to be." The speech pattern, dress standards, table manners and work ethics, and

their codes of misconduct are aberrations designed to restrain the uneducated from reaping the

benefits they generate from every corner of the globe. I shall explain what this presumably

incoherent digression into linguistics supposed to teach the reader a veritable instruction. The

theme of this literary effort states motion is the universal language and it all return to the

silence. We'll often find the partner of a discussion diverging from the topic at hand; one would best keep silent in such circumstances.

Shall I tell you how Mickey felt when convincing Babsuhka to climb with him into the

wash bin down her basement? The wash bin was a symbol of traumatic repercussions in my

life, while Babushka's closeness had established a neurotic association to a sub-zero

temperament that fulminated in my personality. The first experience I had in a washbasin was

when I held the water pipe that was sweating like a pig, as I endeavored to reconnect the light

socket that had somehow been shaken from its holding. It was probably a strategy my father

had devised in order to bring disaster upon my mother. She would go to fix it in order to have

light when she used the washbasin.

That's exactly what I tried to do; my right hand connected to the voltage and with my left

hanged unto the moist water pipe, electrocution as an indivisibly as in the "Preamble." My

mom was upset about not being able to use the light when she did laundry. "I seen my duty

and I done it." I suffered her pain as though my own and this mission was a way of proving

my love and concern. It seemed a simple mechanical task to repair the light buy pushing the

socket back in place. One could say I invented a new form of electric shock therapy; I was

unified to the circuitry of 110 volts for at least a minute, the time it took my mother to discern my screaming was a real expression of danger, and descend the stairway into the basement.

Heat in water pipes, on cold days, causes the collection of water molecules to its external

surface, and is was to this surface that I held while 110 volts were carousing through my

body. My mom rescued me by grabbing a hold of me and yanking me away with all her

strength, for the love of life. It was from that point on that an association to hugging in the

washbasin became a refuge from the echoes of insanity. We did many things as children that

once the body had matured to adult physiological dimension were no longer possible, but the pathology of being hugged in a washbasin remained imbedded in my character.

As the diversity in cultural pursuits and the human body itself became a bore, perversity

ascended to whatever heights the mind could aspire. Birth control changed the heterosexual

relations of the sexes into a happenstance of fleeting associations, while mind-altering drugs

changed aspects of intellectualism into capabilities that extended beyond the realm of a

healthy mind (and left many people mentally crippled in asylums). Society was a playground

of ensuing experiences where on might be drawn to doing something weirder than could be

imagined; anywhere or anytime throughout the globe and even in outer space; what should

somebody do that would hold his interest?

There exists a form of closure that encompasses a soul, not conditional upon his or her

willingness. At least five decades, I was aggrandizing about Babushka; according to my

grandiose or paranoiac delusionary scenarios of how to adjust to her absence from my life.

The new worldwide web has made it possible to traverse bridges between the past and present

through digital communication. On the day that would have commemorated he 64th birthday I

made phone contact with her only sibling, a sister who ran a business out of Chicago. A sad

commentary on this treatise is that a rare untreatable form of leukemia had removed the life forces from the soul of my endeared Babushka, may she find comfort.

Chapter IV - For Love or Money

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We are living in an unbelievable world where the dimensions of time and space no longer

have the same meaning they used to have. Fifty years ago, if someone would tell me he could

show me the whole world at the snap of his fingers I would have laughed at him, but today,

one click on the keyboard or the electronic mouse and I can communicate with everybody,

anywhere at the same time by publishing something on the WEB. Political power is no longer

determined by the movement of troops and military capability to deter an onslaught by an

enemy. When we look at recent history, we can see how quickly international power can shift

from one place to another, like sands flying across the desert; burying past civilizations

beneath.

Knowledge of the human needs and the combinations involved between the individual and

society can be manipulated by people who have experience in psychology, graphics, and other

computer applications that can be programmed to spread awareness in the far reaches of the

world. People can concoct new mores and taboos and inspire masses to improve their legal

and social status by convincing them that their significance goes beyond the law, place, and

even the survival of an individual. By definition, something greater than everything is infinite,

what is holy must be considered obligatory or forbidden, not dependent on logical

contemplation. The expertise to spread such awareness will determine the future of human

civilization upon the earth.

The human condition is one of dependency for the satisfaction of basic needs, the

outgrowth of which causes humankind to become social creatures. We use sophisticated

systems of language and paralanguage to communicate, beneath which, are emotional

processes that facilitate or complicate our realms of interaction. A person can become

offended when somebody to whom he's speaking makes the slightest grimace that can be

interpreted negatively. Fear of rejection or being ostracized, translates as a threat to one's very

survival, and may be felt as pain and even mental torture. A typical reaction would be to speak derogatively to someone who criticizes or scorns our opinions.

Escape mechanisms allow the mind to delve into a fractured reality, the one unconquerable

and very frustrating, and the other based on fantasy that will make real conditions of life

easier to accept. My avenues of escape were an intricate milieu of behavior patterns that

allowed me to out maneuver the truth buried within me. I didn't feel justified to succeed or to

act as if everything within my emotional character is all right, so I developed a pattern of anti-

social behaviors to get attention. As the turtle crawls forth determinedly, I scampered about

from one social setting to another, none of which could either tolerate, or help me to resolve

the conflicts my personality. I set myself on a course of ever-expanding pursuit into areas beyond the plain of moral compunction.

Where it's long past the time that psychotherapy could be of retroactive avail, there is a

point to scrutinize the interrelations that promoted these untowardly outcomes. Social factors

are calculated in legal proceedings, for instance a plea of insanity. Judges and juries are want

to consider the conditions of upbringing that factor into the behavior of a suspected criminal

on trial before them. The most deleterious dynamic in a child going awry is the home front,

and in my case, my dad lost the quality of discernment that distinguishes humanity from other

beasts. Drunkenness drains an individual of regret for doing wrong; normal inhibitions don't

restrain the drunken individual from causing harm. True be it, the desire for proscribed atrocity hovers over conscionable restraint.

Dear dad was wont to blame my mom for their financial hardships, duh; was it not clear

that his corrupt business dealings brought about his failure as a businessman and brought

financial collapse to our family. My maternal grandfather gave him his first start in the

women's apparel industry, so the derivative of illogical contemplation would project blame

for the failure to whomever helped him to establish himself in that field. He impelled us to

hate him, and by association demonstrated his vicious techniques of punishing mom in the

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presence of her children. We learned well to hate him too, and in the end, we were besieged by hatred.

Cannibals eat people only to satisfy their hunger whereas civilized man is habituated to

wars, glory mongering, conquest of land and buildings being identified by the title he deems

these objects should called, and in his path leaves a trail of death rotting in the cities and fields

where he has trespassed. These malicious instincts epitomize the intelligence that

distinguishes man from the lower beasts. If the truth must be told, his communicative ability,

mating behavior, and erect posture are much less adaptable to survival than all other animal species. Man's destructive tendency is much worse than cannibalism.

Is the ability of logical deduction so unique to humankind, is it not manifested every time a

cat prepares to attack its prey? Humanity is motivated according to instincts commensurate

with the unique dexterity that allows him to make fine manual distinctions, but he lacks

auditory and olfactory skills that distinguish the elephant and the canine species. He is

attracted and repulsed by forces in nature, just like every other creature in the universe, but his

ability to discern peculiarities enables him to connect disperse elements and organize them into a unity.

The same force that unites the mineral, vegetable, and other animals into a functional

disposition are able to contain everything that exists within that singular equilibrium, but man

is included only through sophisticated efforts, he's so strange it's as though he has no natural

habitat. If he feels dejected, he will cause wanton destruction just to entertain himself. When

his honor is impugned, he becomes vengefully violent, the result being that people are

crippled, self-sustaining societies become dependent on external support, and a terrible imbalance comes about at the core of universal equilibrium.

From birth man is dependent on others and yet he deludes himself with the notion he can

achieve independence, so he sets out to control other forces of nature as though to prove he's

achieved superiority. This is but folly, fantasy, and fallacy proved by the fact even someone

who will remain incapable to function, or is temporarily crippled, as much as he suffers a

feeling of dejection, he may be the most loved creature in the world. It might said, however,

that the soul of that individual is so invaluable that it cannot be contained in the physical limitation of its body.

Most people are drawn into this never-ending race of chasing after their personal

independence, and are suckered into the capitalistic system of hoarding money, pursuing

electronic distractions, traveling great distance on weird encounters and living entirely in the

realms of physicality. Like them, my dad set his eyes to the haughty diversions from life's true

bearing, and sought to instill the same values within his children. How is it put, too much of a

good thing is no good? I have gone to the extreme of impoverishment just not to be anything like him.

When we were still very young, he took us to the bank and deposited large sums into our

personal accounts with solemn explanations how the money was hallowed for our future and

nobody could ever touch it without our signatures, ad infinitum. The alcohol gurgled into his

throat, his business down the tubes, and as I best recall the scenario, he took me to the bank

teller and elicited my signature to withdraw the funds, against my protests. This experience

taught me that my early dependency on material possessions would have to be empowered by

forceful methods. It's a shame that significance was attached to materialist possessions, such

as numerals inscribed in a small booklet.

My garden is open to the creatures that roam the neighborhood. The Chelsea cat acts as

though I accept her presence in my garden. She cozies upon the compost heap as though I

have nothing to say about her presence here. This reminds how I've acted catlike in so many

life situations. For instance, the time my dad took me fishing on the St. Clair, a small lake that

empties into the Detroit River. Besides the dock, stood the giant tortoise shell, next to which

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stood a statue of an Indian; and besides them a barbarian parading the musket with which he killed them.

I wandered off and crawled into the tortoise shell. I woke up to the sound of the hysterical

search and orders to bring the dragnet that would be used to search the lake. I crawled out of

the turtle shell unnoticed, and waded out to shallow waters so the saviors would not vent their

anguish at having been involved in such folly. I remember everybody laughing at me when I

came out of the turtle shell. I never revealed to anyone that I had seen inscriptions and

drawings on the inner side of the tortoise shell. I understood the message as intended for me

personally, so I took it to heart. Of course, there is meaning to this superrealism, yet to

become apparent in passages that follow.

This fishing trip was supposed to be a relaxing moment for me, perhaps open up, and get

things off my chest, but dad took little sister with us because she cried as he was pulling out

of driveway the nice gentile built us. I had thought there would be moments of reprieve from

her impinging upon my guilt complex. Being obstinate the whole time, I was dragged unto the

boat, given a fishing rod, and just told to hang on tightly if I caught a fish. That's when I

snagged a perch with the hook in its eye, and I was taken aghast. That perch wreaked

vengeance on the discombobulated memory of the accident, and from that day forward I was allergic to fish.

Even though I have allergic reactions to cat's hair, I let Chelsea hang around because I

know that nature manages to communicate to everyone in the way natural to her species. Just

as long as she wouldn't invade my private domain by scattering her hairs all over the place, I

let her find refuge on my compost heap. I am imbued with dexterity between the thumb and

forefinger that enables me to kill her in a single squeeze of the trigger, or rid myself of her by

pouring on her a pail of water. Would that serve any purpose whatsoever? I do declare the

reward for my kindness was seeing her bring forth litter after litter in the security of my

garden, and the many times my grandchildren enjoyed this feat of nature.

Another factor of my youth that sticks traumatically to my bones is the fact that during my

youth I was in the habit of following around my older brother. When I was old enough to

understand things, he told that would he want me for his shadow he would summon me to be

near to him. Stars were shooting off within the parietal lobe of my brain (the inner vision of

the mind that sees what it wants despite reality). My idea of self-importance visualized him as

the artistic canvas within my soul. Nobody could lay a rap on him, and I was thought cool just

to be near him of whom I was no use.

This description of the parietal lobe having to do with the inner vision brings to mind the

distinctions of our human mind delineated in Freudian psychology, those being the Id, Ego,

and Superego. The id concocts the desires in a way that gives them precedence over any other

bearing of the being, demanding instant gratification without restraint of mores or taboos. The

ego needs a format, a system of socialization that establish the order of precedence by terms

of which we achieve satisfaction. The superego is a tradition of acculturation imposed upon

individuals by their nurturing society. Presumably, these demarcations were fuzzy in my

personality because I did a lot of unacceptable things during my life span, and more yet to

restore balance to the universe.

Coarse and Persistent

As to having made girls of the female species into sex objects, we have to consider the

possibility of mental imbalance, abusive comportment emanates from emotional disturbance.

Not however, as women-libbers depict the circumstances as chauvinist abuse. Sexism may be

what motivates police officers to overlook wife abuse; but violence is part of the cycle of the

powerless; the aggressive conquerors have accompanied humanity since our inception upon

the face of the earth. A problem that seems to have no cure gains tacit complicity of anybody

who is aware of it. Many people get wound up during tense episodes and hurt the one they

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love most. Only weak humans violently seek to defend their honor, and it's only the insults from their important others that cause them mental anguish.

The fact that men hurt their wives has become a deep-seated problem in the culture of

impulsiveness, impatience, arrogance, greed, and ignorance. It's part of the mind-set to seek

gratification for whatever you want as quickly as you can, and at the least expense of human

resourcefulness. One might comment to the violator that his acts will inevitably cost him, in

that the to-be-violated will lose respect and experience attenuation of her ability to share the

good feelings that it's possible to enjoy together with him. Being hit is certainly not one of them! The problem can be ameliorated if attitudinal change is achieved.

I might be wrong, but the idea of violence towards children is accepted in the norms of

society as means to punish wrongdoing; but, spanking too, is an act of violence. I am not

going to compare the thinking of a man who strikes his wife to his treating her like a child, at

issue here is the societal attitude that each of us place our selfish interests before the liberty,

or even existence of anything or anyone that might prevent, or delays our personal satisfaction

at any given moment. Corrective instruction does not include jails, though they are called

correctional institutions. Correction means exemplifying the proper response to trying

circumstances, that being multi-directional verbal communication.

The abusive nature of people, society, and governments includes their willingness to do

away with anything or anybody that stands in their way, but it is impossible to see how this

could apply to domestic violence. My question is what should go through the mind of a man

so he'll restrain from beating his wife. When he resorts to physical abuse, he has presumably

determined the right way for her to act, or is intent on punishing her for non-compliance.

Obviously, the intense flow of adrenalin stimulates arousal throughout his body, so his first

proving ground is to see whether he can command even his smallest finger to respond to his

will. By taking minimal control of himself, he can preclude the adrenalin flow from removing

his conscious apprehension of his situation.

People think that brutality on their part will make others deliberate our demands; an

employer threatens to fire a worker, a teacher threatens to send a student to the principal,

friends scandalize one another, and parents get angry with their children. I was traumatized by

beatings dad inflicted on mom. I was not the target of his scandalous or violent outbursts, but

even as an innocent bystander the pain accompanied me through life, and brought more of the

same into the lives of his grandchildren. That definitely was not what my dad had wanted to

be the change in circumstances over which he prevailed by means of violent attacks on the mother his child venerate.

Men deflate absolutely any respect they may hold for oneself, and feel terrible

embarrassment even result of deluded themselves that every knows they are a wife beater.

They know the ramifications are traumatic for their children, feared punishment would they

be apprehended by "the law," and lead a life that is destructive of everything humanity values.

Everybody strives to achieve mutual respect with their important others even when they act

contrarily; our thinking process is molded by the society in which our personality has

matured. Pain and fear of the loss of respect, the feeling no one could appreciate us if they

were aware of what heinous travesty we commit, exists in the universe; for reason, that

humanity is meant to react by making amends abuses inflicted upon the universe. There is

more to creation than meets the eye.

A child carries not only the genes of his ancestors but the neural inscription coded therein.

A dude triggers a bank heist twitching his finger in a revolver to rattle people's brains until

everybody gives up their possessions. At that very moment, neural transmitters in his finger

send impulses to the brain, wherein various compilations establish a presence in the memory;

an electro-genetic system that with repetition attains a force of ascendancy over previously

established emotional and intellectual mental configurations. This substantiates the religious

tradition that sins of the fathers will be visited on their descendants.

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As habit forms into brain tissue, it impels the DNA to reproduce like proteins that develop

in the musculature that thereafter needs expression and perpetuity. Even if this seems

inexplicable with regard to the argument, nature or nurture, there remains a contemplation of

action become habituated. The putrid impulse that triggered all these developments is passed

on to the muscle of a toddler who gets involved in a chain reaction that involves destruction of

a window, and a wild childhood of destructive inclinations. For decades, he's been desperately

hoping to repair the force from the original sin, which emanated fitfully into an accident

caused by a glass projectile entering an eye. The blame could lay generations prior to birth of

the toddler.

Windows, sticks, trips to Chicago, eyes, violent anger, and hapless bickering. I have

grappled with thee, but none of them ever seemed willing to relinquish their strangle hold on

my emotions. I was the dummy mom always took with her to gram and gramps so I could

listen to her weep the whole way home. Within me, rage wars of blameworthiness. Neither

contemplated by others nor resolved within me; running hysterically until I outran myself,

continuing to do so until I became the man from the Rose Cavern. If you get to close, thorns

will prick your flesh.

There is reason to this mad discussion, and that is, determining whether the wretchedness

through which I lived is personal, or whether societal factors bring these forces to prevail on a

wider scale. Within me; this insatiate urge to be held, a frantic proclivity to human warmth,

translates into always finding myself in the middle of arguments. On one occasion, I even

tried to put a stop to the mutual nipping taking place amongst a pack of dogs. Nourishment

was less important to me than human warmth. As my childhood yielded to early adolescence,

I turned to female companionship as the medium in which to satisfy my touch compulsion. Northern Caucasian female beings are consumer reps of beauty products and fashion styles.

Back to Go, Now to Know

A portion of the Canadian southern border swoops into the Lake Ontario, which separates

Detroit (sounded as a nasal silent, "Detrwah") and Windsor. The Indians controlled the pure

waters of the Detroit River, and gleaned sustenance from its abundant rainbow trout until the

French conquerors imposed their rule over Canadian lands. Alike to how American colonials

threw the English tea in the ocean, we have distinguished the final "t" in a way typical to the

occidental culture. Trite, it is not, that nothing lives in the Detroit River.

A long some time ago, a person could smuggle firecrackers through the Windsor Tunnel

without facing interrogation. Likewise, you could come tripping across the Ambassador

Bridge right into down-Detroit, adequate to state you'd been to visit relatives in Canada.

Nowadays they have electronic sensors to smell out gaseous emissions, voice sensors to hear

the conversation of those approaching the border, and video projections to reveal emotion, maybe brain waves, and contrary eye movements.

In this city, people don't cut grass they mow it down. It should be called the "Mow town,"

but is called Motown because it has a connection to the motorcar industry, the modern system

of slavery. When the "burn baby burn" brothers take it over, they're going to crank out

machinery to restore ecological balance to nature, dredge the riverbanks of all the pollutants,

liberate dwellers from the shantytowns, and pay compensation to Africa in the way of medical

equipment, farm machinery, scientific exploration, and technology.

Forty years on, and I'm still trying to defuse the stress of my youth; years oppressed

depressed suppressed repressed and impressed with tears that keep pressing, that though

sound archaic turned out to be religious Judaic. What, me worry? You can take a Jewish man

from Motown but there ain't no way to take the Motown out of him. A dude from Michigan

can proudly claim to be a "Michiganer," a place where people will be because they are.

Michiganer in Yiddish translate, "nut case." It's possible to add that Judaic origins cannot be

extricated from within the soul of a Jewish person.

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Impoverished local folk learned, some quickly and some slowly, how exactly the wheels

that kept the Motown spinning were greased. They idea was to keep us stupid enough to trust

in their democratic freedoms while we were stripped of any hope to achieve human

respectability. It became digity (dig it, conjugated as a compound adjective) for Jewish people

to go upward; nobility-like mobile, live it up, are you up for it, keep your chin up; even if you

fall, get back up! They moved in and we skirted out, helter-skelter in every direction, at the

expense of solidarity within the community.

The mother Forder's (another name for SCRUB) knew that in unity lied the danger

inherent of mowing them out of city hall, like grass shooting through the blades right into the

catcher attached at the rear-end. Their present day strategy is to go against the Semitic

brothers of Islam, and through the agency of an anti-spy authority eventually nationalize life's

materiel, leaving the people without resources or anything comparable to government for, by,

and of the people. They usually operate according to a divide and conquer strategy. They

always proliferate an ideal that the proletariat will swallow hook, line, and sinker.

Wherever Jewish people flourished, the city planners popped over and suddenly started

laying cement roads and structures smack in the middle of their dis(com)unity. As such,

Jewish people dispersed into a yet thinner dispersion; divide and conquer. The mother

Forder's laws were niggardly towards any organization, you know catch the tiger by its tail,

keep authority over the distribution of means of sustenance, kill or be killed, citizens and

foreigners alike treated as the enemy. Synagogues were out and movie theaters in, property in

and savings out, charity out and gambling in. They got the gold bricks, banks and the Brinks, publishing houses, university research departments, and government offices.

They conquered us in our own backyards and sent us away to the insecure locations where

our emotional dependency prevailed over our concern for tradition or our future. I caught on

to their gig with the revival of the Jewish Nation Israel on the map of modern history, no

longer am resistant to change and firmly believe we Jewish people can someday be respect

what we've become. Groupings of people need a story to bind them, populations need a form

of territorial determinism, and so who ever controls the flow of information is in charge of the

multitude. Defeat allows no surrender because the enemy will forever reject me. Though the

stock market collapse or the housing industry implode, and the Jewish people held liable

while the Christians of America decide to clean house, we can gravitate upwards to make the

holy land a light unto the nations. At least, this was a belief unto which I could hang.

The purpose of this litany, to what is it leading? Awareness of self, includes the soul within

and the surrounding environment, be it the political climate as it has an effect on value and

purpose in our lives. One should be wary when the nations lose their pride and start to hate

themselves; but Jewish people seem to remain aloft of the conflagration. Maybe I merited this

knitted thinking cap because I helped my great grandmother unravel the yarn of my balled up

emotions; taunt me with visions, but I'll keep my head together! A spark of heroism ignites

the Jewish Nation Israel, thus inscriptions like those that I saw from within the tortoise shell back by the Indian camp; a message that existed before the time it was inscribed to be.

Stagnating in its death throes, the pitiable Detroit River lets out to a ganglion of modernist

apparitions of entangled metal and cement, and those tangles can crush a lone man, so we

have to get it together. Let's start along the Motown highway; we all know how you get down.

That's slang for doing something cool, for relief from insufferable heat, as the molecular

system uses fever to attack intruders, so being cool is finding relief. What was cool to people

in Africa, and likewise the Jewish People prior to their Americanization was adherence to the

tenets of family structure, national solidarity of people and the freedom of the human soul to

apply its strengths and talents towards creative productivity. These values are being demeaned as scornful pursuits.

When I used to think about Motown, olfactory memories aroused sensations of the foot-

long (ground pig with roasted chili beans) dog we'd eat late nights in a downtown restaurant.

