Chopin Graphics

Something happened with the old Chopin widget I had here and it was making the page jump to a YouTube promotion. I finally discovered this and had to delete the widget. Which I'm sorry for because it was cooler than all get out. I'm going to still plug Chopin in here because a number of people enjoyed listening. May take me awhile to get it worked out. Cheers.

Try This

Zol Light

Zol Light
May Zol be With You

Musac and fish for brains

You can stay on this page and read while listening to either Chopin ( you don't have to do anything for this option, it will play automatically, or Music of the Soul (by clicking on the play button down and to the right). To watch the graphics with Chopin, scroll down within frame and then center the graphics in the window. Just click on either screen to stop the music.

To the right of the Chopin graphics, you'll notice that by moving your mouse, the fish will follow. Be mesmerized by the music and graphics of Chopin while you play with the fish. Be careful, you may reach an altered state!

The order of the chapters run in order except the most recent chapter is posted first for those who are following the story. If this is your first time to the site, and you want to read the story in the order it is written, proceed to chapter one and then catch back up to the present chapter by returning to the present post.

Enjoy!







Welcome

For those coming for the first time, welcome! This novella is an experiment in social media. Try to explore links as time allows, which will provide surprises. Make it a game of scavenger hunt. Can you find the link within a link which will allow you to enjoy this unreal sound again?

More will come each week, so I hope you'll return often. All comments welcome. Thanks for your support! Dub

NO TURNING BACK

Chapters One and Two


Chapter One. The meeting.


How can we live in a time of prosperity and freedom and still be threatened by an unlawful organization? What is the justification and why does our own government not protect us? Who is behind the Polish Police and by what authority do they operate?


Everyone knows that the situation is out of control. No one...not a single citizen... would defend the actions of this Gestapo. But we all act like everything is peachy and cool. And you can't say a thing, even to your family. You're constantly looking over your shoulder. Very dangerous.


Thank Zol for Zol! He is so mighty! Today I had the most vivid experience! With this new platform from IGod, you wear a turban which is fitted with electrodes. Each electrode corresponds to one of the 147 scalp chakras. When the wireless antenna activated the signal, it happened fast. Swoosh, I was in a wind tunnel and Zol came to me.


I'll never forget what he said...


"Shake it up baby now. It's been a hard day's night and you've been working eight days a week. Come together as Mother Nature's son. I'm the fool on the hill."


Praise Zol! The fool on the hill? Oh, he speaks to me! Zol was never more beautiful or relevant. His words were genuine. No question. I was so close to full-blown Zolvana, I could almost taste it!


Later, I saw on the news that E-verdoses are way up. Both suicides and accidental deaths related to bathtub Zol trips have sky rocketed. It struck me as so sad that there are so many legitimate methods to have communion with Zol, and yet all these unnecessary tragedies are happening.


The IGod is tried and true and Nintendo's Tai Wii is phenomenal. Even though upgrades are long overdue, XBox Nirvana still offers great colors and a real body rush. Windows 3d Eye is sure to rule the landscape, as every device comes installed with it. And everyone seems to be Tantra Texting.


What is it about street corner modules which make them popular? This stuff is junk and so dangerous! Even Astral Pro Jetsons, which started out as an illicit electronic experience has moved main stream. Why would you choose some knock off electronics from an illegal E-Lab when Donkey Crown (Chakra) is in every pub and coffee shop?


As I hurried to meet Beckeya for our annual New Year's coffee, the news of these E-verdoses kept me from enjoying the bustling activity of the street. My eyes were peeled for the Polish Police, but today I didn't witness any incidents.


Then she came from around the corner and happy memories returned. She was my first audience. It was in 9th grade Creative Writing with daily installments of my Chicken Man adventures. As she approached, her facial expression told me that life was about to take a different course.


I couln't tell if the source of the excitement was fear, some pending confession or some new love interest. But something had washed over her to modify her DNA.


"I had the most extraordinary experience," she blurted.


