[asteram]

Feb 4, 2009
I haven't been able to load any high-byte pages such as project avalon from the web for days, and I've had to work between 3am and 7am in order to upload anything. Just so you know. Here is an important story that was posted by RML in the comment section at Smoking Mirrors blog today. It appears to have everything to do with what we are discussing here:


I woke up one day in the San Francisco County jail, in an orange outfit, wall-to-wall crammed, surrounded with every vice-drenched, son of Donkey Island bad-guy the nuns spent years warning us about. They were all there. The wise-guy hit man with the greased slick-backed hairdo, the celeb drug-dealer-to-the-rockstars, Mr. Brown (who was black), and the flotsam and jetsam of society, all looking for a weakness… looking for any remnant of purity and innocence so that they could beat the **** out of it.

Contradictory vibrations cannot occupy the same space. There were no oxymoron’s there. No sir. Any part of goodness, any part of gentleness and compassion had long ago disappeared from the mind chatter of this lot.

Most of the inmates were black, and all deferred to Mr. Brown. The white muscle-bound hitman spent his time picking on one of the other whites, some frail soon-to-be-somebody's bitch (or dead). Hit man got bored. You can pretend to dry-hump a pansy for so long and the whole bit gets boring. So what does he do? He comes for me.

Other than Hitman, the pansy and me, the only other white guy left is an old Clint Eastwood type of lifer-on-parole with a titanium aura that no one was going to penetrate. He was paroled. He was on the way out. Period.

New meat, I was. Not a soul in the world could help me out of this. There was no flight, just fight. There I was trapped at the end of the cell-block, on the upper bunk, just above the hole-in-the-floor toilet. I figured that it would be best to take blows from the back, so I rolled over, turned away, and waited for the collision.

The blacks, bored with the pansy's whimpering, were egging Hitman on. "How did I ever get into this ****" mantra played in my head.

This huge hand wrapped around my thigh and squeezed. This was it! Hitman sneered, "What are you gonna do about it, punk? You gonna stick up for your blood over there?"

His hand moved higher. "What are you gonna do, punk?" Everyone in the cellblock was energized, on the verge ...

Without thinking or any warning, these words came out of my mouth, "This is no way for a Pisces to act..." He pulled his hand away. "Pisces don't treat other Pisces this way..."

Silence.

Hitman struggled to figure out what just happened. I couldn't help him; I didn't know either. Inches from my ear, he spoke, "How did you know I was a Pisces? Only my mom knows."

I couldn't let on that I was as dumbfounded as he was. "It's written all over your face."

Nobody did any wooga, any crazy whiteman gris gris in Mr. Brown's cellblock. No sir. Everybody -- even the guards -- demurred to Mr. Brown. You just don't drop bombshells in his space unless he authorized it. That's how it worked.

I rolled over, and sat on the edge of the bunk. Hitman was changed, if only for a minute. Mr. Brown entouraged on over.

"Do you know who I am, boy?" I shook my head, no. "You know Janice Joplin, right? The Dead? The Stones when they're in town ... you know them? I nodded my head this time. "Where do you think they get their stuff, their smack, their H?" Proudly tapping his finger on his chest, "From me. I am the man..."

Affirmative murmurings chorused from all the bros in the cellblock, "Mr. Brown's the man..."

“Do you read charts, boy?” Mr. Brown’s tone slipped into friendly.

I lied, “Yes I do. But I don’t have my ephemeris, my books …”

Mr. Brown, of course, got me the books and materials that I needed to do charts. I spent days doing them for everybody in the block. The guards wanted me to do it for them. I made most of it up. But it rang true. This is how the "edge" works.

Every single one of them had the same question and wanted an answer, "Why in the hell am I in here? How can incarceration be what my life's about?" They were all wounded, some crushed beyond recognition. But they all wanted to know, "Why?" And, to a man, they were seekers – like us, they simply wanted to know who they really were.

All I could come up with was that we are all in a movie; like the movie The Bridge Over the River Kwai. For me, this movie was almost an exact analogy of life on this planet. We arrive with a mission. We forget our mission, and take up the mission of our enemy, even though this new mission is at odds with our original. Not only do we take up this errant mission, we try and excel at it. We try and do it better than our "enemy". We defend our enemy’s project with our all, and then we die.

All of the POWs who worked on the bridge, as well as us watching the film, didn't want the bridge destroyed, but it was. All of the characters we were rooting for were killed, and as a footnote, the only sane one of the bunch, the medical officer, painful surmised as the insanity played out, "Madness. It's all madness."

For the longest time, I couldn’t explain it to anyone (they wouldn’t understand), but I didn’t want to leave the cell block. I didn’t want to leave all that magic behind.
*******

I'll be back with more in a few hours. Love you All.