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The perfume of wealth at the suburban end of Woodward Avenue prevented the cries of

poverty from penetrating the cognitive eye of those who lived there. "Burn baby burn" shouts

of frustration were replaced by "power to the people" demands for self-determination, by the

Afro-Americans who had become the majority in the Motown electoral process. It’s almost a

realization of a prophecy about the meek seeing people whose ancestors were uprooted from

their Africa in order to serve as slaves now asserting authority and governmental control of

the vital arteries and ancient trade routes connecting the urban centers of America to one

another.

It was during my summer break the night when I went tripping over reminiscences of the

foot-long smothered in chili sauce, cruising down Woodward Avenue looking for some

depths of memory into which one plunges when lonely for his past. As if by circumstance, so

into paranoia, I sat down next to a cop that was my buddy in elementary school, who I called

"big G little g." We started rapping about a renaissance in downtown Detroit, the Motor

Town, notorious for soul music. The percussion of down deep life is the rhythm and echoes of

the jungle creatures in the peacefulness of their natural habitat, and as such the pulse of the

earth's harmony. At the time of this editing (2016), an Afro-American has assumed the

Presidency of the USA.

Rolling Over in Rose Cavern

Habituation to pleasure brings humankind to deny responsibility, and to my great sorrow,

this platitude motivated my conduct throughout my development years. Like, I can think of at

least a decade when I cared about nothing, lived nowhere in particular, and did nothing but

enjoy life. Convinced that my microcosm was culturally engineered, one has to check me out

in order to understand the SCRUB blueprint for the Northern Caucasian. The gestalt of their

existence is prefabricated: for example the location of their home and the way furnished have

significance as cultural trophies; sensory experiences that stimulate the pleasure senses within

the human brain but have no functional value. Worse yet, vital resources are being depleted in

order to sustain this farcical dysfunction of being human. Why should a painting sell for

millions of dollars, and what vale do metallic bullions offer to humanity?

The Northern Caucasian had established his presence in locations that have demographic

significance and historical importance in the human inhabitance in, and surrounding the

metropolitan areas. I mean, wars between the French and English were fought over Detroit as

the most important focus of control over the Five Lakes and the northern border of the United

States. Demographic circumstances have resulted in a change of the population now

inhabiting the inner cities around America. The Northern Caucasian has packed out for

suburbia. These downtown areas have this numinous aura of being dangerous places to go

unless you’re a soul brother. As for suburbia, it has produced an irreversible and

insurmountable dilemma of property becoming a liability rather than an asset. At the time of

this writing (2007) the banking and housing industry were in a state of collapse.

Perhaps it's a good idea to reflect shortly on the history of the Civil War and its aftermath;

apartheid, segregation, discriminatory educational systems, and de facto economic inequality.

We can expect to hear the vicious barking of the honkies at the northern extreme of

Woodward Avenue when the banks try to reclaim the homes and their properties for failure to

pay the mortgage, and how they'll holler about how unfair it is. As the situation worsens, they

may have to sell themselves into slavery so the SCRUB (Society's Community of Unjust

Barracudas) will provide them with food, shelter, clothing, education, and medical services.

This form of economy is known as nationalization of individual account holdings.

People chase anti-paranoia by surging boldly into hysterical mannerisms that refuse to be

bound by the force of time. They run away from presumed guilt for being what one is;

abandon everything held of traditional value. Don't cop out man; just keep your head together.

If anybody thinks the WASP-honky will stop running us down because of what happened in

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the past, we should be ready when you learn it's the other way around. This too, is evident

from the twenty-first century remarks about the USA being a nation for the Aryan believer in

Christian macerations. Balaam proliferated their "soap" in the times of Moses; and from the carcasses of decimated Jewish souls, soap has been made.

As if I care when someone derides me for being insane, threatens to drive me out of his or

her life, or act cruelly towards, and debase me. We all have moments of wild fits, yet healthy

people can return to mental equilibrium. They laugh deridingly, openly mocking and

ridiculing who or whom they'll refuse to see in themselves. It frightens us to enjoy the

freedom of laughter because if we laugh, we are treated as though insane, and since we're not

sure if we can regain control of our minds, we hold it in and get ulcers. There can be

turbulence during flight, but one doesn't necessarily bail out, we buckle down for the

meantime. Tremendous heat and pressure form carbon deposits into diamonds.

The emotional and irrational tales of life are not possible to measure intellectually, so

happy people should feel free to be what we are. Laughter is healthy but scourging laughter is

murder. The scorching embers of Auschwitz have not cooled, it's best to keep distance. The

heat is utilized by Anti-Judaists to concoct their witch's brew of annihilation in the melting

pot of assimilation, and gaseous content causes perversity in the minds of you know who. If

you can't ignore a real threat, are you paranoiac because you're afraid that doing something

about it will make it worse? Sometimes establishing the person in a silent presence is enough.

No brother, and far from the truth sister, there is no being downright digity in the eyes of

those who venerate sex, swearing, cursing, murder, drugs, and violence. Here I am, wriggling

my pom-pom while I cast forth my voice, with the gadget that radios my soul into the

universal control devise, thinking to myself I pulled out a plum. I tell you they cloak their lust

in the cloth of religious espousals but they'll be reckoning for the suffering they've caused.

The thing is they can't find me because I know where time happens as the entity we refer to as

I who am. The horse upon whose bare back I'm riding is dangling over the abyss, and has a rope around his neck, and I who am destined to pay the fare.

I am educated, and my soul knows well its humanity, so my mind cannot be deceived by

their epithets of veiled greed. I ain't in the mood to lower myself into their abysmal

covetousness, so as long I paddle the air my stead keeps forward further faster. Maybe

someday I'll take a trip along Motown riverside, which is going to be cleaned up enough to go

in for the chill once upon the next summer night I'm cruising behind the civic center

downtown of Woodward Avenue. This thought brings cheer to the walls of my self-imposed

insurrection that I've been etching unto the walls of my very darling Rose Cavern. I can get

away from everything on my mind, herein, even if in a flash of evil impulse I'll lower the boom knowing there's an escape as digity as dig it can be.

Maybe the reader will presume I got these brains in my state college, but the wise will

realize that the best academic environment is the school of hard knocks. If the SCRUB want

to threaten with a holocaust, I'm upping the stakes to a pan Mesopotamic-Afro-Asian

revolution against greedy materialism (GM) and hedonism. Anyway, I've had my fill of the

party-school idea of going to college to attend football games, drinking beer, and cheer. Here

we get a close up view of the facade with which the occidental elite society is disguised, at

least as concerns the impudent wimps (myself included) whose idea was to live free of any

commitments to love or respect anyone or anything. People from lands where Buddhism is

practiced, try to conceive of themselves as a harmonious unit in the totality of the world; their

concern with life being to do good; leave the world with a feeling of goodness towards them.

In the Thicket

Propped above Rose Cavern, the lens of the wobbly camera zooms in at my fingers

fidgeting the pom-pom upon the knitted hat I've drawn my head into, rolling it up on the sides

just as I used to. This pom-knitted hat serves as the cushion under my brain, rattled by the

torment of concern for being human in a society of aberrant corruption, self-destruction, and

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conflict lacking resolution. It's not the wool or form, but the kindness Babushka knew to show

me by knitting it, though no one else seemed to respect me as a human being. By comparison,

the true nature that became evident in my character is nothing less than obscene; yes, I am repentant.

Certain priorities in the realm of existence arise to our awareness during different phases of

our lives. From an aspect of a securing a relationship with a life partner dictates personal

security I had to relinquish banal pursuits of hedonist pleasure with women, give up the

connection to a society of people into drugs, no longer joke or talk about things, dress

differently, and be addressed by a different name. Nearing the age of sixty, secluded at my

station in Rose Cavern, I can establish contact with whom and where I be me - past, present, or future, and perhaps someday again observe the creation of new stars in the stratosphere.

Motion is the universal language and it all returns to silence. My presence in Rose Cavern

is a relaxation of the actions in which I sought to bring about changes, first in the secular

society and thereafter in the counter culture, and finally in religious society. Rose Garden is

the second stop on the way out of Detroit, the distance between them as unfathomable as a

quantum string the scientists are popularizing as the force that holds the universe together, and

can yet be traversed in the wink of an eye. From the depths within Rose Cavern my mind

tuned in to a changed awareness; a current connecting the vibrations from the foot of one

passerby to the sounds caused by the voice of another.

The secular strata of modern society has specialized education for its sapiens (those

possessed of subjective minds with objective bodies) including rules of etiquette, and the

social graces of acceptable conduct befitting their station in life. This silent minority of the

population manipulate the consciousness of the class of sapiens whom are dependent on those

from the empowered class. The overwhelming majority of sapiens are lowest on the

education, profession, and income strata. In a desperate struggle for the basic necessities of

survival we kill one another, sell drugs, and act like animals; this inevitability makes us more

dependent of the ruling class to administer our affairs. Institutions, law and its enforcement,

media, and misinformation are the tools of their empowerment.

This book will churn like streams of words mocking my mind, as they dramatize my

feelings of insecurity in all their extensive complexity. Thus, I make this futile exercise of

introspection available to the reader, who by now, probably thinks I have wandered away

from my stroll on Woodward Avenue. I was just explaining how to find one's way from there

to Rose Cavern. You can't get there by taxiing down the runway; things are not the way they

once were, we need not pursue a specific destination. Besides, someone could easily burst a

gasket upon coming to the realization that Gregory, once a beat-cop, who sat around in foot dog restaurant, was a descendant of one the chief of one of Africa's noblest families.

Once impulse of thought is transmitted to the voice mechanism of the brain, it stimulates

the lungs to pressure waves of air through the vocal chords. The sounds emitted are

transmitted as percussions received in the auditory mechanism of one within hearing distance

of the same. The sound waves stimulate the mental processes of the one to whom I directed

my voice, and when the thought in his brain is the same as it had been in my mind, then we

communicated. A wave of my hand causes percussion in the air, which a creature even blind

to detail may want to reach for, due to the grasp reflex. In this sense, motion and sound as

well as sight, smells, et cetera that pulsate between our sensory ranges become united through the processes of reception or resistance.

The similarity of developmental outcomes amongst a specific group is caused by the

prevalence of the restricted range of sensory causes. These schemata are predetermined like

finding an arrow in the bull's eye and claiming that it was shot there a good archer. However,

over stimulation of the sort where governments use guilt trips to subdue people into obedience

can cause a backlash, such as wanting to escape the societal norm by doing things wrong on

purpose. My methods included accosting people verbally, physically, being an annoyance,

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and much worse; seeking to avoid the insecurity that ravaged my inner being. This then is the scenario that leads to the abuse of heroin. That too is a SCRUB implant into the inner city.

"Deprecation of Independence," humanity works all the live weeklong year to endear

getting returns from the revenue service thinking they got something for nothing in the refund.

They drive in a mechanic vehicle, work on an electronic device, or employ their physical

attributes in some mechanical capacity until the clock informs them to play it in reverse. I had

an aversion to work so I demeaned my personality to a status of wanting something without

the effort invested into a proper means of procurement. I once impersonated a police officer and took a picture of Frank Sinatra, and later on, together with Diana Ross.

It was winter vacation from school, and some of my teenage friends and I were in Florida

to pass time. We spent time dragging around the streets and sitting in hotel lobbies playing

poker. As a teenager, I spent weekend nights at parties, trying to bee-bop in banal pursuits

such as screened in Hollywood. The TVs hosted dance shows, dance parties, and the like.

Sundays, a group of friends went skiing in winter; played football in the fall, tennis in the

summer, and baseball in the spring; movies, pool halls, and heterosexual involvements, not what you'd call productive members of society.

If people are convinced that life's purpose is enjoying anything they can get their hands on,

it behooves them to query why they aspire to social respectability; ergo, it's all in their

imagination. In that realm, however, there is no pressure to conform to what someone may or

may not expect from me. One simply needs to think about someone trying to figure out what I

may expect of them, and not how they view me, and as such enjoy what one likes to do, be,

think, and feel. If you can dig it, we are truly inferior to any other species of beings on the

face of the earth, and our tendency gravitate to be identified as part of a group is operative

against the intrinsic insecurity embedded in our species.

A lot of us wiggle out of others expectations towards us by forcing those who impose them

to have to put up with our refusal until they feel no longer obliged to do anything in our

behalf. Since the deception we live is healthier than having to deal with the true circumstances

prevailing in the world, why try to be normal? Why should I try to reverse the effects of

global heating when I can seclude myself in the calm cool of Rose Cavern until I die there?

One element of expectation is frustration; so where the anticipated payoff is less than the loss

might sustain by an investment of effort, one can remain calm and be satisfied with what he's got.

Using logical deduction you can see that valley stripped of "v" becomes a language

complexity, as typified by people who learn a second language. Alley; foreign languages

speakers are apt to translate alley according to its common usage. An English teacher in China

teaches that a bowling alley is not the definition of a blind alley, and that's why people down

in the valley people can remain forever out of mind and not only out of sight. The word alley

to wit the author makes reference, describes an unpaved strip that lay behind the backs' of the houses, row on row, set up that way so trash engineers had egress to garbage cans kept there.

To understand that it was considered unaesthetic to leave garbage where it would be seen,

a woman had to learn about Dr. Spook who chopped down trees of historical wisdom planted

by Jewish mothers who for generations had kept cool in their shade, ergo shelter of their

traditional homes. One shot of that diabolical vaccine and children could be transported in a

metallic vehicle whose aim was to liberate their children from parental responsibility, whose

destination was exclusive fabrication. It was the double-o that threw them off, they didn't

know why bother to cook and what a fool who thought to annihilate our traditions, until many

of us married just for the gooey pleasures of banality. Nowadays banality suffices.

A Pointless Line

I seem to repeat frequently that there is a justification to my writing this treatise, but I'm

truly only certain that it's a way to bide my time. The thrust of this literary journey to describe

the emptiness of reason behind the existence of human beings, herein I've endeavored to

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demonstrate we have neither reasoning capacity nor are we superior. Thought is but an

allusion to communication that is the common language of every being within the realm of

creation. We may therefore conclude that death is the only threat that humanity has

considered a diminution of their right to plunder and pleasure. Someone playing on those

fears can lure most anybody to whatever direction is determined to be beneficial to the usurpers. Disloyalty to nationalist or fanatic ideals is thought a crime against humanity.

Death is the first rule in the SCRUB game, so they confuse us and dupe us to spend money

on frivolities before we can no longer enjoy them. Of course, the notion of pleasure is

cultivated as a consumer objective. The second rule is that we have only to accomplish what

we desire without regard for the preservation of the globe or others that we inhabit. The third

rule is playing unknown fear against the ignorance of someone who would prefer not to

suffer, and players trap one another in nationalist, anti-terrorist, patriotic passivity trips, obedience and obeisance, and they'll string us along forever and a day.

Infants process information, so do animals. Does intelligence define the fact they a person

processes knowledge, and therefore we honor those to whom we refer as intellects. History

has shown that people who could read and write were set up as an elite core (priests and the

royalty) to manage the affairs of the multitudes. Thus, we see that the capacity to process

information has to do with the organization and distribution of resources; according to the

functional ability of each individual, he would contribute his or her taxation payments to the general well-being of the whole. How did people achieve this supposed collective unity?

If we were to take an overview of the activities of people, the patterns of residential

environments, transportation networks, public facilities such as street lighting and traffic

regulation we can make a few observations as to the organizational capabilities of humankind.

When this overview is filmed at high speeds, it presents a remarkable impression that people

and their technology are fueled as though electronic sparks running along pathways that were

established as the circuit board upon which people are programmed to allow their activity as

living entities. Diversion from the path means destruction, like darting out of a traffic lane in

the middle of rush hour traffic.

This teaches us that knowledge without shamefulness is dangerous; one traveling at ninety

kilometers an hour cannot pass the car in front of him when it endangers his life or that of

others. This knowledge can be instilled in the individual by a number of distinct procedures

for processing information, the quickest and most effective being fear. Based upon fear; the

logic of cause and effect can be implanted into the thinking mind, such that the person is kept

under control. This is referred to as intelligence, but this form of information processing is

present throughout nature. A wild cat reacts most quickly and effectively to ward off the threat of anyone approaching.

I must confess these conclusions are based on two observations. The first being that the

advances of mankind throughout the generations; those high risers, cement covered roadways,

pollution emitting factories, electronic and mechanical pursuits are all the cause of idle waste

of the earth's resources, and have endangered the harmonious continuation of the earth.

Secondly, one may see that most species in nature assume a restive posture of doing nothing

until needs of survival, such as hunger, being under attack, and perhaps certain forms of

companionship prevail and elicit specific undertakings in order to satisfy the needs.

Immediately upon fulfillment, the restive posture is resumed and maintained.

Unfortunately, those who have been historically ordained as masters of the masses have

usurped the appropriate nature of existence with techniques to maul our mental processes with

compulsory education, their aim being to train us to make them rich. They make us afraid of

our shadow and blame us for not adhering to the straight and narrow if we have divergent

views. They take an innocent malleable child and try to squeeze him through a mold. They

certainly don't honor the idea of people being considered: "endowed by their Creator with

certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

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The message here is quite succinct: Rebellion is inevitable where conflict resolution is not imminent!

I'm solely into soul music; it jives inside my blood and drowns the creak of my bones.

Like, an eighty-year-old dude walking into the most plush office center, if he has soul, it

doesn't matter if hundreds of people are hanging around. If there are Motown sounds coming

down from somewhere, he'll start dancing, or at least bopping along. The same thing happens

when the dude plays music in the privacy of his home. It's a way of transforming bad vibes

into copasetic harmony. Bopping, on the physiological plane is turning one's heel up and to

the side, and then it spinning on the ball of his foot. Bee-bopping is when one thereafter

simultaneously raises the ball of his or her foot into the flex position and repeating the motion.

This is what people mean when they say a guy or gal has to be on the ball of his or her

foot, the feeling is probably similar to a dude taking an outside shot at the hoop and putting it

through with a swish. For a sister, it might be like cooking some new edibles and finding that

it comes out tasting exactly as she wants, and is consumed down to the last morsel. The thing

is; a soul can be alive only if it's connected, so it's unfortunate that most of the dead people

living in this world don't connect to their ancestors. Nor do they consider what the future

holds for them.

Back to this theory of how Society's Club of Raving Unjust Barracudas (Northern

Caucasian) dupes so many people into working for a pittance while they'll earn humungous

profits utilizing resources they've plundered forcefully. Not only have they assumed

ownership over the resources they exploit away from a natural habitat, but also those in that

habitat who cultivated and protected the same are deprived of the benefits. They've become so

habituated to their trying to ignore the cries of the underprivileged they can't hear the bomb

about to implode from within their soul. I wanted to tell you, but you screamed me into silence. A schizophrenic is untouched by normative expressions that impugn guilt.

At issue is to know that insane people can harbor love, and they can be right about what

they say, but maybe they've stressed out from their society. There's no denying that

humankind has features that distinguish us from trees, but lakes are distinguished from dogs.

That doesn't make them into the Lake Superior. To clarify this preponderance, I ponder why

conformity was expected from me. I must delve into the mystery of the spoken language, is it

not herein that one's greatness is supposedly most recognizable as a member of the human species?

Take for instance the prohibition to split infinitives, people of whom it is said they have a

split personality; because, say they believe that religious ethics are an intrinsic requirement to

the successful government of people who have faith. Take for example a child who is told that

every singular verb in the third person receives an "s" at the end; as he learns to do that

because it's becomes natural to say I be, you be, and she "bes," in the past always to use

"beed," and the future will be. A societal procedure coerces parents to subject their children to

education that is meant to exclude people from the norm. The idea of compulsory education is

to habituate people to do what they are told.

Intelligence has little to do with emotional (quotient) security; this precious commodity is a

state of mind. A veritable treasure of gold hidden within a soul willing to come together, not

only over me, inside you. Being happy is no fun alone, being old is no fun by your lonesome,

being insane or physically handicapped is no fun for anyone. Even if we need to be alone, it

can be unsettling. I couldn't stand the Northern Caucasian rules because they were intended in

order to dismiss people as misfits, in order to "justify" how they'll "conscionably" mistreat

them. Rules of law are the weapons in the wrong hands.

Let's look at the various verb structures, the simple, progressive continuous, and the perfect

complete, not to mention the passive tense. Do we need to romance anyone when share with

him information about what I did, whether what I was doing happened at a certain time, if I

had done it consistently, or if it was done without any disposition of energy on the part of the

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subject? Simplified rules could enable comprehension with less dispersion of energy. When

people live under the oppression of slavery and discrimination they're not going to develop

their understanding of language to the extent of people who get a decent education. Culturally defined testing is certainly not a test of intelligence.

Does wealth bring people security? Not the trite false security, which serves only as a

requiem to a meaningless life. Is capitalist ownership a means of derisive diversion? The

downtrodden are in the rat race, so I'm running just like everybody else. If it's a race war, I'm

out. I'd just as soon rot within Rose Cavern staring at antediluvian inscriptions I copied from

the inner chamber of the tortoise shell. I've done nothing of value, relentlessly, while days

stretch into half the moon's journey around its axis. While I'm still beating death at its own game, I'd like to tell you about it, I thus hope to finish editing this literary creation.

One sees, however, that the rules can be bent to include people impoverished by natural

causes; in fact such cases are becoming the majority. The side effect of chemical pollution on

diminished capabilities of the natural brain functions, scientific discovery that makes it

possible to replace the inner workings of the body and mind, moving nature faster than is

remotely possible, and etcetera, this higher intelligence results in global dysfunction. The

Kantian image of a perfect being mandates decimation of imperfection. In certain regions of

the world, girls are sacrificed because of cultural ramifications about male ascendancy. The

SCRUB societies perpetuate genocide as an aspect of ethnic cleansing wherein they'll

eliminate groups of millions who they consider defective, or whom refuse to adhere to any

ideology other than their own traditional views of ethical mysticism.

All I really want to do is offer comfort and companionship to someone who cares enough

to understand me. You'll get your head back together, dude, I encourage myself, except for

the pressure throbbing within the temporal lobe of my brain. Though I shall forget not and

remember that I can't escape myself, the most sophisticated knowledge is the game played to

scoff at the pretense of sanity. The most fashionable elite aristocrat would like; at the wave of

his hand, or the slightest grimace, and even a look of his eyes to communicate his thoughts

without the utterance of a verbal sound, have faith he or she communicate companionship!

I can't number the thousands of times I've thrust forth in an effort to puncture time

encompassed by a bubble of paranoia. The dive into subterranean water can hurt my ears;

only creatures of the depth are sensitized to sound that is seemingly absent. Is it not because a

turtle plays therein, and is certainly not motionless? Where there is movement the vibrations

create percussion, but it's the rhythm of peace, only people call it silence. I thus learned a

lesson in the of life's challenges, not to go for it all at once; stay shallow until I increase my

tolerance for depth. Motion is the universal language and it all returns to the silence.