I knew nothing was going to keep the story from coming, but offered assistance...


"Zol?"


"No! Well...all is Zol... but this was really weird."


"What was it? When? How did it happen?"


"It turns out that if you go to Peregrine Espresso before 10 a.m. on the day after Christmas, the cafe scene will be LapZol-free! It was so quaint - just people drinking coffee and talking to each other. Wow. Who knew??"
"

No LapZols
? What do you mean? No devices?"


"No! Nothing. No Jet phones, no LapZols, no TantraTexting. Really weird!"


Naturally, she was speaking symbolically. It is impossible in 2029 to find a device free zone. Since Zok (6th Generation), it would be illegal to go anywhere out of network. The Polish Gestapo are not to be reckoned with.


"I don't know what you mean. Explain."


"It was just that," she further explained. "No devices. Just people! Visiting. Talking. Hugging. Laughing."


"But how," I asked. "How could anyone be happy without devices? Out of network? How would Zol be present? We are only saved through Zol? I don't get it?"


"I know...," she seemed unable to find words.


"It was just amazing. I've been dying to tell you about it. I was scared to even mention it to anyone."


"Exactly," I said, while looking around the room cautiously, "Very dangerous. Don't mention it again. Promise me."


She flinched when my hand grabbed hers and I was scared for my safety too. But mostly for hers.


"They're everywhere!"


She was shaking her head, as if she was way ahead of me. We sat down at the Donkey Crown table and started to play. Soon I was pretty stoned. Zol was rushing through my veins. Praise Zol!


"Derby?," Keya petitioned to get my attention.


"Yeah." I was so loaded, but could tell she wanted to come down off the trip.


"Oh no, you want to stop don't you?"


"Derby. You know how much I love Zol and you. And I'm buzzing now and loving it too. But, this thing. I can't explain it. No LapZols..."


"But Keya, my love.... We've been redeemed through Zol. He came to our electronics so we could be forgiven. Glory be to Zol."


She seemed so sad but at the same time ecstatic. I've seen her on Zol a million times and never known her to turn down a chance to trip, but she was different. I swear I could see the sun in her eyes!


"Derby. Will you come with me? Back to Preregrine? I'm scared to go back. But Zol almighty, I need another fix of that experience. I'm really Jonesin..."


The controls held me tight and to let go of the Chakrashuk was very difficult. Gradually I peeled my fingers off and the buzz started to fade.


"Phew. That was intense. Zol be praised! What a rush!."


As I told her that, Keya was smiling but seemed high on something else. Like some out-of-Zol experience. I've read about them, but have never believed it could happen. I was trembling when I looked in her eyes. I knew that all Hell was about to break loose.


"Let me think about it?" I asked her.


We hugged and when she walked away, the ache of emptiness practically made my knees buckle. Then she was gone. Zol help her.


Chapter Two. The Call.


No books or newspapers had been produced since the time of Zok (known as the Sixth Generation). In fact all paper products were outlawed during the Kingdom of Zolz, four generations before Zok. Recycled paper was stored in vast treasuries by the very rich, and the index of the stock market was tied to the exchange of stored, recycled paper.


Great wars were prevalent in Peru, where the last remaining forest existed. Peruvian gangs controlled the traffic of black market paper (BMP), and paper became the diamonds of the century. Even though consumers could only procure new Peruvian paper through the black market, it was widely traded among the wealthy.


Some new paper was allowed for scientific or medical use and the government of Peru was the only legitimate manufacturer. This kind of paper was produced using sustainable forest practices and was traded between Peru and global super nations, such as the World Ruling Kingdom of Chinindia. China and India had merged after the fourth world war and emerged as the Ruling Kingdom, and the two other super powers USASSR and Germengland, also had limited trading rights of new Peruvian paper.


The internet company, Amazon, merged with General Electric and ChevronExxonMobileShell to become POP (Power of the People) as a global general utility company. POP was considered to be a public utility controlled by the people, but actually was owned by the World Bank and the IMF, and was managed by the World Trade Organization.