Don't be taken aback by neurological disturbance or seemingly unnatural adjustment to

social pressure in the maniacal blunderings rampant in our living environment. The very

precious secret to be revealed is, that, if there's a sink full of dishes to be washed, meat frying

to a crisp while the electronic mail box is full of viral trash; nothing will sort itself out;

intelligence is to no avail. One must rouse the simplest of motion, a movement of his baby

finger and the servants are sent ever so loftily to perform chores to restore calm. Life is but

motion, gravity, and silence. We can establish harmony with forces of existence upon which we avail ourselves purposefully.

Every action is an exertion potential energy and becomes kinetic in silence. There is no

need to think about this because I'm searching for the pathways that lead through my youth,

and these intellectual quips only are meant to serve as road signs to restore my confidence that

my regression is headed in the right direction. Waveforms or patterns of energy communicate

far more than words. All matters matter. Words are useless for beings that can't express

themselves adequately using nuances and body language. Humankind is the only species not competent to express themselves in real time, we are beings of the past, or future.

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Nobody laughs at me in Rose Cavern; I've tired of dragging my head through the steel mill,

and it's enough for me to lay restive, adorned in the Pom-hat that Babushka knitted especially

for me. Hey man, they think they can restructure our brains. It's not intelligence, which

distinguishes mankind; multimedia awareness has extinguished ubiquitous control over the

world's resources. I wade backwards through the muck of the "have-nots" while my head is

gyros' coping, and my soul spiraling in a wild spin through time space. I'm trying to focus but

my memory is wobbling too much. Maybe there is such a thing as past life, unbeknown to me.

Now it becomes clear how the modern child progress from a human infancy towards

becoming a digital configuration on the main board of electronic techno-industrial society.

The most precious memory that a child retains is that of being carried and fed within the

womb, next to the source of warmth and the rhythmic song of creation, ergo the heartbeat.

The reality of the soul's inhabitance in the body is a situation that creates the need for bodily

contact between members of our species; facilitated by the warm caresses, sitting in close

proximity, exercise, and singing and dancing with our companions as we bravely encounter and endure the stresses of life.

Man's situation is the least secure of all the elements in creation, though his brain is

capacitated in a particular way that enables him great consternation coupled with a dexterity

and unique perceptive endowment. When the ledger is balanced, we come out much more

barbaric on the phylogenic level than any other creature. Man's destructive propensity goes

hand in hand with an insecurity complex. This behavior manifests itself in trying to achieve

immediacy in his mastery over the entire world. The only way truly to fulfill our mission is to

engage our strengths and talents in combination with those of the other species in an effort to

sustain the globe at its optimal level of pure functionality!

Chapter V: I Was Graduated Me

To author a book requires of me the imperative to follow some kind of chronological

progression. My teenage years can best be characterized by my eagerness to stretch my

muscles; to prove to myself that I was independent, could do what I wanted, flay disrespect

for authority, and get away with anything. I was always too active to subscribe to any

authority that demanded obedience and conformity; I think I'm what they call today "hyper."

When I went to college, my insecurity and destructive tendencies accompanied me. Had I

pursued my druthers I would have enrolled at the state college in downtown Detroit. Had I

listened to my better discernment, I would have enrolled at to the college with the best academic environment. I enrolled in what was said to be a "beer college."

Cooked in the melting pot of annihilation the college that seemed most attractive was the

party-school. As I screen the playback of my mind's recollection, the reader can get a

simulated review of the external facade with which the SCRUB distract themselves from

pangs of their consciences, and wild things done to avoid cognition of the desperate loneliness

and fear that haunts them. SCRUB (Society's Community of Unjust Barracudas), for the

information of "Third" World citizens of the disheveled universe, are people to whom I've

referred as Northern Caucasian, and by others as Illuminati (in the California groves planning

the escapades that increase their share of the world's resources). Their fables of evolution and

natural selection are weaved into the fabric of the obligatory education they impose on the

masses as part of the process of getting people to acquiesce to maltreatment.

There are those who suggest the science of the mind as formulated in the studies of Freud,

ergo awareness of the unconscious impulses, has led to the exploitation of the masses. This

assertion ignores mankind's historical abusive of the weak, and the fact that all the writings of

religious traditions warn against unethical inclinations of the spirit. A bizarre combination of

events took place in the twentieth century, one being the transfers of Occidental human

populations from agrarian communities into urban societies. In these circumstances, people no

longer had parents or family to guide or support them, poverty and illness were rampant;

greed and violence ruled. It was impossible to act conscionable toward masses of people, and

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apathy towards one fellow was the only defense with which one could guard his life and possessions.

What developed into enlightened despotism as characterized the Presidency of Hoover in

the 1920's, is an economic outcome of a few moneyed people having sway over masses that

had nobody to protect them. By forming coalitions amongst themselves; buying one another’s

products, investment in production and manufacture, advertising, services and control of the

media (radio, newspapers, and written publications) the SCRUB simply saw fit to engineer

consent of, by, and for the masses concentrated in close proximity; to take control of people’s

minds. It’s a very ponderable entity, to whither the mind of the urban dweller will stray, but to

think he’ll achieve the independence of responsibility for his thoughts and behavior is flight of fancy.

It just so happens, I’m one of the birds in the flock of those winging those skies. I recall

my flight from the folly of my high school gradations, dragging at high speeds towards

college town, an opportunity my parents had been singularly motivated to see that their

children would achieve. The second hand smoke from a joint was a ring around the neck of

the most sophisticated "sub"(urban)-Detroiters who resisted the draft and put the nix on

greedy and aggressive SCRUB mannerism. The centrifugal swirl of electrons and antigravity

intra-pulses rambling around my brain, and disestablishment anti- authoritarianism vibes spun

me to grandiose astral loftiness and heights a great distance above socio-economic conscription to authority.

In a world where anarchy rules, there are no strange occurrences, and that a certain group

may strive to gain dictatorial authority over the entire planet might even seem feasible. People

who fear being found out for what they can claim no rightful possession want to deflate

awareness of the situation. In order to understand things to which one has not become

accustomed, one must have an indelible impression of the truth inscribed within his

conscience. The trick is to accept a realm of the impression where motion is measurable and

as such, I can relate to it, but when non-extant I am silence. Now, we might say that each truth

applies to its own setting and we'll continue to go in circles around a world in which anarchy rules.

I have a basic concern for humanity and the creatures of the world, it sometimes is so

painful that I can't imagine how to endure another minute, but that is the stratagem of the

Northern Caucasian, who pressure intellectuals to self-repress into death. When faced with a

problem of such enormity that one feels helpless, the best way to overcome it is by

dramatizing the slightest expression of resistance of feeling overcome and perform an action

of the smallest dimension that might be helpful. Writing this book is at least an expression: "To be, I am." It's a way of leaving a mark on eternity that gives me a feeling I've been here.

I rebelled against the system because I could no longer stomach SCRUB evil thrills of

sucking out all the resources from the earth; mineral, vegetation, animal, and human life, until

nothing remained. They are masters of the consumer madness in a game called World

Calamity in which multitudes face death and extinction, complicated stipulations,

bureaucratic manipulation, defecation, and faulty inconsideration. At least I wouldn't be a

player; at best, I'd defeat them at their own game. I was relieved to learn that there's no fire

under the frying pan. Sometimes I am fearful of vengeful actions to squelch my iterations but

then I soar bravely like an eagle to avenues of flight never previously witnessed by humanity.

My mind is attuned to sunshine thundering through the stratosphere. I mean, a guy who

grew up in mow the town down (Motown) was nourished on the rock beat rolling his mind

until it was as sharp as a needle being stuck on the record in those old time phonographs. I

gravitated so intensely towards soul warmth, and therefore pursued radical intellectualism;

anti-demagogic movements, spiritual pathways such as Zen Buddhism, and to cultural

affectations of Africa or the Far East. I went on to bigger enterprises such as running an East

Lansing organization to raise money for the Biafran children with distended bellies. I accomplished local fame and traded it in for defeat in a "Rebellious 70's" mayoral contest.

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The Illuminati SCRUB (Society's Community of Unjust Barracudas) degraded all

expressions that criticized war policies of the government by the people, and our persistence

to prevent injustice towards Asian people was labeled revolutionary. They made strenuous

efforts to find college professors to claim that students demonstrating against the war were

insane adherents to political communism. Our communities in America have been swamped

by the floods and torrential storms resultant from materialism pummeling the home life and

causing havoc in our basic emotions. People's external manifestations are so adapted to

dramatic repressions their personage exists within servitude. My own liberal views frighten

me to think of the luxuries I enjoy such as water that flows from the faucets of my dwelling.

The SCRUB sowed virulent hatred into the general society, an arrogant, aggressive, and

abusive attitude towards their counter-culture children, and all foreign populations, be they

Mesopotamia, African, or Asiatic. Their folk were brought up to die for the chance to get their

coats covered with brass medallions; wagging and drooling for a chance to own an

obsolescence facade they had been duped into consuming. The Northern Caucasian SCRUB

usurped the Muslim population by divesting the Ottoman Empire of its authority and pitting

one Mesopotamian ruler against the other while the Occident pumped gas into their guzzlers.

Nowadays, the Arab republics are driven to impose Islamic rule over the Occident, with the

political rulers of Asian countries as their silent partners.

Mining My Mind

My self-imposed exile in Rose Cavern prevents my doing much to rectify any of the issues

I'll address here, but anybody else is welcome to try. I am haunted by memories of my history

of mental instability, not frightened, but more comfortable with an autistic seclusion than a

direct association to humanity. I prefer to talk to my plants and see, touch, or smell the

essence of what they represent, never to debase anyone. The beauty and fragrance from the

petals of roses and peach tree flowers float upon my levels of desensitizing from the self-

degradation that accompanied me through my youth.

The road that led to Rose Cavern is covered with the stumbling blocks I encountered as the

failure on the road to confront the establishment, leading directly to my ultimate withdrawal

therefrom. It might be of interest to the reader if I offer a view of my initiation to college life.

I attended class in my chosen field of interest, that being mathematics, but quickly noticed

that I could pass the examinations without attending lectures. The result, contempt for the

academic persuasion, free time as attendance not required, boredom and happenstance

involvements, and finally a disposition to idleness. I got around the rules requiring first year students to live in a dormitory, and within a year moved into a fraternity house.

The flashback being filmed here depicts me sitting on a roof of a porch that jutted out from

a fraternity house in which I once resided. As mentioned earlier on, I went to a party school so

I could develop my hedonistic tastes, and had set up residence in the fraternity whose

dormitory was this dilapidated building with the aforementioned roof. I had swallowed a pill

of counter culture remedies, and was tripping in the playground of my mind effected by mind-

altering chemicals.

My elder brother was a respected member of the fraternity, and in his senior year when I

started my sophomore year. He too, lived in the frat house, so I relied heavily on him for a

sense of security. No matter where the hallucinations would transport me, I could pretty much

land on my feet as long as my brother was somewhere to be found. I just needed to know

there was somebody around who cared enough about me to let the experience pass. When he

graduated and left that university for marriage and a place in graduate school, all which

remained of his shadow ("and what could be the use of him is more than I can see") were the shooting stars that traversed my parietal lobe.

A friend sitting on the "Frat Jetty" was trying to convince me he was not my brother but at

the age of sixty years old, I can confuse my twenty-year-old son with my brother; reality is

subject to personality delineations. Under the influence of hallucinogens, time is not

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measurable and facial characteristics altered according to the brain warp within the mind. It

was here the passersby's took on the form of letters, and I realized every motion in the world

is a form of secret commiseration with the universe at large. There were those who walked in

the shape of the "f," moving their heads forward and with each stride planting their feet and

then starting over, and those whose motion was constant and flowing like an "s."

I have a great deal of experience with these images since I would later etch the patterns

onto the walls of Rose Cavern. I remembered the faces as those which I had seen from

beneath the bath waters when I opened my eyes to the reality that I was about to put an end to

my life by drowning. Seeing them walk by the Frat Jetty I got the impression they were

laughing at me, which they probably were since I was stoned out of my brain. To preserve my

sanity, I would flash to the inscriptions inside of the tortoise shell, and remembered the statue

of the Indian man that stood guard on the shores of Lake Saint Clair. My vision from Roof

Jetty was an articulation of a face becoming a soul; as the people passed beyond the realm of

my vision only the force of their prescience remained. Thus was clarified my philosophy of

life: Motion Is the Universal Language until It All Returns to Silence; pursuit of sanity is a

waste of time.

Presenting Our Progenitor

There existed this influence in the Jewish society of the modern era, that being that Jewish

people did not want to be identified as such. The whys and wherefore having been previously

discoursed are not at issue here. What does it mean for someone to distance himself from

Jewish tradition? It comes out to be more than not adhering to the strictures of Judaism; it

implies being not Jewish. A person can logically justify his or her decision to drive during

Shabbos, but there remains the ignorance of the proscription, the mitzvah goes unfilled and

the transgression give primacy. Hereto, we are not judging, only describing, defining, and deriving clarifications.

On the maternal side of my family there were many brothers of my grandfather who grew

up together and then raised their families to follow the Laws of Moses. These aunts, uncles,

second cousins, and second cousins once removed were adherents of a frumh Jewish lifestyle,

and kept up the ideas of the way their grandfather (Zadie) had believed about Shabbos,

kashrus, and family purity. They were culturally ostracized by the rest of the family for being

archaic and out of step with the reality of the modern world. Notions of the Judaic authority

from Eastern Europe were under assault from deleterious effects of assimilation, both in

America and Israel. In fact, the founders of the Modern Jewish State detested and despised the role of tradition as pertained to the government of the nation.

On the paternal side of my father was a first generation offspring of people who fled

Europe as a matter of survival. His mother, siblings, cousins and uncles, grandchildren and

parents rode the surf in the Northern Caucasian tides and gave us only an ephemeral cognition

of Jewish origins. Family and community, history and longing for the day of redemption

meant nothing, and variably meant nothing to me; people were strangers in my life unless

they fit into the scheme getting the most out of the one life I had. And of course, that was of

no enduring value to me. They lived far away and any connectivity with them weakened by

distance between them and I.

I have invested no less than twenty years to figure out the force of vectors prevailing upon

my personality and I shall keep the effort alive until I come up with some facts. I explored

traditions in various cultures around the world, and came to a conclusion that all evidence is

disputable. I ended researching my own maturation process, that of a youngster within the

heterosexual framework, growing up in the capitalistic system, and discriminated against by

virtue of my heritage only so much as I adhered to it. Some of these vectors worked in

subliminal parameters, hardly distinguishable. Naturally, rebellion against the Establishment include increasing the proximity to my Jewish heritage.

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As previously hinted to, the notions of feminism had yet to prevail over the thinking of the

Occidental man, abuses of the female femininity was the game plan of heterosexual

interactions. The culture of sexism was an outgrowth of the caveman mentality, and who's to

say the caveman shouldn't have clubbed his wife into submission? The idea portrayed is that

man conquers the female by forceful means and abuses her for his selfish gratification. This

supposed nature of the species, at the early stage of evolution, gains scientific credence, which

in the modern world is known as brainwashing. This manifestation was usurped in every dark

corner and nowadays in the light of the public thoroughfare. Sexual abuse is the harbinger of

nuclear dissolution.

What notions of capitalism can give evidence of the damage to the life and well-being of

the individual? Alcoholism is profitable to those who sell intoxicating beverage; drug

addiction creates a mechanism for the oppression of the underprivileged; profiteering by

pharmaceutical companies where disease is employed as a political weapon; violence and sex

tolls of multimedia racketeering, while every manner of interpersonal aggression, deception,

and corruption are proffered as assertive libertarianism. These ideas are built by disparaging

emotional truths that a person knows from within his spirit; influential people promoted the

Freudian awareness as the threat of unconscious that they would channel into the national

process of production and cosmopolitan consumerism. The superego was ejected out of hand.

These assumptions did not hold up to the test of time because the generation to follow

repudiated their very existence as human beings, as a people bereft of a history or an eye to

the future. Those who had been conscripted to ruthlessness of destroying life and military

exploitations came to the realization that their participation had been unconscionable. One

need only take a cursory vies at the war machinations of the US in Viet Nam, and the hippie

movement that sprout forth like shoots of bamboo reaching heavenwards. This has to do with

the natural fact that only investment of spirit and growth of life can result in feeling of self-

worth. Napalm bombing of cultivated land and civilizations can only bring negative

repercussions to those who were involved in those activities, as is said until they repent.

Fortunately, I had the discretion not to enlist, and became ipso facto a member of the counter

culture.

Now what do you think happened with the establishment entrepreneurs, were they to take

the disruption of capitalist profiteering sitting around poolside's in their leisure chairs? They

reacted fiercely with the power of the law; imposed all affectations of general society upon us;

policies of discrimination were adopted based on attire, intellectual affiliation, and as

pertained to housing. As we withdrew from society, a schema of private interrelationships

liberated by birth control medication came into play, hailed under the title of free love.

Though we were nothings, satisfied just to exist, basic needs for social acceptance and survival influenced my behavior.

I smoked so much grass, swallowed so many mind-altering substances, drank so much

alcohol, patronized so many different women, and wandered homelessly for so many years

that little of my humanity remained intact. From the purview of hindsight, ideological

assertions that aimed for change in the world brought me to the brink of inhuman oblivion.

Yes, I had a savings account and somehow relied on the merciful disposition of my

progenitors and nurturing society to tolerate the insurrection, which they more or less did -

hoping it was just a passing phase. Despite my loyalty to the counter culture, I pressed forth to

earn a baccalaureate from the university against which I had demonstrated and that I considered a lackey of chauvinist repression.

Those who jumped the wheel of running to keep up with the rat race just sat it out alone,

depressed, insecure and thusly targets of anti-oblivion pushers. So how does this translate on a

personal level? Once upon a beam of summer moonlight, during an acid trip, I was at a rock

concert in the northeast. The terrain was hilly like a ski resort, and there was a small body of

water at the heel of the valley. Delusion of grandeur overcame my thinking process into

thinking I was Moses of the Sinai Mountain. In a princely manner, with a sweater draped like

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a royal cloak around my shoulders, I conducted a stroll through the crowds. As I approached,

they made way for me to flow through them as though I was possessed of spiritual greatness. I

kept circulating around, attracted like bugs to where there were lights. I think I was suffering from insomnia, and walked around to avoid the fear of unconscious dream states.

On an earlier acid (Lysergic acid diethylamide) trip back during my college years, having

had become bored sitting by myself; though people usually trip together, not me, I was not

mellow enough to remain still long enough for the chemical to run turbulence and steady its

course. I got on a bus seemingly filled with Afro-American women, at least that's whom my

mind perceived. As I passed through the aisle to stand by the back door, I saw this girl,

Claudette, with whom I had cultivated (I was mad about) an interpersonal relationship. Sitting

amongst the Black American women her white features were glaring out from across the aisle,

and I was freaking and in desperate need to see a familiar face. When I started acting weird

(thinking she might get up if I went to sit next to her); scared of rejection I got off the bus, and

where did I end up? Probably at Arthur's, this really mellow Afro-dude, and he succeeded to bring me down.

I had met Arthur in the nook and cranny where people as he and I were want to be hanging

around. How exactly I befriended him I can't recall, but I typically found Black people to be

people who by keeping their stuff together could project warmth and calm. It seems that no

matter when I decided to pop in on him, I always found him in his dorm room. I guess that

schizophrenia of someone tripping on acid is a relative form of hysteria that can best be

treated by holding up an aura of tranquility. In the inner city where most Black Americans are

seen to reside there must be a propensity of hysterical circumstances and one must simply

learn not to be riled by them. I experienced the same quietude in my childhood relationship to prince G, who was appointed Chief of the Police on his way to the world presidency.

This is another account of when I was tripping on mind-altering substance. The escapade

was more like a jump into a four hundred meter trench than from the frying pan into a fire. I

treated myself to a psychoactive substance. I kept asking myself what could be the connection

between foot and sound, this word starts with "fo," that word with "so." What does that

matter? All matters matter. If we switch the "f" and the "s," we get soot and found. The letters

"f" and "s" are just a curve away from occupying the exact dimensions of space and to an

acidhead that signals paramount significance until adequately explained, as pertains to signals

from air borne creatures hovering above. Experience with these vibes lead me to believe that

the sound of letters are waves of communications passing through time. Their qualitative

force is distinguishable so they can appear as different letters. They come from one point

affixed in space, from a time gone past, and still another having to do with the future, both in

my mind and in my heart.

I made the four hundred meter jump riding bareback on my trusted steed. Saddled in my

bucket seat stallion of modernity (a white Ford Mustang), I had taken the reins of my steering

wheel into my left hand, and in the right I grasped unto the stick shift. Frat jetty I had left

behind in a cloud spinning off screeching rubber. I was off to take a trip through the Midwest,

packing a small vial in my holster. I swallowed the first measure of the map that lay ahead,

and by the time I had reached the horizon, the land was hidden by snow. By then, I had

descended into a discombobulated incapacity.

I was familiar with high-speed highway travel to the extent I could turn on the radio or

open a window to prevent sleep from overtaking me. However, listening to the radio was

impossible because the voices being transmitted were as if people I had known in my past

were trying to exert an influence within my ultra-sensitive mind. Switching stations on the

radio, I found that the disk jockey was addressing me personally, and I could recognize the voice as that of my uncle's, a sophisticated psychiatrist who couldn't stomach me.

Every time I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw two faces and they were exactly alike

except that one was an old man and the other was a teenager. They bade me turn off the radio

and exit from the expressway, so I rode into town with the setting of the sun. I was a star in a

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high school play that had something to do with Gary, Indiana and found myself five years

cruising into town. In those days, it was possible to approach strangers and ask for a place to

sleep, i.e., crash for the night. I found a place to crash and the hosts just left me to my own druthers, so I decided a warm bath might defuse the electric frenzy howling in my head.

Before I knew it, I was submerging myself face up and eyes open, and caught myself a

moment before death drowning therein, galloping towards a deeper slumber than I had

contemplated. I dressed and quickly snuck away from myself, but there was no place left to

go, because I would encompass any place I could be. I mounted my trust steed and quickly

determined that driving my trusty stag was no longer a viable option. I decided to park the car

at the end of a cul-de-sac, on the snow covered front yard of someone's suburban home.

Somehow, I had the fortitude of mind to stick the Pandora's vial under the snow and note

where I hid it.

The police arrived to the scene and I convinced them I had suffered an asthma attack that

had rendered me incapable to drive. I was thinking about the jetty dude, whom whenever I

had felt alone on the Frat jetty came and sat there with me. He identified with me because we

grew up in the same city, and was like me in so many ways. It was almost impossible to come

down from those heights without someone to validate my presence. Shortly thereafter, I was

in the emergency room of a hospital, being told I'm not suffering any of the symptoms of

asthmatic complications. The gig was up but I was suicidal, fifty yards from the goal line, fourth and seven to go, left with no choice but to punt.

The attention of the nurse was diverted by an orderly on the same shift, and when she

came back to the treatment room, I was holding a scissors as if threatening to inflict damage

upon genitals. The fallibility of the human mind demands of us to share every life experience,

my conscience was troubled over the issue of masturbation, a topic I had discussed with my

psychiatrist uncle. People want to be loved for what they are, not for what someone or a

collective force such as society intends them to become. I was hastily incarcerated in the mental ward, but forbidden to leave when the drug wore off. I had done myself in!

I managed somehow to contact my father, and through strenuous efforts of his psychiatrist

brother; the uncle whose voice I heard on the radio, I flew over a cuckoo's nest. I rounded up

my mustang from the towing service, retraced my path to the snow covered front lawn where

I retrieved the vial, and rode out of town. Guess who accompanied me on the journey back to

the Frat jetty, forms of the letter "f" casting the shadow of the letter "s" in my rearview mirror.

Inside my mind, I saw myself as a young man sitting on a rooftop, and finally an elderly

gentleman lying shamelessly in my Rose Cavern. I was looking at a mirror image refracted in

a time warp.

Thump, I'm Stuck In the Exit from An Abyss

Is freaking out on a college campus not about as far as someone can distance himself from

Har Sinai (Jewish tradition)? It is from this perspective that my analysis of my brain's insane

mechanisms can find data to compute. This pattern of existence was not an inevitability, nor is

it a given that anybody faced with high-tension scenarios like mine is going to be forced to

share his sorrow alone. I find it necessary to repeat here, as I have found it necessary to repeat

elsewhere and must repeat repeatedly until I convince myself what a fool I am for thinking I

was traumatized because Babushka dropped me like a crumpled homework lesson that was

debilitated before it was thrown in the trash bin. The social need of a life partner dictates

personal security, but the lack thereof can be dealt with by an appropriate demeanor.

People who protested political oppression and murder; connivance of moneymaking

schemes manufactured by the Northern Caucasian, traded their avaricious pursuits, wealth,

and social status for the goal of supposed self-actualization. Propaganda techniques were just

as effective against the counter culture as they were against the masses. Hundreds of

thousands attended rock concerts, and participated in anti-war demonstrations where they

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slept and lived together in the sparsest of circumstances. This was the illusion of warmth, people seeking human warmth found it in the Peace Movement.

I hitchhiked to, and promulgated demonstrations at the Ivy League schools including Yale

and Harvard University, was arrested in the Oval in Washington D.C., incarcerated in East

Lansing, and again for having made a one-man protest at an International Convention in Saint

Louis. Louis didn't meet me there but my saintly grandfather sprung me loose, it turns out that

his mother-in-law had family there. I did the hokey pokey, turned my self out of sight- out of

mind! He died from the shock of seeing me in jail, but managed to instill in me a belief in my

importance to the Jewish Nation Israel. Death can wreak havoc on the mind. The slightest

word we said to the departed, or didn't do in response to his behest shake up our brain like the perception of colored glass chips prancing through the eyepiece of a kaleidoscope.

At one of the demonstrations in D.C., I refused to enter the courtyard of the Justice

Department like the rest of the demonstrators who gathered in DC to protest the war in Viet

Nam back in 1970. I stood outside the gate holding a candle and encouraging each passerby

with the greeting; "smile, it keeps me warm." Like a salmon, I have swum upstream against

the tide of greed and inequity that to my thinking is unconscionable. I do as much as I can to

repent scenes of untowardly behavior I perpetuated during my youth, having strayed haplessly

into cultural dereliction. Since I'm not a writer, I have endeavored to break my ideas into a

story form and record them in individual sections pertaining to various aspects of my life.

I searched from within and without for the human aspect of remonstrating against the

assembly line mentality of going about business as usual while American soldiers were

perpetuating an incorrigible travesty of international proportions. The sanitary workers at the

University of Michigan went on strike, so I published and distributed my flier: "People are

People," calling on the student populous to demonstrate against the imperialists' abuses

against the university staff. I addressed meeting held by Afro-Americans and supplicated

them to go on strike out of solidarity with the Vietnamese. While distributing a leaflet,

Babushka, of my childhood fantasy accepted one into her hand as she walked past me. I had

imbedded myself in her memory in contrast to the former impressions I had made on her, and could leave my past behind. My voice was silenced, but the strike took place.

The idea was to unite workers, students, bourgeois, dark and Indian, foreign, and

Caucasian people throughout the United States to demand an end to military research on

college campuses, at the expense to the taxpayers who lived in slums, citizens plagued by

inadequate health care, discriminatory education or inequitable distribution of goods and

services. The time I was interred for participating in the DC protest, I tried to organize a

hunger strike. Tender meat like me was raped ferociously in the DC lock-up, so I threatened

I'd turn a broom into a snake if they will not end my imprisonment! I just kept myself as crazy

as could be in order not to be co-opted into the established patterns of existence.

Threats of prisoners molesting me sexually intensified with every passing minute. My only

reprieve from collapse into deranged confusion, was to use a large empty tin can that I

pounded like Indians used drums to communicate while I sat hanging my feet out the bars of a

window; thus, sending messages to forces influenced by the sound of my incessant pounding.

Summoned to a court hearing, and freed five days after my arrest, I can recall seeing the

Princess of the Sunshine (Rebecca) while the hearings were taking place; and still her

memory beckons to me. The Northern Caucasian is not inclined to give up easily, but we'd done our best to protract the struggle.

This princess was a high school student when I ran my campaign for mayor of East

Lansing, Michigan. She was particularly close with a boyfriend and they were a royal couple

of teenage products of a college town. I had first met them when I organized and presided

over an organization called, "Operation Outrage." Young idealistic teenagers expend great

energy for causes they feel promote the ideals to which they adhere, so I was a college guy

who made these things happen. The newspapers all over the world reported the story of a man

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named, only - Mickey, who ran barefoot for the City Hall. The newspaper butted in too much and represented the exact oppression I campaigned against, so I quit the race.

After all the exasperations, I turned my eye inward into the pit of abysmal emptiness. The

only salvation seemed to be religious Judaism and repentance for having been born, or least

for the multiplicity of criminal insults I had perpetuated against loved ones, humanity at large,

and myself. Thirty years later, an adherent to Judaic values, I concentrate my mannerisms to

emulate social practices of the ultra-orthodox whose religious life surprisingly offers security

and freedom. Repeatedly I circled the earth this way and that always ending up within the tumult that consisted of myself. Five decades later, I no longer feel that way about myself.

Chapter VI: Identify Within Yourself

Sometimes I sneak out of Rose Cavern for a timely jump and run barefoot through the

grass and under the peach tree in the hope I can get a little reprieve from efforts to elucidate

the mental meanderings of my brain. It quite often occurs that by the time I get to the

computer I've lost track of my thoughts. Fortunately, I can don my pom-pom and for the

moment, get my head screwed in place. It was made especially for me by the one girl whose

affection I cherished, whose name translates to a headscarf, from the family of hat. A hat can

have many ramifications, h-a-t: as it appears in the words: what, hatchet, chat, that, emphatic

hate, hatched, shatter and mad hatter. This fetish is not always reliable in distracting me from the point at hand but serve to take my mind off a subject preferable not to think about.

She had become my girlfriend when trauma was strung like a cobra around my neck

strangling the life out of me. She emulated a dignity that I had encountered in grandfathers

brothers, which they inherited from my Alta Zadie (great grandfather), as the story has it. In

those days, young girls grew up to become ladies who maintained an aura of respectability

about them. There was a certain way about the image she portrayed, feelings so valuable they

remain forever perceptible in perceptible realms of sight, sound, smell, and touch. Perhaps that needs an explanation, which I shall forthwith offer without hesitation.

A babushka is the old world head covering women wore as an expression of modesty. Just

like a dreidel spins, veers from its course, falls, and then its picked up and spun around,

sometimes the only way to get to the future is by reliving the past until one has had his full of

it. With the knitted Pom-hat on my head, I could spin like a gyroscope that wiggles in

harmony to the universal gravity. It could protect my brains from the seepage of serenity I absorb from the air currents tunneling through the passageways of Rose Cavern.

Thrashing about the chambers wherein the flashbacks are replayed in my brain, I've

learned to control the speed and direction of my memories. I can connect to what I was more

than fifty years ago and from within my Rose Cavern, click off memories on my radio-

propelled typewriter. Is the brain is not a time machine, sort of a perpetual calendar that

allows one to travel back to when an ancestor existed; a person who's being sometime in the

morrow turned out to be me. I look to the present and contemplate whether it ever really is. If you think about it, it has been or will be, but not now.

What's this sight, being filmed in my mind's eye? A great grandfather of mine sails by the

Liberty lady of the New York harbor on his way to the windy Chicago, where things are

untouchable. It's been fifty years (and at the time of this editing more like sixty) since I started

elementary school, and a few score more back, to when my great grandfather arrived to the

shores of Lake Michigan. The story that he came from Europe doesn't jive with the fact he

mined gold in South Africa, but there's a lot of stuff that has degraded into the compost of

days only slightly less long ago than too distant to forget about trying to dig up. True be it,

there's no one to ask anymore, the history of my family is buried in forgetfulness.

The wobbling camera jolts my memory to when I was but a veritable youngster and spent

my summer vacation in Chicago in order to get to know my grandparents, work in their

jewelry store, meet my first cousins, and to give my parents a vacation from me! The

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foolishness of coveting something that I could pilfer drew me to the cash register even under

the watchful eye of my grandmother. Delusion seems to be excessive in my personality, and a

purloin tendency is quite emphatic, as I've previously explained. Desire is the phantom of reason; one must do his best to restrain it.

People would warn me not to bring calamity upon my own head, urge upon me

psychotherapy, and I remain yours truly, trying to figure myself out, hanging ten in the virtual

catacomb of Rose Cavern. A wobble here a wobble there, and I hear a thump on the roof of

my tool shack; the cats think they'll get into my garbage by attacking from the fence above.

They are so adaptive perhaps I should be jealous. Can I survive on garbage? Is the intelligence

of mankind to be lauded for having brought wanton destruction upon nature? Glorious is the feline nature, though I have no affection towards cats.

Peruse the Pursuit

There are rare moments of true friendship, at least for specific procedures that life assigns

to a pair or more of companions. Chump and his reverberation, clicking clack motor vehicles

trammeling our lives forward. Ticking clock, we race around entangled coagulated junctions,

and with lap dupe electronics, are commiserating with inner state of the unconscious. The

dude from the Jetty Roof has dropped in on the cavern man of the never promised him a Rose

Garden, on his way to partake in a lunch break in the nether world. They believe in strings of

parallel dimensions and I say such theories hold about as much substance as the yarn my great

grandmother wound into a ball, so everything's cool. Right on brother, do cliché phrases!

I can dig it is a slang expression that certainly refers to something deep. I mean one has to

dig only if he intends reaching something beneath the surface. Thus, the expression, "dig it,"

means penetrating life challenges, but what comes out of it? Like learn to swimming

underwater "is really cool" if "you can get into it." Fetch a rubber brick from the bottom of a

pool, dive for pearls, or dig your grave while committing existential suicide, that's digity deep, bro. It: Being, time measured by motion through a quantity of space!

The cavern man has detached himself from those who ostracize him, and in insanity

perseveres. What a shame "dig-it" didn't get adapted to a verb form, like facsimile changes to

I faxed, or it was faxed. Maybe we never dug anything enough for it to appear in the adjective

form of "digity" -- a guy would strive to be digity cool, everything he did could become a

digity experience as perceived in the mind of with whomever it was that he was digging

something. The point being that linguistic expressions pave the way to harmonious interrelationships, and van be made up as the situation demands.

This journey through the intellectual labyrinth of an avowed mental case can be read by

anyone who views the inscriptions in Rose Cavern, at its depth, the secret entrance into a

troubled mind. Whether the discussion with a friend on the Frat jetty took place, or was a

figment of my imagination, the impression remains part of my virtual personage. Where a

person is attenuated by the dimensions that occupy the space, on the continuum of time, but

don't refer to anything physical; motion is the universal language, and it all returns to the silence. This thought was gleaned seeing people enter and pass through fields of perception.

Inscribed Black on White

In the northern portion of the Western Hemisphere, a mitten-shaped territory of land is

surrounded by five Great Lakes. The eastern border of the state looks like the thumb shape of

the mitten. I used to play hooky from school and spend an occasional morning in the hollowed

out shell of my turtle friend. The workers cast a blind eye to my presence there, and as time

passed, I learned to use Morse code, and by reflecting sunrays off a mirror communicated

with the sailors out on the harbor. They were always jovial when they docked at the pier.

This lullaby ended in a bad dream when there was an SOS and as a result of my alert

reaction, a tug boat was sent to bring in a ship, which otherwise would have sunk. The news

and TV all carried the story but my homecoming was less than a parade, and I was suspended

from school for one whole day. What I gained most from the visits was that I had established

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an international mirror pal who sent me messages from Canada across the Detroit River. The last word he ever told me was he said he'd be moving away to a new place of residence.

Michigan is divided into two peninsulas and the northern most connects by bridge to

Minnesota at the snout of its eastern border. A snout, because this land mass is similar in

shape to a jackrabbit hopping through Lake Superior. It's unfathomable how Indians survived

the fierce winters living in tepees but this land was their natural habitat. Late at night, souls of

Indians twinkle in the celestial horizons while the cool melody of its wind dances with their

spirits.

How do I know that's the case? I drove through there one wintry night on the way from

East Lansing to where my college buddy lived in Duluth. Each snowflake was as big as a fist

and they kept pounding at the windshield. I joked about bears having the intelligence to

hibernate through the winter, and the next second we were in a ditch. Around the bend, we

found a gas station that was attended by an Indian to whom I addressed the plea for help.

Chuck and I were hippy like longhaired "freaks," but everything was upside down and

even Indians wore their haircut short. He didn't budge, because he was on duty, but he

glanced heavenward, and as I followed the positioning of his eyes I saw the star formation of

the bear I think is called Orion, the significance of which is very important in Indian folklore.

On our own now, I told my friend it would take a bear to get us back on the road, and I

remembered the chains I had purchased for just such emergencies. I can barely recall

wrapping the chains around the tire but we did get the car out of the ditch and continued to continue.

I've raised the question as to how far the culture of materialism can distance a Jewish

individual from Tradition. My visit to Duluth took place during the winter break and for my

friend and his family the visit home was a moment of holiday celebration sprinkled with

intense endearment. I, however, was tripping though hadn't swallowed a drop of acid. The

decorated tree spread forth into an Aladdin's land, where people have multi-faceted auras

around their bodies. Some of the lights are so fantastic; accompanied by musical tweet and

twitters. I was stricken by such remorse for having misplaced my soul into this aversive

environment, and for sure, I felt like a scraggly mutt. I was so paranoid that I desperately summoned salvation in the form of a plane ticket out of there that my father agreed to arrange.

The lens, wobbling haphazardly, zooms in on Rose Cavern and there I am contemplating

the reason I've experienced this flashback. I sense the intensity of these perceptions, but I

force the energy of my thoughts to imagine a flower blooming on the peach tree above my

head. Yes, breath of relaxation and it bears a fruit, maturing patiently and joining the

hundreds of others in the process of becoming converted into a preserves. In the next run of

frames, I see my body standing at the gravesite where my Zadie (paternal grandfather) was

being buried. The Yiddish word for grandfather is Zadie, and for grandmother, Bubbie; their

parents our "alta zadie," and "alta bubbie," but in English we refer to them as great grandparents.

Another spirit was buried at that funeral, the dude who ran for mayor of East Lansing and

graduated Michigan State University, named Mickey! He was a political revolutionary that up

and disappeared, so he'll serve as the main character in the story to follow, but distinguished

in a different literary genre. Now, let me introduce my Zadie whose name in Yiddish was

Zalman. We were thirteen grandchildren and referred to him as "Z'Z" for Zadie Zalman. Even

his friends called him "Z'Z" because his last name was Zinger. I stood in great trepidation at

his gravesite. During his last months, I had opened my mind to his dissertations because I

hoped to encounter there a vision of my true source. My soul yearned for the wisdom of his countenance, the acumen of years that ripens in the elderly.

Chapter VII: Just Tell Me

Many people think their honor is dependent on altering the facts of a situation to fit their

concept of what they want to be true. Those of us who find it strenuous to think for ourselves

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adapt to societal apparitions that allow us to exist as distractions from our true bearing in

reality. People are manipulated by corporate coercion, media subversion, and government

perversion and conscripted into an institutional structure by which we define our personal

reality just as the powers to be have pre-ordained it would be. Yet, man claims his intelligence

distinguishes us from animals

What, I'm not like that? Listen up to what became of me the day after the family concluded

the week of mourner's consolation. I was by then a student in a Hebrew Studies Midrasha

(college) and assumed the role of leading the prayer services and saying the mourner's

kaddish. Ho, har; he and I were off to the adventure suggested by my Z'Z, without a word

from me to ask where he was taking me. This would not be so strange if it were a

hallucination, but with a man who had recently died, so either I'll find the way up from this

abyss or be swept into the realm from which none escape. Any person who can smell an odor

in his dreams should be able to fly above the stratospheric heights of an airlines jet. Just the

same, Zadie Zalman presented me an airline ticket on which was recorded the name, Mickey Moshe, and told me to keep a hold of it.

Some people assert that death is about going into the grave, never to return, but rarely

consider that life is a camouflage, and death is reality. We hang unto to the deceased with an

emotional attachment, like me, because I was afraid Zadie was hankering to punish me for

stealing the money from his cash drawer in the jewelry store when I had visited to Chicago

and accompanied my grandmother to work at the jewelry store. We keep them so alive that

we become what they are to us. In this circumstance, however, I was thinking I've raised the wrath of dead Zadie. No, it was not only a guilty conscience, perhaps no more than illusion.

Usually, people traveling on the airlines check-in their baggage and board the plane only

after an excruciating, rigorous, and infuriating frustrating procedure. Check it out man, Zadie

can manage his way through the airport bureaucracy like a river going over hunks of rock and

tree stumps. I tuned in to his humming, only later to learn that this was an ancient spiritual

mantra, "Yedid nefesh..." I bopped along in rhythmic time to the beat as we meandered along

the boarding dock, and streamed forth into our designated seats. Get this man, I'm spacing out on a transatlantic flight to parts unknown in a reality poignant for its impossibility to be true.

I rap my fingers on the window, look around me at other passengers, press my fingers to

my forehead in consternation, and when I cast a peek-a-boo glance at him, see Zadie squint an

eyelid as though still in a state of slumber. No need to explain, the plan is for me to

accompany him on a journey back to our origins and get an idea about our ancestors. Yeah

sure, anything you want Zadie, that'd be great; yeah, we can trip together wherever you want

to take me. It's important that I not get panicky, just stay mellow. This is a trip I'm eager to continue, and if I act up, they'll remove me from the flight.

I remember being told Zadie played violin, and so it was, as I stared out the window I did a

finger retinue as if practicing a piano. Lo and behold, I heard the piece coming out of the air

vents. I was stressed out by the enduring silence, so muttered quietly how the clouds look like

little angels sweeping the skies to clear the route for our passageway. I should be able to read

into the meaning of my heart's frantic pumping, after all, motion is the universal language. My

mind flashes to the scene where Zadie Zalman was laid to rest and still the jet surges forward.

I was somehow serene with respect to these memories, thinking either I've kicked into a

trace effect of psilocybin, or I might have died and underworld demonic forces have dragged

me into the Alley of Oblivion. The Alley of Oblivion exists in a time warp; it's the narrow

passageway between schizophrenia and sheer madness. Irrational emotion is the epitome of

lowliness, where a person feels so alone that he's convinced nobody can reach him, and like a

man about to drown starts thrashing out; he succumbs to erratic motion. Irrational emotion

divided into erratic motion explains the intellectual quotient of the inhuman modern sapiens.

The question arises as to whether an exclusive societal façade of mansions, jewels,

wardrobe, and authoritarianism provides inner satisfaction in life. Let's see, in native cultures

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objects are valued for their functional ability in the process of survival, people form societies

because all humans are too weak and ignorant to survive on an independent basis, but like in

the animal kingdom these people live in harmony with nature. Modern people seek to possess

time as a quantity and are drawn to hoard material substance, like taking pictures on a

vacation or at a wedding instead of living the moment while it's happening. The pictures are needed to stimulate perceptions because the heart is empty of treasured feelings.

The Alley of Oblivion ends in Oblivialand, the world of mansions, office complexes,

paved roads, space exploration, elected officials who entertain themselves at the expense of

taxpayers, universities of strategic war, and the proliferation of fashionable junk and

prefabricated edibles. Masses of people are threatened by disease, hunger, and slavery, while

the global stability of the earth is becoming increasingly endangered. Thus depicted, the world

my father left me, and I would give anything to avoid the thoughts of what I've perceived will

become the fate of the planet, but for now, this flight is high above it all. Thus clarified

moments in time following my presence at the gravesite of Zadie Zalman.

I mean, to me it's clear, so allow me to explain. My Zadie came from a long line of

authentic Jewish scholars, who studied the world (and all it contains) with an eye to improve

and perfect it. In Eastern Europe, Torah scholarship was a highly respected tradition, which

included renowned people who traveled from town to town and spoke in public forums,

sometimes in the town square and sometimes in a house of worship. In my youth, I had been a

gnarly upstart that would laugh when Zadie started telling me about the "times back when."

Everybody called me Mickey because I was a pipsqueak, except the wise neighbor I've

previously mentioned, who called me by a title, "The Micker." Such superlatives are added to

nouns in order to implore a recognition. Zadie ZZ called me Moshe, the Hebrew equivalent of Moses.

He tolerated me though I made fun of him, no, he invested his soul me because of his love

for Judaism; he presaged that I was the only hope that he had that the tradition would live on

in any of his offspring. I am neither in the cemetery, nor interred in Rose Cavern, so I ask why

not enjoy this flight of fantasy. ZZ (Zadie Zalman) has picked Mr. Moshe to accompany him

on an astral traverse of time and space. ZZ swerved his eyes and his glance locked into mine;

hurricane time and I'm spinning at 8.2 negative degrees on the electro-human magnetic scale.

Very briefly, the electric energy coiled around the human soul creates electromagnetic

impulses. ZZ and Mr. Moshe are connected to a flow of eternity and I'm paddling upstream.

Impulses surging in my body pass through the neurons in my brain and stimulate

associations embedded in the life forms my ancestors passed on to me. This is a little off the

subject but scientists have this idea about tracing the electromagnetic currents in genetic

material back to the point of their conjecture on earth prior to this world's inception, just

joking! The point is that ZZ and I are communicating by humagnetism (electromagnetic

telepathy), vibes in the slang. I had to answer his eyes and mustered an affirmative thought on

the matter. Yeah I'm buckled in, rip ready and raring to go.

The non-reply was right on, cool, copasetic. On this flight, I can feel free to think whatever

I want to say. Grinning by gently curling the right side of his upper lip, he gives me to believe

we're exactly where we're supposed to be at this very moment, right on schedule, no

turbulence, uptight out of sight. I don't know whether he bought my soul for the debt that I

owe to the jewelry store and apologized for any animosity he may harbor towards me.