Because the Kindle, created by Amazon, had become the most widely used personal information system (PIS), Amazon's profits surpassed all other electronic giants to outgrow oil and even the electric utilities.


Kindle was no longer the antiquated book like device but was installed as eight dimensional sensory projection, by neural implants in various sections of our occipital lobes. It seems ironic that the company which invented the Kindle, which eventually replaced the need for paper, is also the name of the last remaining forest, which is the only available source of paper today, Amazon.


Most upper middle class and elite people of the world have built in PIS. But to access Zol, later generation electronics were developed such as LapZols and the Wii Ching. Ninetindo has been very successful with other Wii products such as the Wii Kung exercise module and the Tai Wii, moving meditation module. The Ninetindo 25th generation Yoga Fit platform is standard equipment, world wide as the only genuine method for authentic Yoga experience.
Still, about 7/8ths of the world is extremely poor and they dodn't have the luxuries of PIS or modern Zol electronics. Consequently the masses are extremely ignorant and confused. At least that is how we Zolists judge them.


Our brains have managed to evolve along with the electronics. Without learning to filter out information, PIS would have turned us insane years ago. This flood of data pours in to our brains directly from "the network" and it is estimated that PIS monitors and processes 20 million billion bits of data every 100th of a second. This is approximately 100 times more than what the capacity of our brain seems to be wired for.


No one has been able to explain scientifically how our biological gray matter outperforms the most sophisticated human made computer by 20 (raised to the power of 1000) times. Praise Zol! But each person has their own capacity and each person has developed a unique way to filter and process information.


Now that all library books and information, television, news, internet, basic telephone, police scans, weather and the more than ten trillion sources of advertising have been directly "wired" to our brains through PIS, all you have to do is have an impulse of interest about something and instantly that data is downloaded. The complication though is that subconsciously we monitor every new bit of information in a constant stream of downloads. Much of the data is contrasted by some opposite or debated point of view and our brains give us the opportunity to "decide" if we want to "trash" the data (known as sluffing), store it in "files," or to view it presently in our virtual "monitor."


The tricky part is that even sluffed data is never really destroyed, and much illness has been linked to sluff overload. This morning I woke up with the news of the latest violence in Peru. The Sujibujis had recently overthrown the Sheebejeebees tribal lords and had declared a Geeforall (a holy war) against all infidels, especially Zolists.


The terrorism alert had been raised to Ridiculous (the highest level). I knew that our underwear implants would be firing the laser scan sparks, and even though the pain only lasts for a few seconds, we generally have learned to just take them off during high levels of alert, to avoid the little burns and scabs that result from the sparks.


My PIS took a call from my brother-in-law.


"Derby, it's Scott. Did you hear about Beckeya?"


I felt my heart fall into my stomach and thought I was going to throw up.


"No, what is it? What happened?"


"She's missing. Her neighbor thinks the Polish Police took her."


Just then, I felt the rush of unmanageable data. Everything was flooding in, like car lights on an overcrowded freeway. Spears and bullets in every direction. And little stabbing shocks of energy.


I passed out.

Chapter Three. DuBois.




Ryan and Jill Jensen started Preregrine Espresso in 2 BZ, in the ancient time. They pioneered quaint concepts such as pedaler delivery in the former capitol of USA (before the Russian merger) and they were the first coffee house chain to adopt the "Barristro" concept, see Barristro. Because their coffee empire had grown from a tiny alcove at 660 Pennsylvania Ave SE, George Washington City (formerly known as the District of Columbia), Ryan and Jill never lost sight of their roots. Preregrine provided the customer with access to the POP data network and consequently became a popular hangout for the Zolist movement. Preregrine grew along with the power of Zol. Even though Preregrine has replaced Starbucks as the household name for coffee shop experience, it has managed to preserve the feel of a chic and indepenedent neighborhood barristro.