Thinking about my friends and family down there, I glance through the window at Detroit and

see a lonely dude pitching stones on the river! It all returns to the silence.

I have to get a grip on myself; maybe this is the best time to parachute to safety. No way

man, this can't be happening! Okay bro, maybe Zadie is cool, yeah he's right, and people

achieve a feeling of connection by speaking humagnetism from the depths of their heart. He's

answering everything I say in compassionate tones, even jokes as he tells me that life is a

grain of salt. A glimmer in my eyes gave away my great efforts to restrain a smile; our lives

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are like a granules being shaken from a saltshaker passing through a small hole of time. Zadie Zalman has some digity sayings.

A deceased man and I are taking a flight in saltshaker en route to an imaginary destination

with a crew and passengers that, like my Zadie and I, are miniscule cubicles of substance

hurtling through the expanse of eternity. As I got excited, I was drawn to him, I wanted it to

be like old times when I ran to him and he lifted me above his head and then hugged me; I

placed my hand on the arm rest and resumed twitching my fingers as though striking piano

keys. I was starting to get into this flight. Theorists assert that facial gestures and nuance

make up a large percent of what we communicate; nonverbal language is a form of

humagnetism. Energy waves influence the language receptors of those to whom addressed.

Zadie Zalman suggested we talk quietly, or if I wanted, I may stroll around a bit and chose

if I preferred to switch places and sit next to someone else. Oh yeah, Mr. Moshe is supposed

to make this flight next to an unfamiliar ghost! I lay a rap on him about the downfall of

modernity; people don't have any way to unwind, they're always grinding energy and shooting

off sparks that repulse one another, so at least I know what I'm up against seated next to him. I have learned to seclude myself, find silence to be a loyal companion.

Bemused with my vibes Zadie Zalman responded that he too, used to be a loner by nature.

Matriculating the University of Hard Knocks, more than thirty years ago, he has purported a

certain philosophy about life. He had secret service training to thwart the conspiratorial forces

amongst the Arab economy-greasers that want to establish Islamic control over the resources

and the heritage of the entire world. This conversation sounded like echoes within my mind

and I steadily came to the unavoidable conclusion that this is not a death trip. I may yet have some purpose to fulfill concerning the Jewish Nation Israel.

What's Going On

I was frightened and curled my feet under me with my head cozy to ZZ"s shoulder. I

questioned how anybody could bring destruction to the world or significant parts thereof, such

as people, animal and plant life, or the very earth and think only of the luxury and power that

accrues to them. Is violence and self-affliction indicative of the intelligence considered a

particular distinction of being human? The marauding troopers have long deceived man into

thinking it is they, who have the last say.

We dwell in the damp darkness of a prison from which there is little chance of escape.

People hurry to work and neurotically and laboriously pursue cultural agendas aimed to

deprive them of their inherent right to a secure existence. Negative contortions are published

in with the aim to degrade and abuse our humanity, scandalize other people as depraved, and

sway our thinking so we'll crowd into fashion camps while laughing hysterically as we are led to a life of apathy and abandonment.

Writing words that have meaning is not as sophisticated as it seems. Bees have a code of

communication that is preserved from generation to generation, how to locate pollen, gobble

it up without swallowing it, and build infrastructures from nobody's beeswax but their own. If

somebody else comes to benefit they don't find it to their disliking, they just go on producing

and procreating as they have since time eternity. I think their level of intelligence is more to

be praised than that of humankind, it seems evident that we have gone astray from our true

purpose as human beings. Those who have pure instincts to promote increased likelihood of a

harmonious future for the earth and its inhabitants should stay as busy as the bee to do it now.

What can Mr. Moshe do while stuck on a jet flight through the valley of death? I knew that

clouds are formed by accumulation of water but I had never contemplated all the elements

that have to go into cloud formation. I asked Zadie whether electrical storms come from rain

clouds, or whether rain clouds develop because of electrical currents in the atmosphere. This

intellectual carousing seemed the best way to find out whether there was some kind of escape

hatch from such altitudes to wit, I was quite unfamiliar. Rapping was one sure way to come

down from trips, and Zadie knew how to get down.

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Zadie Zalman confidently replied that Hashem (G-d) brings the rains and lightning, and

added that I'm looking at clouds formed by aerographic precipitation, which meant that we

were approaching a mountain range. Then he continues and says he was not brought up

religious, but he always thought one of his sons would say kaddish (the mourner's prayer)

over him, which he verily appreciates that I did. I acted a little weird, as though afraid there

could be a storm; hey, this situation was not connected to anything I had known until now, so

I rattled a little about I here am, or perhaps not myself to be. That's a misquote from Shakespeare.

He starts telling me the Jewish Nation Israel is our ancestral home. Israel is big in the eyes

of the Jewish people but hardly imaginable in the eyes of the world. I thought about how

elephants go somewhere to die, and that made me paranoid. The hush of air from the

ventilator gusted above the silence as live waves from the ocean caress the sands along the

beach; it must be the sound of the jet flying in some kind of time warp. We're right over the

ocean, you know. Don't you think you should fasten your seatbelt? Zadie Zalman pushed a

bag of pretzels towards me, but I was in the mood for something sweet, and maybe I could

have done with something to plug my ears, but I ate the pretzels.

The only thing I disliked more than being shut up in any place for long periods was being

forced to wait in long lines. For whatever reason, the dimensions of this trip were beyond

definition, so I got to thinking about how cool this would be if I ever get to tell someone about

it. Zadie Zalman caught me dangling my legs from where I positioned my knees on the back

of the seat in front of me and suggested I put them down. At that moment, I saw in him a

dignity to which I wish I could like to aspire. He always took notice of any discomfort that he

might cause to another being, his aspiration in life, humility.

I knew very well how to comply with nothing, obey no one, do the opposite of what told;

especially when I was jittery and wanted to draw attention to myself, so I retort that this flight

is worse than a horror movie because the crew and all the passengers are ghosts. He inched

his facial muscles a little to the left and sent a quickie ray of eye light right into my pupils,

that's all. This could have been the first time in my life somebody relied on me to act correctly

of my own volition. It was like panhandling for loose change; I theorized that a quantum of

humagnetism would be useful to tip off the pilot if he needed to make an emergency landing.

I resumed my fetal curl and started fidgeting with the seatbelt, snapping it closed and

reopening it in order to produce a rhythmic click. I could sense that I was losing my grips on

the Micker identification that had made little sense so far. A feeling of remorse came over me,

but then it wasn't sensed as a feeling of sadness; I must be coming down; it's my role in the

movie being screened inside of my brain. ZZ and Mr. Moshe are award-winning actors in the new world premiere, no electronic media and alike to a live drama. I can dig it.

Finally, I notice my breathing is calm; the not to be has become a reality or reality will

become to be only as I accept it as true. This very idea now pervades my thinking and if the

whole world is a stage, I might do well to seize this opportunity and play my role in the script

ZZ is writing. I achieved a new sense of confidence in his demeanor an my mind seemed

elevated to almost new level of consciousness about what I am meant to be, who I'm going to

become, and a positive feeling about the human experience in general.

As Zadie Zalman set his weary neck to the headrest, his forehead revealed depth of

character I had never bothered to notice when he was alive. Zadie started talking about a

young man faced with certain difficulties in life. Like viewing a home movie, I imagined the

scene of neighborhood where I grew up, neighborhood children, the fallen acorns from the

tree in our front yard, and yards behind our houses. I shed a tear of longing to feel part of a

community just the way things were before they paved a highway in the middle of our

neighborhood.

We were a group of youngsters from ten families living on the same street, going to the

same elementary school, and unconcerned with the pressures of life. Each of us had their

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special nature. I was like a lonely little petunia in an onion patch, a rose hidden within a

bundle of thorns; had acclimated to a defense mechanism that kept people distant from

anything of value I might have had to offer. Was I the only one who had absorbed traumatic

impulses? It seems that the most popular amongst us were those whose parents responded

properly, in most circumstances, and as a matter of habit maintained their equanimity. I was not numbered among those lucky few.

What's Above the Crest of the Rainbow

High above the Astral Ocean, Zadie Zalman and I are hurtling forward towards a Judaic

ideal and here I am surfing high above clouds filled by lightning striking out harmoniously in

rhythmic coexistence with the pitter-patter of the rain. I was shaken out of my wits, yet

somehow mustered courage to make the best out of this situation. ZZ anticipated this

predicament; he shows me his shofar (ram's horn), so small that it fits in the palm of his hand.

At his command, it starts spinning remarkably like a gyroscope producing sound of its own power.

This was not something you'd see anywhere else in the world. It successfully took my

mind off the thunderstorm; it is a point of interest that will never leave my awareness

sensitivity consciousness. This shofar was something deep from the same subterranean

ethereal domain from which this whole drama was emerging. Right on ZZ, could you let me

let me have it, for a minute; I'll return it immediately; I just want to see it for a second. Would

I deny myself the joy of a fantasy that seemed capable to surmount all logical conclusion, or

be transformed by a humagnetism penetrating the mysterious object, if I so much as touch it?

I could either hang ten in the shallows, or paddle out to the waves. I wasn't exactly gawking but this shofar defied the laws of gravity.

ZZ knew everything about where I had been, about the Detroit River, the tortoise shell on

the shore of Lake Huron, the Frat jetty, and even Rose Cavern, yet to be. This object

demonstrated itself able to warp space and went miraculously through the air, from the tip of

ZZ's thumb to that of the next, and then he laid it on me. List ten, Mr. Moshe, he tells me,

count to ten every time you want to interrupt me, just listen with your ears wide open and

mouth closed gently shut quiet! Okay I utter soundlessly, the language of the mind is the soul of intercommunication; get the details right for once.

I lay my feet into a yoga posture while both sides of my heart just pour into Zadie's eyes. I

was out of here, and everything came together: education, induction, instruction, production

and dysfunction, the present never more to resent. To be in the simultaneously in the first

person and not at all contained within physical parameters, is a conjugation of being from the

infinitive, "to be," because life and death are indistinguishable; movement has direction only

as a formless implicit of silence. There is no to be in the present, as proven by study of the Hebrew language, humagnetism is our life force and Hashem (G-d) its source.

I figure like this, before my Zadie was old and ailing, we used to get together as often as

possible. Sometimes I had breakfast with him, often would work in the family store, and then

there were the Sundays when the extended nuclear family gathered in his home for dinner. I

was generally not up to visits of a close personal nature, but there were factors that prevailed.

I had sort of brought about his death, and wanted more than anything else I'd ever cared about

to understand what made Zadie tick, and to catch his drift. I had merited being around him in

this flight pattern, and spent a lot of time just staring at him. I'm glad I did because that's why

I'm here with him now, compelled to tell the story I don't believe myself.

Somewhere Around the Corner

You know how children love to exaggerate; for adults to accuse them of lying is a harsh

judgment. Maybe their neural development hasn't reached the stage whereby truth can be

discerned. When a child asserts his ability to do the impossible and tries to convince another

child that he has accomplished his goal, there is simply a less than accurate communication

being expressed. I can't do justice to the moments of that flight with Zadie, but I'm certainly

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going to try, and I don't care if nobody believes it. Strap yourself down in one of the seats

across the aisle and you'll see what a great storyteller a Zadie can be to anybody believes he's

their grandfather.

Zadie's again humming as he did when we went through the airport, "nafshi holas

ahavasacha, my soul pines by reason of its love for You." I knew something is about to occur,

when the jet is already swerving around this mountain range. The summit is encompassed by

a forest and streams, at the foot of the mountain lays an urban settlement. "There it is," I heard

him say the name; but I don't remember the name by which he called it. Anyway, there's the

same village in which he was born and where his great grandfather had lived. No need to look

out the window, the few buildings are blanketed in heavy rain clouds. He had the foresight to admonish me to bring appropriate attire, and I'm not afraid of the rain.

This is a once upon a time incident; there was a village, hidden in the forest of Eastern

Europe, inhabited strictly by Jewish people, and so it had been for close to a thousand years.

Houses constructed of wood were arranged to ensure the privacy of each resident and

supremacy given to the location of the synagogue towards which each entranceway opened.

All Jewish life, inclusive, was centered around the synagogue. Life was like a tunnel of time

and the centrifugal center was the closet in which the Torah scroll was housed, the Aron

Kodesh, the doors of which opened in the direction of Jerusalem towards which the Jewish

People have an ancient yearning.

Zadie Zalman loved to tell stories about Europe before the terrible misfortune that befell

the Jewish people. His idea of the Holocaust was that it was incumbent upon us it know what

preceded and what the value of the Judaic tradition that we should endeavor to reinstate in our

Jewish communities. He neither wished to profit from the monetary compensations to

survivors, nor let those who caused the suffering revel in their memories. The tradition has preserved as long as His story - history - overlaps the present and continues into the future.

He told me many times that I was his favorite grandson because I was given the Hebrew

name Moshe after his father. Even more so, because I used to show an intense concern to

express sensitivity towards him. I didn't just ask him bluffer questions, "How are you," and

not even listen to the answer. I concerned myself to know of what would be of interest to him

to discuss, and participated in the conversation when he told me. His stories kept memories

alive, and through me were to become his connection to eternity. Since we've become friends,

the entanglement of our souls in a purposeful and mutual commitment has to be honored. The

plane swoops down and as I strain my eyes, I see the hustle and bustle of people sloshing hither and tither through the muddy byways.

Boys are dressed in knickers and many children barefoot. The men are wearing baggy and

simple clothes, pants that drag on the sloppy pathways that lead through the town. Laden with

burdens on their back or being carried at their sides, the women's heads are modestly covered

by babushkas, their apparel typical of the underprivileged; everybody seems attired in

formless and colorless clothes. Hats were made by sewing a visor on a piece of cloth, the

means of transportation horse and carriage, handcarts, and the sole of the passersby's feet.

The beautiful carriage around which are gathered a group of dignitaries in suits and top

hats, is guarded by Russian soldiers. Zadie explains that they are on assignment to protect the

officials who are sent to announce the commencement of work on train tracks and the

building of a railroad station near their village. The Jewish population of Kiev would react

adversely to this pronouncement, and sought to involve all the neighboring communities in

this predicament, sending letters by horseback a distance of about fifty kilometers back and

forth. Indigenous legions from those parts caused the imposition of booze, immorality, and incessant dangers to our people.

The environment looked completely different from anything I've ever seen. Men to men,

and women to women approached one another cordially with arms outstretched to greet one

another, with a handshake, a hug, and an exchange of a few cordial words. Not only was the

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life style different because of external factors, but the Yiddish language that people used to communicate had a different soul, the language of interdependence and mutual respect.

When a man interacted with his fellow, they spoke cautiously out of concern not to hurt

someone's feelings; the railway station is a good example. The message carried like a brush

fire, one could almost hear snapping that becomes audible when fresh moist twigs crackle in

the flames. There were suggestions, suspicions, repudiation, and urgings to acquiesce, or

contrarily find ways to oppose government demands. People remained courteous; a singular

decision would bind them all and every opinion was valued and listened to patiently. Of course, it was the rabbinic Beth Din of that would render the final decision.

No one doubted that hard times lay ahead, and since refusal was a distinct possibility, in

which event people were assured of government reprisals, nobody dared engender hard

feelings between the Jewish people themselves. The children were already preparing their

strategy to deceive and defeat the Russian peasants who would be incited to enact pogroms

against them. Zadie commented that children were wont to apologize for being hungry when

they asked his mother if she could give them something to eat, food was scarce.

Neither did he forget his manners if there was no answer in the affirmative; subsistence

was a rare commodity whereas illness was widespread. People needed to grow wheat, harvest

grind, knead, and bake it; bread was their staff of life because it fills the stomach with nutrient

that sustains us. In order to grow wheat, fields had to be plowed and tilled with oxen. Selfish

considerations were an outrage and short lived back then. If there were a moment in the day that one could rest from his labors, he would attend a Talmud lesson in the Beit haMidrash.

The nearest village was many kilometers away and not only was there no such thing as a

bakery, and getting the wheat to the mill by the river a burdensome trip, but there was no

other assurance that one could eat during the blizzards and cold of the long Russian winters.

Either the community produced enough grain to store for the long winters or people starved.

From this point of view, and other economic considerations there was a positive side to the

idea of trains but social factors associated with the same caused a great deal of consternation.

With hindsight, we can see that modernity is not equal to prosperity where it concerns the

Jewish People.

There were so many labors to be performed and from what I understood, even children had

a role in the sustenance of the family as a unit. From the age a child could hold a pail he or

she was sent to bring water from the well, or to spread grain before the fowl. The question is;

how were the boys and girls supposed to get an education if they were involved in so many

chores? Zadie's glasses rested under the bridge of his nose and the eyes above looked at me

with an inquiring glance. Didn't you come for your two-month break from school to work in

my store during the summer, he reminded me? But it's not the same, there was no such thing as a secular education in those times in such places, only the school of hard knocks.

Things were different back then. Because the Jewish people lived in their own

communities, they had little contact with the gentile world, spoke their own language

(Yiddish), maintained their own legal (religious courts) and educational systems (Talmud

Torah for the privileged), and maintained a special communications network, called, "the

Magid" (storyteller). The Magid was a person gifted with eloquent speech, but even more so,

had sterling qualities of spiritual wisdom and commitment to Judaic tradition. As such, he

traveled from town to town and took up his position on the soapbox, arousing the people to

labor faithfully to keep the ways of Torah and to love Hashem (G-d).

In the historic settlements of the Jewish people in Europe, everybody was responsible for

the continued survival of our communities. There were no modern conveniences; not even

plumbing or electricity, everything was done by hand labor and there were few minutes in any

given day when little girls were not occupied, and none of them ever went to school. Their

training all had to do with domestic chores! At some point in time, the situation made it

possible to introduce a network of Beit Yaakov schools and until this very day, girls get an

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outstanding education that enables them to acquire the status of professionals in all secular fields of endeavor while sustaining their ultra-orthodox character.

Wow, I thought, no schools! I took notice how ZZ gently rocks his upper body and head,

deep in contemplation. Things were very different than they are today. People had to trudge

along great distances over the river and through the woods. Yes, even to bring water in

buckets, but the water of rivers was clean enough to drink. We lived in a small town that had

no business places, no post office, and no banks. Families traded things, and whoever had

more, contributed to the well-being of those with less. Jewish people were subject to hate

crimes and knew their survival as a race depended on their interminable independence and

unity.

Today if people want to buy something they call the storeowner while traveling on a bus

and expect their order to be home when they arrive there. They're hyper about their

expectations and the slightest mishap is perceived as somebody's evil intention to cause them

pain. Impatience and arrogance rule the spirits of modern sapiens and destructive tendencies

are the result. People communicate very little because they are not connected physically on any significant plane of existence. The way we speak is erratic and disconcerted.

I dared say to Zadie Z that I didn't like elementary school because children fight from the

minute they alight on the crowded busses until the last child gets home. I was asthmatic and

by nature tried to be gentle and giving, and preferred not to cast my lot amongst the bullies.

Even when we were on school grounds, the bullies didn't let up, but the bus driver had to pay

attention to the road, and there upon they had their heyday. I didn't exactly like hard work,

yet, I yearned for the life Zadie had had as a child. It gives one the feeling of human worth.

As I looked at the ZZ's face, it seemed as though the wrinkles on his forehead blended into

strands of his long white beard. That's cool, I uttered within the reeling chambers of my head,

so now I see him as "father time." I wondered what he thought about me, and I started to think

about the Frat jetty, the deteriorated state to which I had succumbed. I more or less

understood where this flight was taking me.

Apples alongside the Tree Trunk

Zadie loved to talk about his own father (my Alta Zadie), and as he speaks about my great-

grandfather the words are expressed in tones that sound like an orchestra being conducted by

a maestro. The Alta Zadie (great-grandfather) was The Magid of renown throughout Southern

Poland and there was an occasion a Sultan from the Ottoman Empire (Turkey, today) came to

seek his advice. In the entourage, were male and female slaves numbering in the tens and

twenties. Tall and heavyset dark colored men stood there gawking at the locals. Their journey

was extremely difficult and their numbers were rapidly reduced by plague and illness, few returned to Turkey alive.

There were carriages and the imperial carriage was plated with gold trimmings, and had a

curtain of velvet that was colored a deep scarlet. Above the horseman road on a wooden

bench that was polished to such a shine it reflected the rays of the sun. There were covered

wagons that transported foodstuffs, others that carried the water supplies. Aboard one of the

horse drawn wagons was a bathtub made out of shiny brass, about the size of the local

mikvah. The story goes that he threatened to kill Zadie's father because he wouldn't partake of

the meals. He averted the decree reminding the sultan that, he too, wouldn't eat meat that

didn't meet the kashrut standards imposed upon the followers of Islam.

Nobody in our village had ever seen a Muslim before and this visit included such a large

number of people that their continued presence in town was scaring everybody out their wits.

Children were running helter-skelter, women cowering behind potbelly stoves in their

kitchens, and the men folk preparing a line of defense to ward off an attack the best they

would be able. They were cutting branches from tree to form spears, welding iron balls to

attach to truncheons, and sharpening blades for attack knives. The Sultan approached and

requested a meeting with the Magid Moshe. As a confirmation of the peaceful nature of his

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visit, he presented Alta Zadie with a precious treasure, said to have been the shofar with which Joshua brought down the walls of Jericho.

ZZ chuckled as he thought about the welcome of this ornately bedecked Sultan into our

courtyard and hearth; we were very poor, raised our own chickens, and had piles of lumber

stacked inside the house to keep us warm in winter. Even three year olds lugged kindling to

add to the log pile; if children didn't help, Zadie Zalman told me, there would be cold winters

to pay for it. If the harvest would be sparse, the weak would die from hunger. Children helped

to sow seed in the spring and harvest crops in the fall. Everybody really understood the festivals of Pesach, Shavuos, and Sukkos in relation to the agricultural cycles of nature.

My Alta Zadie, continued ZZ, didn't have money to send my brother or me to a religious

teacher (melamed); only very special children received the likes of a religious education in the

village cheder. Each Thursday night, the melamed (teacher) came to our home and taught us

all the Torah we had enough time to learn. We had such fear of him we remembered every

word he taught us for the rest of our lifetime. It also helped to learn in a singsong that was

custom from the very start of learning the Hebrew alphabet. In those times, there were things that had value beyond the scope of human recognition, learning Torah was one of them.

Zadie Zalman's lips tensed as though intending to say something but upon second thought,

kept the words within his mind. It seemed to me, that all he could do was to breathe short

gasps of air, and it was only with quivering lips he finally forced himself to tell me about an

incident. The incident under discussion was the moment my Alta Zadie was forced to make a

reckoning that would change the course of history, for sure, as far as concerned out family!

Only in me could he share this sorrow because it was in I in whom the comfort was invested.

The Alta Zadie was not just a father, he was a man of stature, and just standing at his side

gave one a feeling of security. He was as straight as the trunk of a giant oak and it would've

taken ten men to spread their arms around his breadth. The very shade of his spreading

branches provided a shelter for anybody in his proximity: everybody felt that way in his

presence! It was very difficult for ZZ to describe what my Alta Zadie had gone through, but

that's the reason we were here, so on with the story. Woe to grandchildren that live for the

moment, without knowing their family's past how can they picture their future.

The home in which my Alta Zadie had raised Zadie Zalman (ZZ) was bordered by a turgid

river that had water clean and pure enough to host a multitude of fish, perch, salmon, trout,

bass, and other species which could be sold to the gentiles. It was even possible to catch fish

in the winter by cutting through the ice. Not to mention the fun and games children could play

sliding about with no fear of the ice cracking beneath their feet. In addition, it was fed by

strong currents and therefore provided a very productive enterprise, the community flourmill.

Our family was the proprietor of the mill but in was owned by the community, and its intrinsic value was its purposefulness.

Between the mill, and the family dwelling sat the various store fronts that amounted more

or less to a bunch of tables spread into an open market. Off to the distance stood the majestic

synagogue that had been standing since its inception four generations earlier when built by the

Zadie of his Zadie's Zadie, and his seven brothers: at their own expense! Every plank and

fiber of its being had personal and communal significance, besides the fact it was the only

House of Worship amongst the neighboring villages, and served the congregation as the "court house," and as the "Town Hall."

I didn't know Zadie Zalman came from a big family and asked him how many brothers and

sisters he had had. He informed me for the first time in my life that my great aunt was his twin

sister. She tended the goat and helped the Alta-Bubbie (great-grandmother) churn butter and

make cheese they had prepared from its milk. Many of his older brothers died from the

horrible illness, but life went on despite hardship. In my possession is the letter written by

Alta Zadie archiving the death of his sons, may Hashem have pity. Medical treatment in those times was very sparse and the life expectancy was quite short, about 50 years of age.

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His younger brothers and sisters, who as mentioned gathered eggs, fetched water, fed the

chickens, and gathered twigs, generally kept out of sight and from under foot. Great

grandmother mother would take chickens to a ritual slaughterer (shochet) once a week, and

only then pluck the feathers and salt them. Even the skin was deep fried in schmaltz and

served as a delicacy, called gribenes. When the girls were old enough they helped in the

household duties and care of younger siblings, there was no other instruction and to my

thinking, it is, an unfortunate by-product of modernity that this education is considered antiquated. There is artistic value to creating one's own individualized food consumption.

Zadie also told me they had large fields and a weak old horse, which used to take the crops

into town on the market days. Zadie Zalman reminisces over the fact that from the age of nine

he drove the wagon to marketplace, and there delivered the harvests to an uncle who sold the

ground flour. As I listened to my Zadie, I thought about times I had accompanied my dad to

work, and switched off with him driving long distances between towns. I'd rather not

remember anything about it because he hated everything associated with his work as a traveling salesman. The one thing I benefited was to get an education about life's secrets.

I wanted to impress the Zadie Z so I said something about having liked to attend

synagogue before I was Bar Mitzvah (passed the rite of transfer from childhood to

adolencesnce). I learned in the Mishna (one of the books of the legal codes of Judaism), about

people traveling to the center of town where they would hear the Megillah of Esther for

Purim. I asked him if he remembered me talking about it when he delivered a speech for my

Bar Mitzvah. That's it exactly, my Zadie answered excitedly; you have a good head on your shoulders. It's not by chance we are together on this journey.

I told ZZ that I went one Purim to hear the Megillah. What a raucous we made with our

groggers and shenanagins. In reality, we weren't at all religious but my father felt he wanted

to preserve something of traditions in the way he raised my brother, sister and I. One might

say I was expected survive the exile from Egypt, surviving on matzoh crumbs. We also lit

candles on Chanuka, but the idea of Shabbat was foreign to us. Zadie Zalman wove this saga

well beyond the scope of my imaginative comprehension, and my interest was piqued by the story about the horse Zadie use to drive to marketplace. I have a fetish about horses.

The Horse from the Days Back When

I must have dozed off during the extensive flight, and as I awoke, I sensed again the

"Jericho" shofar (that during the flight had produced a tingling in my hand), and had the

feeling it was making noise imperceptible to my ears, as though the high pitch of a whistle

audible only to dogs. This was a sign; get ready 'cause here comes Zadie Zalman to let the cat

out of the bag. No more insubordinatin' to take account of what it is that he wants me to

know. Besides, according to my estimation the advanced culture of gentiles in the Occident

will have soon done away with Jewish People; co-opted into oblivion unless something is

done to reverse the assimilation.

Something Zadie Z was telling me about a horse; he smirked when he said that, but quickly

tried to cover it up. I had to understand why the smile, so he told me to hold on to my horses.

Yeah, then I wanted to know about the horse that used to drive his wagon to market. He

abjured and reminded me not to let go of the reins until I would understand the theory he was

about to postulate. Culture shock, though it be a pictorial or verbal manifestation, can elicit a

negative reaction and seriously dope the individual who then becomes forced to disguise the

truth from ever-penetrating one's consciousness.

In the Medieval times (and those preceding), populations were divided by caste systems.

There were those who ruled (aristocrats, priests and warriors), and the peasantry which was

further divided into sectors like rungs up and down the socio-economic ladder. Education was

doled out as a privilege, only religious figures, and government officials learned to read and

write, mostly in Latin. The ruling classes enforced obedience with the threat of severe punishment inflicted on anybody who dared stray from the societal standards.

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The Jewish People are not accidentally referred to as the people of the book, many six-

year-olds, and most teenagers knew how to read and write. Not surprisingly, they were

detested for this, especially by the people who could do them the most harm. The

aforementioned priests and kings conspired to denude Jewish people of their religious

practices, to assimilate them in the melting pot found at the end of the rainbow; or enslave them, as did the Egyptians, or destroy them as the Persians had attempted.

The most disastrous result was that Jewish individuals contemplated renegade,

communities lost the ability to bind every thread into a singular fabric, and many strands of

the historical unity were loosened asunder. The outcome as worse anti-Jewish hatred, as

witnessed in the twentieth century Germany, and is presently visible to the discerning eye.

The ripple effect of Jewish people living in general society was exacerbated by the

introduction of ideas that had been heretofore beyond the reach of common people; reading,

writing, arithmetic, human rights, labor forces, political movements, and revolution. As the

masses had become educated, they threatened the prevailing economic order; the moneyed elite sought to usurp their budding knowledge by castigating blame on Jewry.

All the kings' horses and all the kings' men, the cloisters of the priestly and similar patrons

of aristocracy realized that their dominion was giving way to public awareness. Coercive

violations of human rights were responded to forcefully by the masses. Resources were

distributed selectively to quell uprisings, the Humpty Dumpty encasement was shattered and

people learned crafts, professions, and acquired wealth. Jewish philosophy contends that

ethical behavior is an individual responsibility, and with it, goes rights of the individual. We

were blamed for the audacity of the general people to demand their fair share of the world's

resources. A good example is Sigmund Freud who was blamed for sexual promiscuity.

The money-lords used cultural apparitions such as quasi-violent sports, and vulgar

entertainment to deceive people into thinking they were socially sophisticated. Part of this

knowledge war was to separate religion and state, meaning dictators can cloak their heinous

intents beneath the vestments of democracy, but lawfully act like wolves devouring anyone

that demands freedom. Compulsory education, election propaganda, nowadays the threat of a terrorist entity, are all planned out to further reliance on the authorities to make our decisions

The cracks in their skulls allow information to seep out to the wider public. The tobacco,

pharmaceutical, oil, and auto production industries, and sales of weaponry are the way

corporations make profit at our expense. They sway masses to allow them to perpetuate

atrocities, not only at the expense of the public, but also by placing us in debt to the tone of

trillions of dollars. To whom, most likely our alleged enemies, nations who eventually will

come knocking at our door to collect what's due to them, a threat we must avoid, "at all costs."

Critics and dissidents are cruelly repressed for incompliance to demands of the government

officials. Jewish individuals and whole communities were tortured as an example of what

people will be subjected to if they disobey the laws of society. Another example is scenarios

is the witch trials that historians claim were manipulated in order to deprive spinsters of their

property holdings. The stoic grubbers (moneyed elite) pay scientists to invent horrendous

devises to control the food chain, distribution of health, and levels of personal comfort. In

other words, we, the people have become the target; our security threatened by those employed to protect us, diseases are sown amongst us so we'll depend on them for cures.

It is a sad truth that assimilation has had a devastating effect on the Jewish people.

Amongst our numbers are those whom aid the stoic anti-Jewish grubbers. Many are

convinced that by selling out their loyalty to Traditional Israel, the unenlightened as to the

true worth of Torah and mitzvohs, they promote the well-being of society in general. We can't

feel the wool as its being pulled over our eyes. Regarding the power brokers who promise that

no harm will come to the Jewish Nation Israel, let them take a soul count amongst the

generation of "boomers," and cure the riddled loneliness of their disloyalty to anything

Jewish. By absolving ourselves of our significance, we deny the future of our existence.

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The twentieth century offspring of Jewish ancestors are losing the battle for survival;

unaware of the tragic effect assimilation has. The modern Jewish people rarely see the inside

of a synagogue and if they do; it's an institution, with which they don't identify personally.

They pay no dues to the maintenance of a synagogue and see no reason to participate in the

activities therein. Like modern sapiens in all the realms of modernity they seek pleasure for

pleasures sake, can't see what benefit comes to them from their adherence to religious

strictures. Yet, we are being force fed intermarriage, delays and entire lack of nuptial grace,

diminished propagation, broken homes, and emotional instability. The only thing important to

them is the material security to which they have become addicted, Hashem to their relief!

To political lies, they have become accustomed, as though the stench of annihilation to

them an enticing perfume. The Rabbinical leadership of the ninetieth century foresaw all this,

but the movie house, ski resorts; upward mobility in all its forms stole the occidental people's

hearts away from the main things in life. People don't congregate that much in the pursuit of

holiness, and if they are together for some ceremonial function the participate as individuals,

strangers one to the other. The individual is by nature weak and insecure and that's the main

objective targeted by the processes of assimilation, keep the individual weak and dependent.

The Foundations Remain Standing

Back in the old times, our family was a collective of simple people, and a simple life style.

A community consisted of a small synagogue, mutual commitments of time and resources

invested by the community in its maintenance, and mutual help to promote the welfare the

families who surrounded it. It the times, back when it was my Alta Zadie's responsibility to

head the community council, he saw it only as his noble privilege. There was no such thing as

a homeless Jewish wayfarer in our community; our synagogue could easily accommodate

them with accommodations to ensure their safe passage through town.

No one concerned themselves with urban development, changes occurred only very

infrequently. When discussions, like that about the railway station took place, they were

attended by everybody, and all sides of the issue were clarified. No matter what decision

would be concluded by the town's folk, a detailed question would be formulated and

messengers sent to our saintly Rabbi. He was the scion of ancestors whose sagacious ways

and study of Torah had been held in esteem by all the Jewish people in and surrounding ours,

and the neighboring communities. With such responsibility, there comes direct heavenly aid.

That meeting had taken place like about a hundred years prior to my flight itinerary with

Zadie Z. People have the impression that time flies, meaning the present will quickly become

the future. On this flight through a time warp, I can allow myself no such liberty, it has taken

many generations to arrive at the present, but I'm still not sure if I'm here at all. I sense more

than a feeling of empathy for Zadie's family, I mean he's dead and I'm his living continuance: I'm truly and really alive in the sensual realization of my perceptions!

I picture the eight-year-old Alta Zadie driving the horse to market place and can't take my

thoughts anywhere but besides him in the driver seat. I grew up with an obsessive admiration

of horses; somewhere along the line, I earned a medal for my performance in a riding contest.

This flight through time is not only turning out to be the most memorable experience of my

life, it is the inception of everything concerned with my being alive. The ride together with

my Zadie in a horse driven wagon, opened my eyes to the fact that a horse can have a specific purpose for which it has been created, no less than humankind can.

It surprises ZZ to hear me voice my thinking in that way, because it accords with one of

the basic tenets of Judaism. As individuals, we are ninety percent sensitivity to our place in

the larger scheme of things; commanded to relate to every element of creation as having its

intrinsic importance. His story about the horse, an old nag though it was; still it was a vital

part of his family's survival. That fact, connected directly to my personal fascination about

horses, had deeper meaning than appeared on the surface. The old grey mare is a tractor, pick-up truck, and a recreation and transportation vehicle; she'd been imbued with purpose.

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I wanted to know if people in the family would take her for rides, or if it's like the horse,

"Fury," that I read about in a book, which did very special things to help a small boy get out

of difficult situations. The words came out of my mouth and I acknowledged that the horse of

my youthful pursuits involved me in the fiction that increased my feeling of self-worth, but

that places me in a sorry situation of wanting still to fulfill that ideal. Nowadays, people take their children horseback riding as a form of psychotherapy.

Maybe on this trip with Zadie I will arrive to a new awareness about my love for horses,

but certainly, I am developing a consciousness that each particle of creation has a purpose, in

a realm mutually exclusive of pleasure for pleasure's sake. This trip was quite mysterious but

less astonishing than hallucinatory encounters I had experienced using mind altering

substances. The degree to which I felt that there was turbulence along the trajectory of the

flight, it was manifested as an imaginary transformation in neural passageways of my mind;

what I saw is Zadie's hands shaking the reins as waggoneers do in order to urge the horse to

continue the trek forward, like in the modern colloquially, "Keep on trekking."

A Reflection in the Mirror

I was able to connect to my Zadie's past, him being a progeny of the renowned Magid who

had befriended an Ottoman Sultan that had once visited our village. ZZ saw the sultan when

but a toddler. With trepidations, he excitedly told me about the turban of the finest silk and

most enchanting colors. The material of which it was fashioned round about to create an

amazing design, intended to accentuate the enormous and beauteous jewel that shined forth an

almost blinding radiance. ZZ had been driving the horse and wagon on the same dirt road

upon which the sultan made his appearance into the village. To imagine riding next to Zadie Z

was nearly beyond the realm of imaginative creativity! His voice can barely be heard, and like

the bow of a violist, his words reach delicately to the depth of my soul.

He was again humming the nigun tune ("and the world will achieve universal happiness"),

that I had heard as though a form of mumbling when we embarked on the flight. Now,

however, I could hear the whistle of the leaves as the wind caresses the trees, the hush of the

grass as the creeping bugs hop around, and the gush from birds flapping their wings. These

were the sounds from his youth, and they offered a sense of security on his voyage throughout

his long life, like the tones of the lullaby that comforts us in our darkest hour. It is natural to

sing, to emulate the sound of the wide expanse that surrounds us. Humming is the way our soul maintains harmony within the patterns of breath intrinsic to our feelings of security.

I didn't dare ask how it turned out that I would accompany ZZ on this excursion, seeing

that we could end up being faced with the approach of a Ukrainian winter. Snow might cause

displeasure if we'll be here when winter begins, but of course, time is not a factor in the mind

of Zadie Z. Even this jet seems to have met with some inclement weather. But who knows

anymore whether I shall awaken from this mysterious journey into my subconscious. If I'm

here, there must be a reason why Zadie brought me, and anyway, it's a new experience for me

to ride a wagon pulled by a horse. What advantage can accrue to me from being overwrought

and uptight?

I didn't need Zadie Z to explain the significance of his having hauled something by horse

and carriage on market days. After all, the very moment of the sultan's appearance has

remained the folklore of my Zadie's existence until he could pass along the saga to a third

generation. And not only that, but it turns out that simultaneously with these events,

something greater than even that was taking place. The results from the town meeting, that

were sent to our saintly Rabbi for clarification as what to do about plans by the government to

expropriate land for the railroad, had created quite a stir in the court of the Admor.

The message sent by the community leaders had arrived to the great Chassidic Admor, the

revered and pious Rebbe, who through his prayers could persuade Hashem to make miracles

take place. The messenger had returned, out of breath, having run hurriedly as fast as his feet

could carry him, with no moment to rest, hardly a stop to catch his breath. An auspicious was

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approaching, the Rebbe's reply was that he would come and talk to us in person. He, of

course, would speak at a gathering, which would take place in our synagogue, an unbelievable

turn of events. And all this, while the sultan camped with his troops in the tent camp they had, in accordance with Alta Zadie's request, erected outside the village.

This was going to be a very special day as the Rebbe's appearance was a very special

occasion in all the surrounding towns and villages. So it was the Alta Zadie sent ZZ to bring

as many vital supplies he could load on the family wagon. There was little indication of the

snowstorm to come, no weather bulletins; it was possible, but it didn't seem likely. Zadie told

me to take the reins and they felt like silk ribbons in my hands. We traveled along the

riverbank, on the dirt road that yielded willingly to the haste of the horse's maneuvering.

Maybe the horse knew about an impending snowstorm. Being directly dependent on nature,

the animal species are sensitive to delicate fluctuations in the weather.

ZZ told me the tale of when he was a child, about how difficult it is for people and even

animals, to walk in deep snow. In a typical snowstorm, snow can pile up to heights of over a

meter or two. People sometimes have to lift their legs out of the snowdrift by pulling them

with their arms, and you, for sure, can't just stroll through it. As this also applies to the horse,

but in addition, he's got this wagon strapped to his back. I never heard a horse complain,

maybe animals used to this kind of weather, I don't know. It was a surprise to Zadie to be

stuck outside in this kind of weather, but as it's said, there's a purpose for everything under

heaven. People were very much in contact with the elements, the different seasons and so on,

so usually this meant never being caught in a snowstorm.

The storekeeper in the neighboring town filled the order, and when the supplies were

loaded, we started out for the trip home, not knowing that the Admor had passed this way a

couple hours earlier. He was a very humble man and had set out, on foot, in our direction with

implicit faith that someone traveling in his direction would offer him a ride; unwilling to

impose his honor on someone to take him free of charge. The blizzard no one had anticipated covered the ground within minutes, and the cold froze the mud before it turned into slush.

Zadie Zalman was no less serene than the countryside covered in snow, but the threat of

death engulfed him in the nucleus of ferocious winds made visibility infeasible. I was

shivering in my timbers. The only hope was the horse being able to trudge around the last turn

through the forest and stay on the path that led to our home. We were going to have to rely on

its sense of survival. It seemed obvious there was not another living soul traveling during such

a blizzard, and certainly not in the direction that the Admor was walking!

Nobody would have dreamed that the great Admor had left the town on foot, and only

Hashem knew that he had been effectively trapped under a blanket of freezing snow. The

horse was so exhausted it rendered my heart to see him plow forward; the only thing that

could help would be to set boards on the snow in front of the wheels. This was the common

practice when traveling the winter roads in Eastern Europe. We were stuck on a narrow path on which the snow is piled so thick it seems insurmountable.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, ZZ studies the surroundings and contemplates

whether to unhitch the horse. If there were the two strong adults, they would set the boards so

the wheels will hold to the road until they'd make it home. The only thing for me to do was

empathize so deeply that I would materialize in the realm of awareness conscious sensitivity,

to act as if I am the physical being who being there with Zadie Zalman can participate in the

salvation that won't come about unless I'm part of the story.

I glance in the direction of a roadside tree and notice what could have easily been mistaken

as a human figurine, formed by snow and winds. There is little hope for us to survive because

the horse couldn't pull the cart without someone to place boards in front of the wheels while

somebody else holds the reins, and we were both youngsters, comparatively weaklings! I start

up a conversation with the "mystery snowman" that looks like a person holding the Book of

Psalms. Maybe he can offer some advice; maybe talking aloud to myself will help me gather

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my senses. Zadie Zalman is humming one of the Rebbe's nigunim that the Chassidim sang in the synagogue.

I notice what I think is movement in the snowy configuration. The other hand, not

stretched forth as though holding a book, gesticulates the way people summon someone to

come to their aid; or trying to imbue a sense of patience, a modicum of respect, and perchance

the feeling of trust in someone whose attention he wants desperately to attract. The horse

seems aghast in that it snorts and lets out an explosive whiny that demands attention. A glob

of snow fell from the imagined hand of the snow figurine, as it actually moved the slightest

perceptible motion. The next thing, I'm yelling at the "mystery snowman, you're a true to life

person!" Impossible for ZZ to let go of the reins for even a second, I take upon myself to jump from the cart and frantically trudge over there. Now my astral travel has met its destiny.

Like an avalanche from the peak of towering mountain, the snow bursts away and reveals

the body of a live human being. Hysterically, I scream to the person to that he should hurry

aboard the wagon. Zadie Z couldn't stop the cart for a minute because if it lost the momentum

then starting afresh would be impossible. What possibly can I do? I closed my eyes and

prayed feverishly. Immediately thereafter, a living figure was dancing and trancing about in

the middle of the snow-covered forest - as he transcends into the horse drawn cart.

While this jet flight on which I've accompanied my Zadie is easing its way through the

expanse of heaven, I feel Zadie's eyes set into mine. As his eyelids gently lower, the sunshine

settles into the horizon and an overwhelming ecstasy glows forth upon his face. I would have

become feverish if I thought the trip had ended here, but I mustered courage to wait silently.

A whispered tone; we're saved said Zadie as he asks the wayfarer to hold the reins. I would

have preferred to comfort him by lighting a fire and preparing a glass of tea for him to drink,

but if we live, there'll be time for that too.

No sooner, did the reins rest on the Admor's hands then the horse gave a tremendous

harrumph and we two youngsters hastily heaved the wooden boards to the ground, exactly

word for word the way ZZ instructed me. I alighted and place boards on the snow, in front of

the wheels, running back, retrieving and replacing them, slow but sure, homeward bound.

Instinctively, we hear the mysterious driver start singing ecstatically, the "Forest Niggun."

Zadie was fighting for his life but joins in the tune the revered Admor had composed two

generations earlier. The horse "Old Mare" knows we're in a race for life and moves quickly.

As I look around to connect with whom is sitting at the helm with reins in hand; dizziness

overcomes me, I am utterly spellbound. Much of the snow had melted or had been shaken off

his clothes, and as uninitiated as I was to Judaism, I recognized the Admor immediately, and

whisper this into the ear of ZZ. He begs profusely that the Rebbe forgive him for requiring

him to take part in menial labor. To wit: the Admor asks shall we go astray in this blizzard or shall we, together with the horse, all do whatever we can to get to our destination.

The Admor (Rebbe, shlit'a), too, is elated and starts heaping his thanks upon the two of us

and specifically offers praise to Hashem, and for good measure adds that he most certainly

forgives ZZ. We are saving his life, and he ours. As he sings, my heart and soul pour forth the

niggun, as though I too had been raised in those times there in the back woods of Ukraine.

Then I remember this lullaby from when my father used to sing it putting me to bed. Trees

rustle, as the winds seem to harmonize with us. Upon our faces arise smiles; infrared warmth

spreads from the hairs on my head to the fingernails on my toes. Thus reads the saga of "Our

Rebbe, My Zadie, and the Horse."