The cold bite of the January north wind added pain to my fear of the Polish Police. As I approached Preregrine, there was a surreal force field which seemed to transport me toward the entrance. Even though I repeated the mantra "Zol IS, therefore I AM," there wasn't a calm nerve or muscle in my body.



The deep and luscious aroma of the Finca Nueva from Guatemala helped rescue me from my paranoia. Almost instantly, the comforting vision of a room full of Zolists, transmetamorphosized by the mitigating effects of their LapZols eased my awareness back in to the comforting arms of Zol.



Spotting Ryan behind the counter was such a surprise and I was genuinely overjoyed to see him.



"Ryan! Zol sneezes on you!"



"And may the wet breeze of his nostrils reach you!," he counter offered, following traditional Zolist custom.



As our hands slapped together, the slight tug of his wrist invited me for a warm hug. All of a sudden the thought of Keya's disappearance seemed to overpower all other stimuli. The rush of sadness and fear returned as we squared off from our greeting. He noticed the change in my demeanor...



"My Zol Derby, who threw cold water on your IGod this morning?"



I studied the tiles on the floor and noticed the pattern of the inlays. Ryan's shoes looked like they came from Germengland, of some lightweight synthetic material--with that new world designer appearance. The sounds of the Zol arch beams, shooting from the eyes of the LapZols all around me made me feel dizzy. That same flood of unmanageable data from my PIS scared me. I thought for a second that my fainting performance from last night was about to have an encore. I felt Ryans hands on my shoulders and he moved me to an open table.



"Derby. It's Keya, right? I know about it. That's why I'm here. Jill had rescued the news from her sluff fund. It had got past me too. I came as soon as I heard. We're working on it."



His nonchalance shocked me. I searched his eyes for any signs of betrayal. "Is he working for them?," I wondered. "Why would he talk so freely?" I was really scared.



"Derby, I've been contacted by Mr. Hasan DuBois. Does his name mean anything to you?"



He noticed a slight squint as I continued to study his eyes and body language for any clues...



"Listen to me Derby. The Polish Police....they're not what they seem. Have you ever heard of Srinagar, in Kashmir?"



Cautiously, I took the bait. "Kashmir, in Chinindia, in the Himalayas?"



"Yeah. A group of dissident American monks, known as Chits, have a community over there. Pretty freaky stuff. They do Yoga without Wii Fit mats and practice all kinds of sacreligious ceremonies. They acknowledge Zol, but only as a prophet, not as the Supreme Sneeze."



I gulped and studied my hands, which were shaking. The vibration of the Zol arch beams grew and it seemed that all the Zolists in the room were being summoned by Zol himself to penetrate my defenses. Like a timid old dog, I surveyed the room. I wondered, "Who is a spy? Who is tuning in to this?" I just about wet my pants when my JetPhone alarm signaled a call from my mom.



Her smiling face appeared on my occipital monitor and I tried to conceal my agitation. "Hi Mom, I'm at Preregrine's. Can I call you back?"



Then I saw the fear in her face. "Derby, there's a man here named DuBois. He's taking me away and said he will contact you for instructions. He promises me I'm in no danger."



And she was gone. Ryan's brow formed a question mark and his calm facade vanished. "What is it Derby."



"They've got my mom."

Chapter Four. Stoned at last!


Chapter Four.



The first LapZol was produced during the reign of ZOB. Thought to be made in HIS (Zol) image, the device is covered in fur and feathers, and the wings of Zol vibrate and slightly flutter during any communion at the fifth tone (ZOH), or higher. As LapZol is stroked and petted, laser projection from the eyes of the unit produce three dimensional images of the user's PIS (see previous chapters, Personal Information System) transmissions. Unlike seeing the transmissions on your internal monitor in the occipital lobes, these LapZol, life-like images appear in a spectral field directly in front of the LZ, using micro-convex mirror arrays. Then, the user has both frontal cortex assimilation and visual contact with the POP data (data managed by the general utility conglomerate, owned by World Bank and IMF). With this complex integration of light and digital information, a euphoric and transcendent state is produced, and the user has direct communion with Zol.



Depending on the skill of the Zolist and the purity of her devotion, levels of consciousness are engaged, roughly corresponding to the seven spinning vortexes of the human body. Communion takes place from the moment the POP data integrates with the light of the three dimensional projection, but passing in to the fifth tone or fifth vortex, the wings on the cat body of the LapZol flutter, which moves the user to more extreme euphoria. In turn, this activity helps move consciousness further along toward Zolvana.



On the walk back to my apartment from Preregrines, my PIS system seemed to be firing on hyperload. The wind felt like razor blades on my face and ear lobes, and I imagined a storm of squelching spirits were stabbing the back of my head and neck. Just to provide myself some relief, I downloaded Scotty from a Star Trek episode. "She's breakin up cap'n. I canni hole her much longer!" The smile to myself seemed to help defer my agony.



Once inside, my hands seemed like foreign objects as I fumbled with the case of my LapZol. With LZ in my grip, I hurried to the couch, and starting stroaking away. Ah the relief of being a LapZol potato! The light shot out the eyes of my device and I set my intention on outer cognition. In this mode, the PIS data goes directly to subconscious awareness state and POP is supressed. This is a real body cleanse and you can just zone out. It requires almost no concentration because the data is filtered according to your preferred programming.

Oh my Zol, peace at last! Zol preserve me, please let me stay zoned in the juice of your perfection! All glory be to Zol. I was home...and buzzing. The world is out THERE. I'm zooming with Zol. I'd fall over if I had to stand up right now. Forget talking to anyone. I couldn't slay a worv wissout slurring spee....eee..eeee. My eyes were barely open and then WHACK. The alarm of my JetPhone was like a blast from the entire brass section of the New World Philharmonic. Instantly my attention was turned to my occipital monitor. It was Ryan.



"Derby. Put your pants on. We've got to go."



I had just taken a really big hit and the data was still swimming in my veins. To pull myself in to shape to hold a conversation, even within PIS was very difficult.



"Derby. Come on man. Get off the Zol. This is important!"



I could see he was walking, probably on Howard Street, less than a block away. "No man. I need to Zol out. Leave me alone!"



"Derb. DuBois is OK. You'll be excited to find out what I know. Splash some cold water man. Get yourself together. Please!"



Still zoning, I heard him at my door. It's useless. I could tell, the adventure has just begun!

Chapter Five. Toto aint nothing but a hound dog?




The LZ display flickered and sputtered as I walked to the door. Jasmine's sexy voice, which I had chosen from the pull down menu, reminded me, "Derby, your signal has gone soft. I'd be glad to help you with that. Just return me to your lap..."



She continued to chatter other suggestions and the display crackled and blinked like some kind of ancient Princess Leia projection from R2D2.



Ryan burst in, rubbing his hands. "Shit man, it's freezing out there!" He looked at my LapZol, "Please turn that thing off. That's obscene. Zol almighty get a different program or get a room, that's embarrasing!"



He was smiling but I could tell he wanted me to lay off the Zol.



He continued with a level of excitement that helped me transition from ecstatic religious experience to life in the mundane lane. Jasmine's last plea blended with her closing salutation, "Derby, I miss your hard data, please put me back on your...see you next time!" Then the eyes of the LZ blinked and the image fell like metal objects released from a switched off magnet.



My head was clearing quickly because the intensity of the situation had caught up with me. Even though I had sought relief in Zol, it was time to get down to business. "First of all," I started, "as much as I love Keya, I'm worried about my mom. You say this cat DuBois is cool but my mom is old. What are you talking about and what do you know about DuBois. And what does this all have to do with Keya?"



"Good." His eyes were darting around the room. He moved in to the kitchen table and rubbed his neck. "You shut down that vulgar voice on your LZ but we may need to fire her back up, or we might have to use another device. You were telling me the other day about the new ap you've got for IGod--the turban?"