What's Coming Down

While seeing all these experiences through Zadie's eyes, I identified with him so much that

our personalities merged into one. Had the Micker (me) ever have imagined this flight could

take place; I might have spent a lot more time visiting him in Chicago. It's neither as though

I'm tripping, nor as if this is all happening in a dream state. Without my presence at that point

in the history of the universe I would not be here at the moment, so I start paying attention to

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the way my zadie walks, his facial expressions, and every nuance of speech so I'll keep his memory fresh within me for the rest of my life.

As the jet flight peruses the skies in a forward progress to its destination, Zadie Zalman

continues the narrative remarking firstly of his father's and Alta Bubbe's happiness upon his

miraculous return. The reader shall hear the conversation as it was spoken to me, my empathy

perked as if I was really accompanying Zadie Zalman, and if not exactly true, it's more real

than fiction. Convictions arouse in my soul to do something special with my life, especially

now that Zadie is part of my self-image. The storyline continues with his head hovering back

on the seat cushion and the utterances of his voice floating like the clouds passing alongside

the jet, me spellbound and completely attentive.

The elation of the Zinger family was exceeded only by the exhilaration of people, whom

despite the cold, had gathered in the Beit haChassidim to hear the Rebbe speak. Many of them

had urged my great grandmother to let them into their home (for all the best reasons) to greet

the Admor immediately, but she had barred the door behind the Admor and zadie. She knew

there would be plenty fanfare, but only after she had had the fitting opportunity to offer her

hospitality. Tea never again tasted like that she served to the Rebbe and little ole Zalman

Zinger, as he joined the Admor beside the fireplace in our alta heim (long past home).

Calamity is part of the Jewish tradition and the politics of the railway station alike to many

situations that come up in life. Urban restructuring has long been a weapon against the

residents of various locations that are strengthened by their proximity. Issues addressed by the

ultra-religious (charedi) Jewish people were typically dealt with by gathering in the

synagogue. The long-term effects of this issue would affect Jewish people throughout the Pale

of the Settlement, and the far-sightedness of the Rebbe would give us imminent perspective of

how to deal with it.

The issues at hand required lengthy dissertation by our Rabbonim in order to prepare our

communities for the strategy against calamity: Correcting the erroneous way we observe

Torah and mitzvohs. This approach is applicable when someone takes ill, for instance if an

outstanding member of the religious community is in dire medical straits, the entire

congregation gathers for prayer services after which select Tehilim (psalms) are recited.

Individuals take ill, members of the family and close associate say the pages of Tehilim 119

corresponding to the letters of the name for whom we beseech Hashem to send a speedy and complete recovery.

The present dilemma was so serious, the Admor felt he had to be here to direct us further.

All the villagers and those from neighboring towns were here in the centuries old house of

worship. Seated amongst youngsters on the floor, Zadie Zalman look intently at his father

standing in front of where the Torah scrolls are kept in the Aron haKodesh. He noticed the

woman's gallery and sensed it was filled to capacity. Those who were not in attendance were

either too old or infirm, or little girls babysitting infants. There was a hushed whisper of a

very serious nature. Nobody had an inkling about what the Rebbe would decree. All we

valued in life hanged in the balance of what we would be told to do by the Admor.

Any decision that would be reached was most certainly a crucial point in the history of our

community. People joined together in the synagogue and begin the recitation of Psalms

(Tehilim) in prayer for deliverance. Alta Zadie, ZZ's father, had been saying Tehilim non-stop

in hope that he would again see his eldest son alive. His mistaken impression of the weather

conditions were greeted with attacks on his competence as a community leader. With our

arrival, however, it was clear that the mission had been preordained in heaven; all that

Hashem does is for the good. Each Jewish individual is considered a precious addition to the congregation; the merits of the supplicants influence the expected deliverance.

Alta Zadie is standing in front of the congregation while the Rebbe, shlit 'a was seated next

to the Aron Kodesh. Zadie reveres the Rebbe whom he envisioned as a giant tree whose trunk

leads straight upward to the heights of a mountaintop, whose branches spread from one end of

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the world to the next. The hushed discussions sound like fearsome winds rustling through the

forest. He couldn't help but notice the men with a chain dangling from a vest pocket, from

which they impatiently slid out their golden timepiece, as if to verify the correct time. The Rebbe let everybody prepare; each to his own, until all the gathered had heard him out.

We commenced, as usual, with the Evening prayer services, after which there were

speeches by Torah scholars about the importance of teshuva (repentance). Followed by the

Admor (Rebbe) who stretched his trembling hands towards heaven, and turned to request that

Alta Zadie lead the selichot (behest for forgiveness) prayers recited at critical gatherings of

this sort. The Rebbe's prayers were chanted with the force of a hurricane spinning in whatever

direction would clear the path of any obstacle that could stand in the way of his beloved

Chassidim's survival. The tones of sorrow alarmed us, aroused our fear, and the aggravated

the worst of anybody's anticipation of a beastly terror about to befall us.

The fact a person like an Admor can be sensitive to events yet to come, though not able to

describe them in specific detail is not what people call a lucky guess, it's actually similar to a

scientific assumption based on things he's told or questions so many want him to answer.

Prophecy is sometimes a special intelligence where one extrapolates from past events and

thereby predicts what yet to come. The Admor's singular concern is blazing the path that

would provide the way to escape any evil consequence that could come of the railway station

that will most likely be constructed.

All the time the Rebbe was standing with us, a blissful ecstasy filled the hearts and

chambers of the souls and even the walls and everything contained within the space of this

ancient synagogue. Zadie's mind was wandering to the sight of the Admor sitting in the

carriage while the horse trudges through the snow, how the horse gracefully placed her feet on

the boards. If not for her, this meeting would not be taking place. He was witness to a historic battle between the Old Mare against the Iron Horse. Now the battle was in full swing.

Zadie set glance on Alta Zadie standing by the velvet parochet, which covers the Aron

haKodesh, his head as though supported by his leaning against it. The motions of his hands

and fingers upward and again to the side as though inscribing a message or sketching a map.

Does he think we will be going away from here? Old Mare, what will be with my loyal friend,

she, the trusty steed that saved my life. Old Mare has earned her place in history; but she'll

never have strength to pull a wagon anywhere anymore. If they plan to put her down, Zadie Z convinces himself that he'll run away with her.

Lots of people have idiosyncrasies about animals, or house pets, so they destroy their

spirit by incarcerating them in zoos, safaris, aquariums, and circuses; animal prisons. That

people say they learn about nature is a deception for their cruelty. If people owned a dog it

wasn't so it could learn to perform tricks, it was to express its loyalty to its master by barking

if any threat were to invade the private domain of our dwellings. Cats were maintained based

on the quantity of rodents they captured and devoured. But Old Mare saved his life, and that of the Admor, her is due some kind of special recognition.

Things were different back then; things are so different from the way they were eventually

to become even still a long time ago. Do people in the modern era infuse themselves with

such respect for the lives of their neighbors, let alone the materials of which the synagogues

are built or decorated? Our contributions to our House of Worship; of time and energy, our

strengths and talents, our faith and devotion; it is this lifestyle that gives vibrancy to each

individual in the Jewish community. Our giving of ourselves is the heart and soul that makes

community life tenable. This is the significance of synagogues through the exile of the Jewish

Nation Israel.

The author can appreciate my Alta Zadie Moshe from a perspective of morality that is a

rare quality inculcated through the study of Torah, but the more I see; my vision becomes his

sight, his hearing becomes me listening, and even if I think for myself, he knows everything

going through my mind. Not only that, he has lived personally this saga about the Admor,

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Zadie Zalman, and Old Mare. He has kept the story alive in order to heighten my awareness of the stupid things I had gone through, during my youthful days, with regard to horses.

Of course, this introspection clarified what was behind the spiritual mystery flight on

which I accompanied ZZ. Even supposing that he and I were two independent entities, our

spiritual essence was coordinated to the extent I felt prescience and purposefulness of being

alongside him in the alta shteibel. I sensed the touch of the Admor's fingers on the parochet

(aron drapes) and the delicate touch of congregants on the wood of their armrests, as though

rubbing the love for this place into their memories. People demonstrated such empathy, unity and humility that it was breathtaking to see, the very air exuded an eternal harmony.

As prayers reach their conclusion, the Rebbe starts humming the "Forest Niggun." His

body rocked with impassioned gesticulations, like the light from a candle. Alta uncle, Yaakov,

to whom ZZ would take the crops for sale in the marketplace, stood by the men with the

golden watches. They were somewhat sullen, neither a smile nor a chuckle graced their

demeanor. Out of nowhere, the elderly cobbler approaches close to where they Rebbe stood.

With a ram's horn titled towards the Rebbe so he could hear better. The Admor encouraged him to produce sounds that would heighten people's realization that we faced a serious crisis.

Having done so, his fingers are now tapping on the railing around the bima (the elevated

platform), then he starts singing, and bopping his feet to the resumption of the "Forest

Niggun." The Rebbe takes his hands to dance with him, and the sleepy lion shakes her head

and roars: The blacksmith held each of his apprentices on one arm and danced around the

whole row of benches! The fisherman put each of his twins on one of his shoulders and

shrieks in joyous laughter. Within an instant, the house of worship was enwrapped in the aura

of song and dance that would have to last in the memory, the whole lifetime of those who

experienced it. I am sitting there in a transcendent illusion bound by faith and happiness.

What Goes Around Returns

By way of expressing appreciation towards Zadie Zalman, but wanting to spare him

embarrassment, the Rebbe asked ZZ to join him on the bima. The Admor actually placed his

hand on his head, and blessed him that he'll have a grandson deserving to share namesake of

Alta Zadie, the original Moshe Zinger. Yours truly, the author of this book goes by the name,

Moshe. The fierce undercurrents than ran beneath the troubled waters of those days in Eastern

Europe, would in due time become apparent to all. The anti-Jewish hatred in the nations

where our people had dwelled, ran deeper than the best of reasoning would comprehend, and caused our settlements, as had been intended, to become uninhabitable.

The village clown ran to the bima (the raised platform), and half-drunken, crazily

screamed, somewhat in a prophetic tenor, something about the departure of the last train out

of town. The Admor approached the clown and the world was silent and motionless, you

could have heard a pin drop. As the emotional contagion intensified, however, it was

transformed into a volcanic outpouring of resignation beyond hope. The tears and sighing of

the Rebbe stream forth incessantly and at that desperate moment, the Rebbe, upon his departure, comments that he's enjoyed visiting in this synagogue but will not likely return.

The Admor's visit was not intended to be a jubilant occasion and the atmosphere in this

precious synagogue quickly became downright somber. Alta Zadie had been accused of

wanting to prevent the train in order to retain his prominence, but those who uttered calumny

could now only wish that would be the case. Like people castigate a news reporter about evil

tidings, as though those who pronounce then are to blame, Zadie Z was apprehensive that

people would blame him because he had brought the Rebbe to our village. Under normal conditions, a visit such as this would have been a cause célèbre with amazing fanfare.

Alta Zadie was never selfish about any of his personal attributes or possessions. People

were agitated because he would not voice an opinion in favor of the railway station, they

knew why they wanted it to be built, and projected their ill intentions on him. Their interest

was to earn money, buy clothes, and have luxuries that serve as a means to ephemeral

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pleasures. They were known to have flattered government officials whenever possible, but

they were religious as far as traditional practices. The 100% integrity of Jewish community

life is hard to come by, and can be recalled to memory only once, as far back as Har Sinai.

The Rebbe, shlit'a, had succinctly stated that no one in this community would suffer

regardless of whether or not there would be a railway station. How could that be unless people

packed out and this was the exact notion that nobody wanted to believe. Plans were to be

initiated in due haste, while there was hope they would come to fruition, and it was still

possible to make profitable business transactions. This speech was intended to give the

impression that the Admor was encouraging support for the government. What it really meant

was that the Jewish people would be stripped of their civil rights to own property.

Thoughts of material benefits are significant only in as much as they ensure survival of the

Jewish Nation Israel. Facial expressions and directed glances at specific individuals had

allowed the Rebbe to articulate his stated view as though a humble opinion, and as a tactic to

avoid causing alarm. Secondly, government officials would stay calm, if, and when

everybody would follow his decision. Many cars are connected to a locomotive engine, and

much time often passes before the caboose is seen. Freedom would have to take a back seat to

survival on our next journey into golus (exile).

The Admor had told the people gathered how he had nearly frozen to death; the fact he had

been saved is very symbolic of the matter he had brought to their attention. He later told my

Alta Zadie that he wanted our family to be amongst the very first to follow his implied

instructions. The secluded country style might yield to urban dismay in the Occident or the

lands called Palestine, but the situation could be worse. He reiterated the importance of the

Yidden (Jewish People) to continue the generations until Messiah (moshiach tzedkeynu)

arrives and we rebuild the Great Synagogue (Beis haMikdash)!

That's what life is all about, believing someday there will be a force that will overcome evil

in the world, influencing the selfish so they will be no longer greedy. Tending to affairs of

spirit so the crops will yield harvest, and the individual will live in divine harmony to the

united whole, to the One that is the universe and everything it contains. Maybe the imagined

perception of the Moshiach is given anthropomorphic characteristic just like the scriptures

speaks of the hand of Hashem. Suffering is inherent to human existence in a physical world;

every cultural affiliation believes in a moshiach that is due to appear and rescue their society.

The Rebbe had concentrated mostly on the theme that Jewish People should never feel

comfortable in golus. He also mentioned the good name that the Alta Zadie's community had

made in the eyes of Yidden throughout the world. It was imperative and should be obvious to

all, how willingly we would give up the staid comforts to which we've become habituated, in

order to live in the times of the moshiach. The message was that no matter where the Jewish people (Yidden) live, everybody should be prepare to leave on a moment's notice.

Nobody wanted to hear what the Admor had to say and yet everyone knew the truth. After

his speech, the Admor returned to Alta Zadie's home while all the other people stood around

and discussed what they had heard. Zadie Z wanted to hurry home but the younger children

wanted him to explain how he was even able to get the horse to make the trip. They

complained their horses refused to go out of their barns, and that most of their parents' weren't

even able to dig through the snow in order to feed them.

What was ZZ supposed to tell them, did they have to delay him with this obvious answer?

He blurted out simultaneously with his departure homeward bound that Hashem knew the

Admor was going to need his help, and that of Old Mare! The snows, the journey to town, and

the very fact somebody was chosen for this divine purpose are all examples of Divine

providence (hashgacha proties). Having said that, he turned towards the stables where Old Mare barn is kept, instead of back to our house.

ZZ sat beside the horse and told her what an honor it was that the Admor had mentioned

her efforts as though she were an angel sent by Hashem to save his life. Zadie Z got fidgety

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when she let out a hoarse snort, and almost felt a sense of remorse about the whole mission.

Yes, but the Rebbe had given his special blessing that Zadie Z will have a grandson by the

name Moshe, a person who will grow up to treasure his heritage and the love exemplified by

Alta Zadie, a man who loved and was beloved by all. Is there anything more essential in the

training, which is inculcated into the minds of yiddishe kinder. That certainly would suffice.

We Also Eat Bitter Herbs

The Admor had left it to the townspeople to arrive at the right conclusions, and discussions

went this and that way, hardly a moment of respite. Tradition has it that our community was

amongst the first settlements of Jewish people in the Pale of Settlement, parts of Poland and

White Russia, many generations even before the Rambam was in Spain. In 17th century,

Jewish people dressed and lived just as their ancestors had dressed and lived in the 10th

century. The symbiotic relationship between these communities and the gentile rulers, had

however, been disrupted by revolutions by Polish or Russian peasants. Dissension from

within became more prevalent when ideological divisions spouted, for example with the

inception of Chassidus. Jewish individuals scorn one another; goyim parade the self-hatred.

Deep-rooted causes uprooted and extensively weakened the traditional behavior in the way

Jewish people responded to rabbinical authority. Similar to the discontent, which evolved in

ancient times, a confliction with ritual asceticism motivated many common people to turn a

form of religious exaltation above strict adherence to Talmudic knowledge. The Chassidim

adopted a unique style of apparel, including an oriental kaftan, white undershirt, and knee

breeches that had a resemblance to the High Priest's dress in the Bible. The trousers never

touched the floor, shoes had no buckles or laces, and the sash divided lower from the upper body parts -- all measures of holiness.

The Jewish religious rationalists were strictly critical of notions that could be construed as

pantheism, or the outwardly pious appearance, which was so different from that of the gentile

culture. Alta Zadie was a devout follower of a Chassidic Admor, but he doubted the goyim or

the Misnagedim (those Jewish scholars who opposed new developments in the lifestyle of

Jewish communities) would bring harm upon them. He argued that Chassidim honored

rabbinical legal systems based on the Ten Commandments, and after all, we had lived

peaceably amongst the goyim for almost a thousand years. Why would things change so

drastically?

The question had hardly passed through his lips when my zadie came hurtling through the

door, a loud disturbance close on his heels. The teenage ruffians had wandered drunkenly

along the road leading into our quiet obscured village. At their head, the mayor's son picked

up a stick to chase after the elderly cobbler who was on his way home. During the ruckus, the

child fell into the slush, so the gang verbally accosted people for beating the boy up and

knocking him down. ZZ saw the shock on my father's face and apologized to him, profusely,

for barging in like that.

Alta Zadie grimaced but mustered a smile, and in determining that the cobbler was not

badly hurt, offered praise to Hashem, eyes turned upwards and head bowed to indicate faithful

concurrence with the Rebbe's view of the situation. The Rebbe had alerted our townsfolk to

this possibility, referring to the lost glory of Jewish people who had been exiled from Spain

during the Inquisitions, Hashem yerachaim. It is a wise thing for the Yidden of Eastern

Europe to prepare to leave for other parts of the world. The best my family could hope for was

to get out and find a safe haven in which to start afresh their life.

There was talk of Israel (then called Palestine), Western Europe, or America. The

problems of resettling in Israel had to do with severe economic conditions, and worse yet, the

political systems, which were controlled by anti- Judaists. The tides of assimilation had

brought strange waters to the shores of Jewish settlements; religious families were threatened

by the implications. To a certain degree this consternation had a mysterious consequence of

creating a common denominator between the otherwise infracted camp of the charedi Jewish

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Rabbonim. The Misnagedim and the Chassidim were in the same boat. People should have taken it as a sign, but arguments between them have continued until the present.

We were people of the forest and fields, agricultural in disposition, and the idea of

crowded cities seemed implausible. This decision was not one at which to arrive hastily, as

Zadie Z tells me while the flight on which we're embarking and I dare say, the world since

time immemorial, circle round about the sun. I am invisible, and Micker no longer certain that

I exist. Perhaps I have blended so thoroughly into ZZ's personality I have nullified that fact I

was ever born into existence. Am I truly overhearing the discussion between Alta Zadie and the congregation of citizens who resided a hundred years ago in distant lands?

ZZ consulted Old Mare, to her he could open his heart, still pondering how is she going to

manage with all this? Could Eretz Yisroel (Israel) really be so bad, and if so, wouldn't we find

ourselves amongst the likes of the same gentile people like those from Eastern Europe, if we

go to America? Is there something political, economic, or sociological so harsh that Jewish

people and the rabbinic leaders cannot overcome if they really set their hearts to it? I would

have thought that everybody would jump the bandwagon to Israel. Haven't our people yearned for a Return to Zion since time immemorial?

What can be learned from the series of events, the episode in the woods, the appearance of

the Rebbe in the synagogue? This discussion about leaving here as though it's like going on a

vacation? Poor Old Mare and the fame I enjoy amongst the children far and wide, all for

naught? There must be a connection. Zadie Zalman had been mature enough to think for

himself and understand the deeper meaning of standing there when the bullies attacked the

elderly cobbler; this had been hinted to by presence of, and warnings of the Admor!

It was a rare occasion for the Admor to have visited in someone's home, and yet there he

was seated in the front room, deeply immersed in a religious discussion with Alta Zadie. ZZ,

had of course, learned to sit quietly amongst the adults, so his presence was generally

welcomed. Yes, Zadie Zalman communicates as if by ethereal transference of energy, his

thoughts about his Mr. Moshe, "my favorite and most righteous grandchild." The mind of

Jewish men is like an old wine because they learn Torah day and night all their life, he would

often say. This rare treasure is like a fountain of youth to the elderly. My great grandfather

(my namesake) was a special man, very astute in his Torah learning, just like the generations

that preceded him.

ZZ and his family would not emigrate to Eretz Yisroel; his uncle was dispatched to see if

things could work out for our family in America. This was the family decision, and there

nothing more to be said about it! The community structure was not an immediate issue, only

upon our own plot of land could we do what it's taken generations to accomplish. Obviously,

there would be sparse populations of Jewish people in Northern America. I heard this and

could now see the tip of the iceberg. Our Rebbe knew we could be responsible only for

ourselves, and hoped we would pave the way for others, but group efforts were out of the question.

The stories of what had happened to mitzvah observant families in New York were very

frightening. Assimilation was decimating American Jewry; life there is a parable to a child

from a well-to-do family who's gotten herself pregnant out of wedlock, and then threw the

fetus into a garbage pail instead of performing a Bris Meilah on him. If the Rabbonim had

taken all of us to Eretz Yisroel, how could anyone or anything prevailed over us, but to go one

by one we'd be easy targets in the grist mill of secular authorities that pursued a government

having nothing to do with Halacha (Torah legal ethics). I just couldn't figure it out. It's been a

long tiring day and the right thing to do is to retire for the night.

The morning had arrived when the snows had melted, and the Admor made clear his

intentions to return to his "Chassidic court." Zadie Zalman again blurted out that he wanted to

drive him. Alta Zadie thought it was inappropriate, but the Rebbe would hear nothing of an

official driver; Old Mare was his angel of deliverance, and he insisted that I quickly organize

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the horse and wagon. Only time would prove the wisdom of his decision. I was ecstatic when

I went out to the barn, until I looked at Old Mare's mournful eyes, weakened from years of

exertion. She, however, would not fail us on this holy mission.

I have fond recollections of Old Mare and I can only guess the horse was created to serve

in such a lofty capacity. During our journey to town, the Admor explained to me that G-d

(Hashem) made two covenants (brisim) with our forefather, Abraham (Avrohom Aveinu).

Biblical accounts discuss the circumcision rite (bris) of every Jewish male. The other

covenant (bris) was made by Hashem in order to instruct Avrohom Aveinu to imbue in his children the courage to withstand their exile in a land ruled by a wicked Pharaoh.

What is happening in Europe has been the history of the Jewish people. The unfaltering

emmunah (faithfulness to Hashem) in which we believe, and are practicing until this day,

Avrohom Aveinu passed on to his son Isaac (Yitzhak), and Yitzhak Aveinu to Jacob (Yaakov

Aveinu). His son Joseph (Yosef) kept the faith alive until Moshe Rebeynu brought us to Har

Sinai and we became the Jewish Nation Israel. The rest of the journey to the capitol city of

Eastern Europe of the journey was talk interspersed with the Rebbe's favorite nigunim (tunes), and the patter of the horse's hooves as she danced along the road.