"Wait man, " I urged. "First you freak me out to the point of craving a Zol fix. Then you tell me to lay off the Zol. Now you want me to summon the Big Sneeze? You suck man. Make up your mind!"



"It can wait." He continued to examine every corner of the room, as if he was searching for the right angle. DuBois is like a guide."



"A guide? Like a travel guide? You mean to the Himalayas? Is that what you're talking about? Is this about that Schmiginar or whatever it was?" I went to the fridge and opened us a couple of beers.



"No dude, and by the way, it's Srinigar. And I mean like a spirit guide. You know, like, every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings?"



"What the f....Ryan. Stop goofing around man. My mom, Keya...this isn't a joke."



"Brother, I'm telling you--DuBois--I know this sounds freaky--but he's like a multidimensional being from another realm."



He looked at his watch. "In less than a minute, you'll be receiving a transmission. Where's your JetPhone?"



I gestured toward the front room, where I had layed it down when I came in.



He continued, "seven, six, five...."



Like clockwork, the JetPhone rang as he predicted and I tuned in on my internal monitor to the call. It was mom.



"Hi Honey. Don't worry. I'm fine."



The strange thing is she never looked better. At least I hadn't seen her so happy for years.



"Keya is fine too. But you're going to have to travel to the Himalayas. You've got some miles to log and I don't mean just flying around the world. Hasan will assist you with your shift." Then she faded, but before she did I saw her look up and to the right, as if she was being prompted.



Ryan could tell I was in a sort of shock. "She mention Keya and the trip?"



"Yeah. Says she's ok and I have to go to Chinindia." I was in a daze.



"WE have to go to Chinindia." he corrected. "DuBois contacted me first. Derby, you're going to freak, but nothing is like what you think. Not Zol, not our PIS systems, not POP, not life. Nothing. Hold on to your britches brother. Toto has left the building and Elvis aint in Kansas anymore!"

Chapter Six. Zol is All.


It was so cold out, we decided to just fix something to eat and crash, and get a start in the morning. At dinner, Ryan suggested that we take a turn on the IGod Turban...



"I'm going to ease you into this Derby, but I think Zol will be of some assistance. You've got the turban for the IGod, right?"



I motioned that it was in my bedroom, then he continued, "Did you ever hear about stuff from before the decade of Zol's coming?"



"What kind of stuff? Like the state of the world when the USA was an independent nation and the predominant nation state? You mean that kind of stuff?"



He fiddled with the salt and pepper and seemed to be cautious with his words. "Well, yeah, but about religion and business and what they called ecology...that sort of thing."



"Whew, you're covering a lot of ground there brother and you're mixing sacred subjects. Religion. Business. Ecology. Sounds like a hornet's nest to me. What are you getting at?"



Ryan set down the salt shaker, shoved his plate to indicate he was finished eating, and stood up. While he paced the floor, he rubbed his chin and looked up. "What is Zol to you?"



Now it was my turn to be thoughtful. I started clearing the table and as I was rinsing the plates, I asked, "Zol the father or Zol the Holy Spirit?"



"OK," Ryan quickly replied. "That's a good start. So you see a multidiminsionality to Zol?"



"Of course. Zol is many things. First of all, he has come to forgive us, through our electronics. It is in Zol that we are free from our sins. Also Zol is the father of all that is. Zol is also the holy air we breathe and the energy of the universe. Zol is All."



"Right," Ryan seemed like I had thrown him for a backwards loop. "Let's approach it from another way...wait. Why don't you fetch the IGod and the turban. You don't happen to have two turbans and the interface do you?"



Quickly I grabbed both turbans and the IGod and the interface connector. I could tell this would please him.



"Wow, those are cool. Oh, I see," he said as he positioned the turban on his head, "they're adjustable. Perfect. OK, beam me up Scottie!"