When we arrived to town, he invited me to a cup of tea, and proceeded to buy a loaf of

bread and a small quantity of salt. With the blessings he bestowed upon me, he also told me to

divide the bread and salt amongst the members of our family and tell them to keep it in their

pockets until arriving to our destination. Having returned to the village the horse passed away,

and after we buried it, the family was making hurried arrangements to set up home in yet

another exile. The great uncle had sent a missive informing us of how to get to our new home, to wit we replied with information concerning our itinerary.

With Hashem's help, my uncle and another close relative had managed to start a farm

business in Canada, and we set out join them immediately. Obedient by nature, Alta Zadie

required no more than that to arrange for our departure, hoping that others would follow in his

lead. It was enough to pack "our raw dough over the shoulder," and leave without even a

glance to what we were leaving behind. The Admor had arranged to go to Israel but would

first bring the message to as many other communities as time would allow. Hear my children, the voice of the shofar; sharp and so shrill, to leave this land Hashem doth will.

Things might have been different back then, but human nature has changed little. In the era

described by Zadie Zalman, people had lived in poverty and adhered to customs that provided

them with security and perpetuity in the ultra-Chassidic life style. Many of their descendants

assume the same identification, though clothing styles have changed; the apparel no longer

connects men to the ancient customs of the Cohanim (Priestly tribe). Higher education and

learning a profession is considered a virtue. There is a troubling drawback to the Occidental exile, selfish individualism in the worldview of most Jewish people.

The other side of the picture is bleak, and actually austere. As people become more

isolated, the idea of setting up a home in a community of like-minded people with similar

aspirations is not only an elusive ideal, it is a near impossibility. Over a half-century separates

the mystery flight with ZZ from the home and community in which he developed, and the

environment in which his soul was nurtured. Only after death, it was clear to him that he

benefited nothing from the compromises he made with tradition. It must have required immense efforts for him to reach out and inform me of this vital message.

A ponder full of noodles was cooking in my brain. Did my zadie expect me to carry on the

tradition he had let fall the wayside the length of decades in which he did not reconcile

himself to the family ultra-orthodox lifestyle? Was he laden with guilt that he was trying to

stick unto me? Think as you will from philosophical standpoint, Mr. Moshe, you can't let

yourself end up stuck in this jet, like a page being read in a history book. There must be a way

to collect experiential data, perhaps to arrive at the truth, at least to give it the old college try. Your life lays ahead, what a shame to waste it. Was that not the point of the whole experience.

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An Exile Impossible To Endure

During my flight of fantasy with Zadie Zalman Zinger I kind of took a liking to having

been crowned, Mr. Moshe. Buckled up and sitting somewhat comfortably, I'm no longer

bothered if this flight would never end, when suddenly the jet started diving like a dolphin and

lurked upward in the opposite direction. This was a source of trepidation; a tremendous

aircraft turning on a millimeter of space and in a millisecond, acting like that microbe that

through a process of natural selection would be splitting into two by instantaneous molecular

division. Not to worry, Moshe is bound to stumble upon a new path into his story (history).

On the other hand, I was not so cool with a blatant contradiction in the way Zadie Zalman

turned me on to a tradition that he received, that had been preserved intact for hundreds of

generations, and cast into a melting pot of modernity. Then I considered the established

reality of my existence, too old to live in the home of my parents, and without any form or

structure to my existence. Home was still my mother's house and she identified with life by

identification with a form and structure best referred to as neurotic social climbing. Anything

that somebody else may think was a reflection on her, as though she had no mind of her own.

Where was I and what had become of me? The seemingly waking realization is that I had

been in a state of delirium, I mean; hadn't this happened to Alice in land of wonderment, was

Zadie Zalman a wizard from a parallel land warp? The question arose as to how the

importance of matters he discussed with me could be studied analytically. I mean, how does a

dude converse with heaven if he can't understand the message being transmitted to his

consciousness? The tried and proved system of my identification as Mr. Moshe is filled with

new, incalculable experiential data, perhaps provable as a verifiable reality.

I could make a rational decision to become religious, to study the source of mitzvoh

performance, to learn Torah and practice the customs of those who observe its tenets. If it

works out, good. Does Zadie think that's possible? I can only bring myself to ask him if I'm

really serious, but these ups and downs and twisting around have left me dizzy, no, downright

nauseous, and in a tizzy. I felt a tremendous upheaval within me and was compelled to

regurgitate, not physiologically, but all the stupid things I ever did or thought, and especially

feelings that I can't live with anymore, I can't live if living is with me.

Running down the runway as fast as I can, I'm covered with sweat and dehydrated. I ran

further than the extremes of awareness conscious sensitivity, as if as to outrun the pull of a

black hole. I'm in the shell of the giant tortoise; no, I'm sinking under the Rose Cavern as the

ground opens beneath me. Bolting across the stretch of barren cement with lightning speed,

running faster than the speed of light I could connect to thought waves of time gone by. I 'm

know-where, and Zadie is know-it-all, but I'm not convinced it's true. And I can just imagine

what will be the reaction of my mother if I should awaken within her private domain.

As my speed decreases, I'm swaying slowly and cooing as if possessed by a pigeon-brain;

wings stretched to catch any wind current that furthers its progress. I'm ascending the

driveway at my parents' house, is anybody home? The garage door opens and a woman

approaches her automobile, and stares in my direction to confirm who it is she's looking at. I

walk through the door she's left open upon her frantic return to get my father. I drag myself to

my old room and lay my weary head to rest. I see the hazy image of my father (abba) and

pretend to have succumbed to a deep slumber.

I vaguely hear my mother (eima) emphatically explain to my father (abba) that if I act

crazy, she'll have me commited to a mental asylum. In the blink of an eyelid, I have again

traversed a space warp from the flight that had taken a dolphin leap to an aquarium in which

I'm supposed to jump through the hoop, and chirp so somebody'll throw me a fish. Did his

plane crash, no there was no jet flight and I'm crashing from the hallucinogen, so better do something quickly to get a hold of myself, or I'll wake up in no man's land.

The debate had now turned to whether they could convey to me what the newspapers had

reported about the story of his departure from this world. My parents had thought they could

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leave me at the cemetery to bid him ado, and that I could have made it home on my own

recognizance. Apparently, I had fainted and remained prostrate on the freshly dug burial site,

seeing that I was covered in dirt when I arrived home. Oh yeah, mother is beside herself,

everybody is going to know anyway and how will they ever live it down. The newspapers felt

it was their duty to report how moved a certain grandson had been.

I did the only thing I was able to give them and started crying, but I would do nothing

more until I've purged myself of the drugs, alcohol, and any other poison polluting my

circulatory system. No return to the frat house or retinue of college matriculation. Maybe I

had created a scene; they're saying the police will be here as soon as I'm conscious. The

Houdini within me shall escape and I'll get on with my life; you can do it, man.

I raised my arm an increment and grunted as similarly I could to the sound of Old Mare

snorting and whinnying. Yes, I'm feeling my oats but I ain't cutting no deals with the coppers,

that's for sure! Zadie's smile, I can do it, and my father (abba) starts his profuse apologies,

promising how things will be different from now on. I give him a thumb shake indicative I

holding my own, cooping a moot consciousness. He informs me that he must call the doctor, and thereafter the police may wish to have another talk with me. He's cool. I'm copasetic.

When the physician came, mom (eima) starts probing, expecting to get something out of

me, reminding me that only a day has passed since I've been released from the mental asylum.

I would have sufficed with a squeeze of her hand, and made a failed attempt to have her hug

me, but was ejected into a sleepy tiredness. For a few days, I ate miniscule morsels, "you eat

like a bird," and went jogging in the nighttime (abba in tow like a bodyguard). To avoid

confrontation, I drank whatever eima brought me, just as long as there were no solid

substances in the broth. After three days, I ate soup broth with cooked carrots, celery, green

peppers, garlic, onion, parsley, and the liquid from the soup, just not the chicken.

The police investigation had to do with suspected possession of dangerous substances,

came to nothing quickly, and they left the speechless Mr. Moshe to rot in his own stew. Eima

raised the issue of psychiatric help but abba kept her at bay the while I started to go out in the

mornings, and return to home base; having said neither a word to anyone, nor causing a stir

anywhere except in the neighborhood shul. There I sat and remained for the duration of the

morning religious services, bothering no one. The men seemed happy by my presence in their

midst.

They were elderly, for the most part and during the first week spoke to me as much as to

say, that Saturday is a special prayer day called Shabbos, services will be followed by a

Kiddush; a light treat of wine, a spread of cakes, crackers, salads and fish bits (herring and

lox), and a pleasant social atmosphere. Eima was adamant about me wanting to observe

Shabbos and strictures of kashrus, claiming I would be wearing religious apparel and sporting

payohs (forelocks) within no time at all. She too, apparently, understood something about

religion having grown up in Zadie Zalman's home.

How is it that eima never even as much as alluded to the stories of her grandfather, my

Alta Zadie? Throughout the entirety of my youth, the only thing I had been told about Europe

was that people were starving there and I shouldn't waste food, so we were supposed to finish

everything on our plates. Now, encouraged by the force of a great miracle, I have the

gumption to demand the facts. Eima (mother) is obstinate in her effort to prevent my yearning

for authentic Judaism, lest it cause a revolution in the family's style of life. I took this matter

to heart, and started to formulate plans to beat it out of their house, and rearrange my life!

Consequently, their behavior increased my determination to catch up on the awareness to

which I had become privy during the travel itinerary back to once upon a time. Where then,

shall this journey with Zadie reach its destination? Like a toddler digging for gold in his

backyard sandbox, I understand there is more to this game than meets the eye. A quantum

nugget of information; like tossing a coin in a charity box, eima proclaims that her

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grandfather was a very religious man, and as a result his wife had to support their family. Nobody would marry me unless I made something of myself, earned a good living.

There must be a map to the hidden treasure in the saga of the Admor, my Zadie and Old

Mare. I must now negotiate my presence here and plot my future existence. It seems weird to

realize that I'm alive, I can hardly fathom what death is anymore, but there is some secret to

the functioning of the human mind that can be of value to mankind if I'll only discover what it

is. Query, did Alta Zadie live in a village as I so clearly saw in my mind's eye, I can't even ask

anybody! She couldn't believe how stupid I could be mentioning something about a horse, and I'll never know if Old Mare truly saved an Admor? Oy vay!

To say my abba was disappointed with me is an understatement, so eager was he that I

make magna cum laude in mathematics. It's quite obvious that wherever I search within my

nuclear family, little vestige remains of the tradition that has anything to do with Judaism. I

would have to challenge abba with facts and demand that he deny or affirm them. Maybe I

can find something out about the Admor, yet my detective work will have to be very discreet.

The one thing I learned in college was to do academic research, and now my curiosity is perking like a pot of coffee. The men at the synagogue might have answers.

My mother substantiated only one fact, that I was named after Alta Zadie Moshe, claiming

my father is the one who should be telling me the haunting secret about our family heritage.

Aha, I'm on to something. Then it all started! I woke up in the middle of the night dreaming

about a horse being dangled by a rope over an abyss, a bottomless pit. I wanted to wake my

abba but didn't. This issue was not going to be settled in the span of one night. The next

morning I would don tefillin, as the elderly men from the synagogue were encouraging me.

In the meantime, every time I approached my abba all he had to say was that I should

graduate college. It had sunk in that I was not in charge of my fate anymore, and now I have

to pick up the pieces where I left off. I needed to matriculate one course in order to graduate

college, and when I was finally in possession of my diploma, I was glad that I did. The way I

did so was an odyssey of sorts, reported in Chapter I. Instead of just lazing around during the

summer days, I spent time at the local synagogue, studying Torah subjects with a little

rabbinical guidance, and here a there, participating in Shabbat services.

Can't say this made abba to happy, he warned that I couldn't observe Shabbos if I wanted

to get a job, and so it wasn't the diploma after all. No, the diploma was a key to get work other

than being a garbage collector, but I answered I'd like to become a jet pilot and that ended the

discussion for the meantime. Anyway, my becoming religious was at best long shot and a

considerable distance from drug abuse, so he went along with it for the time being. I learned to pray in front of the (tzibur) congregation and said the mourner's prayer for Zadie.

On one occasion, my abba had joined the congregation after I had already gone to the bima

to lead the services, and upon their conclusion, I turned to see his face beaming with pride. He

even joked about it saying he should have given me at least a smattering of a religious

education. He disclosed the fact that his brother had enrolled in a yeshiva (strictly religious

system of education for boys after the age of Bar Mitzvah). His reticence to discuss religion

had faded away; perhaps yearnings in his soul had reawakened. The gentlemen I had befriended let him know that got a lot of pleasure teaching me Torah.

With lines of communication reopened and my predicament leveling out, I turned out to be

of some use to him in his business. He employed me in his work place and sometimes I told

him over the lessons in the Talmud I had been learning in "yeshiva," at the synagogue. I

played squash with him at the Jewish Sports Center, and we batted the ball around on the

tennis court in his condominium complex. I managed my own purchases and meal

preparations so I could maintain at least a minimum adherence to kashrut standards (eating kosher). I re-grew up and shortly thereafter moved out of my parents' home.

I remained employed as an office assistant in my dad's schmata (women's apparel)

business. There were the exhibitions to show his line of dresses to potential buyers and during

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lulls in business activity, we talked together. I felt enough at home with abba to ask if Zadie

Zalman's story had something to do with reality and if it did, why was it me, to whom he had

revealed it. It was as though the horse in my dreams had come to get me out of a disastrous

situation, just like the Old Mare had done for my Zadie. Abba was wont to discuss anything

having to do with horses.

There was more to this story than I could imagine, but people don't control their dreams

and this horse dangling over an abyss with a rope around its neck just kept waking me up. I

was learning that dreams (visions and prophecy) are an intrinsic part of the Judaic tradition,

like Joseph and the sheaves, and Jacob ascending the ladder before him. My abba, the amateur

psychologist, came one night to counsel me shortly before it was time to go to sleep. He

started telling that there's purpose in what the impressions of Zadie Z had left upon me, as

evident form the improvement in my situation. This perked my interest even more.

It's so nice of abba to puts in an effort to create the atmosphere of calm and even if he only

intends to humor me. So then he lays this trip on me how proud he is with regard to my giving

up the libertarian culture of abysmal meaninglessness. Not bad, that's the abyss over which

the horse is dangled, but what's the rope around his neck? ZZ, his father-in-law, had told him

about a diary in which he had preserved the saga of the Admor, Alta Zadie, and Old Mare. The search was on for the hidden treasure, notwithstanding it was within my soul.

I had paid my dues as an office boy so took a winter vacation at a ski resort in the

Laurentian Mountains, at the invitation of a cousin from Montreal. While in the city, I met

with his father, Great Uncle Eliezer. At seventy-five years old, he was still gainfully

employed as a tailor. He had not only participated in many discussions with his father, Alta

Zadie Moshe, but had read his diary when a young man about my age. I paid careful attention

to each word Great Uncle relates. Alta Zadie Moshe Zinger had told him about the family's immigration from Eastern Europe to Canada.

This was almost a true-to-life reenacting of the jet flight with Zadie Zalman, I couldn't

believe my good fortune. Uncle Eliezer hade kept Shabbos, Family Purity and Kashrus

throughout the extent of his life, and renowned for his Torah scholarship. The residual of two

traumatic memories stuck in his brain like sugar from a sweet wine that brings about

hangovers. Both occurred on the ship that had brought our family to America. Zadie Zalman

and he had seen Jewish men throw their tefilin (phylacteries) into the ocean, as though to forsake tradition as if of no further value to them.

It caused him such infuriation he wanted to jump in and retrieve the tefilin. He brought the

matter to the captain, whom he had tried to persuade to turn back. The heartache was so

difficult to bear he went to hide himself in a boiler room, and while he slept so soundly, he

shipmate had locked. The ensuing arguments led to no positive results, and there was no

return to the distance waves left behind the ship's wake. For the remainder of the journey, Alta

Zadie blew his shofar, the ram's horn that was an heirloom in the hands of a Sultan for at least 36 generations. Zadie Zalman had been presumed overboard until the docking of the vessel.

The crew had so much as lowered a life raft into the Atlantic, as a gesture to appease

people so distraught. If the child was meant to live, so Hashem can ensure his safe voyage to

the nearby shoe of New York City. The passengers, all refugees from persecution, could think

only of their safe arrival, and here, in plain view, the Statue of Liberty beckoned. Death was a

frequent visitor to Jewish communities of yore, and despite fatalities, life still went on. Zadie's

family kept their tefilin, and held on to their religious faith that their child still lived.

One in a million was the odds on ZZ being found alive. Whereas a situation like this could

have crushed a non-believer, not my Alta Zadie. There was a blessing from the Admor, which

had yet to reach fulfillment. Motion is the universal language and it all returns to the silence.

He realized he was not aboard a sailboat in which an experienced sailor could make a flying

jive, but with hundreds of people crammed aboard a gigantic cargo ship. Time had not allowed a thorough search in every nook and cranny prior to the ship arriving to port.

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As per their orders from the captain, the ship's crew tended to closing down the ship's

operations, and, of matter of course permitted no one to remain on-board. That's when the

panic really started. It was a long a tedious process of unloading the cargo, tidying up the

equipment and of course closing down the machinery in the boiler room. In the meantime,

Alta Zadie and seven Zinger brothers had done their best to get the authorities riled up; until it

was explained to them, they would be refused immigration if they didn't quiet down. They

realized the virtue of such advice and formed a human gate in order to inspect everybody who debarked.

Certain memories are etched unto a person's soul, like the piece of bread and the salt the

Admor had given each family member to place in his pocket. No matter how hungry he

became, my Zadie refused to eat it. The shipmates, upon entering the boiler room found Zadie

Zalman clutching unto the piece of stale bread. They ridiculed him as though he were stupid

for not eating it while it was still fresh, took it away, and threw in the water. This traumatized

Zadie forever; he lost his last token of his living through the epic of the Admor, Alta Zadie, and Old Mare.

The wall of Zinger men and all those present became a hall of celebrations with people

dancing enthusiastically as Zadie Zalman came ashore. Forced into the throngs of refugees the

family hastened to get through the congestion and into the immigration line. ZZ saw people

kiss the ground but like his father was not favorably impressed by their incursion into this

modern world of Ellis Island and its environs. Legends have it that he threw up, but Great

Uncle thinks he probably spit as an expression of his anger for having the Admor's token of

remembrance taken away from him. Alta Zadie and his tribe were stubborn in their disdain for

America.

The great uncle was there to greet the family, and take them by train as quickly as the

wheels could spin their way out of New York, and thereafter to Canada. A train brought about

the family's exile from our cherished community, and it's still clacking along its tracks taking

the family further into exile. Things back then were very different than they are today. Cars

had been invented only some twenty years earlier, and only very rich people owned them.

One thoroughfare in New York had more people and stores than an entire district in Eastern

Europe. Pandemonium reigned in the crowded streets, covered by pushcarts and horse drawn carriages.

When they arrived in Canada, great uncle took them in a big wagon with strong young

horses to their spacious home. A sort of laughter from Great Uncle Eliezer as he relates how

Zadie Zalman requested to, and was allowed to hold the reins. In light of Zadie's upsetting

experience, it was the consensus opinion that this would calm him down. They went to a farm

located on the outskirts of town where they could supposedly live the same way they had been

living, but there was neither a synagogue or Rabbi, nor a melamed to teach Torah.

My Zadie started to work just like other boys at his age, and shortly after their arrival was

given a job cutting material for a tailor who worked in the center of town. This might sound

like an especially difficult task for a nine-year-old, but one must look at things in perspective.

There were no child labor laws, and children that lived in agricultural communities were

incorporated in the cycle of life just like adults. The family considered themselves fortunate to find an additional source of income, and Zadie Zalman learned a lot about the work of a tailor.

In the sweatshops of the early 20th century, working conditions were difficult, hygiene was

unheard of, and the pay was lousy. ZZ listened to the complaints and the misconceptions of

workers who spoke of the streets in the USA being paved with gold. His parents were not

aware that he was hiding a good portion of his earnings. ZZ was the youngest of his brothers,

at nine years of age very impressionable, and apparently, the absence of religious education

(or systematic education whatsoever) made enough room in his head for it to fill up with all kinds of absurdities. America, after all, was a day's journey and the fare quite reasonable.

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His boss in the tailor shop took a liking to him, and gave my Zadie a great deal of special

treatment. By the time of his Bar Mitzvah, Zadie had saved a tidy sum of money. Alta Zadie

and Alta-Bubbie had no idea that Jewish men could try to persuade a child to do wild things

that would have been inconceivable in the old family settings of Eastern Europe. The workers

from the sweatshop plotted to send ZZ to a businessman in America, convincing Zadie that he

would make a fortune if he would go to work in the United States. At the age of thirteen,

having become a man - he set out on his own, and he was married before he returned to visit.

They also had forewarned him; payohs and using tefilin could result in early death since

the Jewish people across the river would look down on him for observing mitzvahs. One

could say that my Zadie was determined to succeed in his mission, but was too young to

realize the cost would be the Judaic values, which have assured the survival of our Jewish

Nation Israel. The day after a modest Bar Mitzvah celebration, ZZ rode the train to Windsor, Ontario and payed a boat driver to take him across the border into America.

In a very slow, deep, and maudlin voice, Great Uncle declares that Zadie threw his tefilin

into the Detroit River. I remember my uncle gasping for breath as he told me these things; his

lips were so terse that his cheeks welled up. I had never seen such pain in the grimace upon

the face of anyone, and suddenly the story of the pink ping pong ball flashed across the screen

of my memory. He wasn't able to explain how ZZ could have thrown his tefilin in the river. I

answered then and there, I'd start to don tefilin myself. This was a great moment for Uncle Eliezer, to see salvation creep into being as the morning's first rays of sun disperse darkness.

Unbeknown to even himself, abba had suffered a silent stroke causes by an aneurism in the

brain, and never spoke again. Zadie Zalman had returned from the dead. Great Uncle had

shared an invaluable portion of his life for some reason or principle that, on the level of

quantum mechanics, included and was included within the entire universe, by which I am now

identified. I had frivolously exhausted my youth, acting like a class clown thinking people

will recognize this as my human worth. I did nothing to further the interests of my college

project, Political Intellectualism Ecology; life had been for me nothing but a kaleidoscope of

stars swirling against the night sky.

After winter vacation, Abba and I were together for a brief moment in time and never

more. I had worked with him, traveled with him all over the state, and was now doing his job

in the downtown convention hall (alongside the Detroit River), where I would display his

dress line to potential buyers. The circuit is closed; the Detroit River is connected to the lakes

that empty into the Atlantic and circulate from there to our windmill in Eastern Europe. My

family's flight into exile, ad infinitum until I flipped out along the shore where the tortoise

shell was on display, next to the Indian statue. Our goose is being cooked in the melting pot of

assimilation! My jet trip with Zadie has reversed the process and there's hope for the future.

Thus the completion of the first half of this literary creation, the 2nd half now undergoing an artistic editing. Hold on to your hats!