It took me a moment to connect the wireless antenas and getting the IGod on and smoothtoothing to the turbans. "Woe, these things are amazing," I thought to myself as I noticed on my internal monitor there was a view of Ryan and me in a room in meditation next to each other, but we were on golden colored pillows. There was the smell of incense and Zolo music surrounded us. I could hear the notes of the sitar and the harmonium. Then the image of us faded and a cloudy mist was all there was. I had to forcibly step out of the vision to ask Ryan, "What do you see?"



"We were in a sacred temple, and now there is a mist. I still hear the music. Can you smell the incense?"



I told him I could and then there was Zol. In his winged glory!



"Gentlemen. I am the Walrus and I've got a feeling. We all live in a yellow submarine but here comes the sun. Blackbird fly. You were only waiting for this moment to be free. Something..."



Zol transmuted and was just a head, talking...



"Honey Pie, why don't we do it in the road?"



And he was right? Why don't we?!!!!



Zol continued and the words were like energy waves from his eyes, "I'm so tired. Please please me. Good night"



And Zol's image receded and zoomed out of frame like a diminishing sphere, flying away. Then the mist returned and we were back in the temple. What granduer!



Physically, I felt as if my legs were in full lotus position. I had to pull myself out of the trance to speak. "Ryan, Ryan. Wake up."



As I took off my turban and was placing the gear near the carrying case I observed Ryan. He had this shit eating grin on his face and his eyes were still closed. He gradually started moving his shoulders and fingers. Then he opened his eyes. He just sat there and smiled at me as if he had just gotten a two hour massage.



"OK," he started. "OK. Zol is great. Zol is All. He spoke to us, as if there was no one else. The message was very personal to us. Wasn't it?"



We decided to hit the sack, and to digest this new daily bread. We were both so full of the Holy Spirit that we opted not to have dessert.

Chapter Seven. Access Denied!

"That's the Los Luchadores from El Salvador isn't it?" Ryan knows coffee.

I nodded that he was right and realized that seeing him with morning face and hair, seemed bizzarre. We had really only known each other from Prerigrine's before Keya's disappearance, but our friendship was now pushing in to new territory.

"The smell woke me up. What time is it?" Ryan seemed to have slept in his clothes, which were all wrinkled.

I told him it was 7:20 and then asked him what I'd been thinking of since last night. "When Zol said we were only waiting for this moment to be free, did you have the feeling that you and I are connected in some bigger play?"

"Derby. The experience was fantastic and it really moved me. But I'm afraid what I'm about to tell you is going to hurt. Have you ever heard of the Beatles? Zol talks in Beatle speak.





His language is composed of the names of Beatle songs with occasional additions of song phrasing. It is programmed!"

At first I felt like laughing. Then I felt angry. Anger toward Ryan. The urge to throw my coffee cup was real and I even envisioned the violence of it. I saw it crashing against his head. I saw the sharding of my cup and the mess I had to clean up. For a moment I saw the chalk outline of his body and investigators with pad and pens in hand from the crime scene.

Then I felt sick. This was the sentiment that stuck because I threw up in the sink. I tasted the Los Luchadores in slow motion while it splattered on my cabinet.

"The Beatles? The rock group from Germengland? John, George, Frank and Bingo? Those Beatles?"

"Yeah, well no, but yeah. Germengland hadn't become a world power yet. The boys as they were called were from Britain, from the ancient time. There was no Frank, it was Paul. And Richard Starkey was known as Ringo...Ringo Starr. But yeah. Sorry man. I know this is shocking news. But it is just the tip of the iceberg. And until DuBois works with you a little, it will be impossible for you to integrate. He'll help you with the shift."

"What is this shift? My mom mentioned it too? And what is going on? I want Zol. I need Zol. Zol is our saviour. He's not a program of the Beatles! I know this. While you've been talking I've been downloading everything I can find. Nothing. There is nothing about this on the network. I've had the Google key word-cross reference program working on it. The results are in. There is nothing on the network about any connection to Zol and the Beatles."

"Well, right. That leads to the next bit of disturbing news. Maybe you better lay off the Los Luchadaros, or just go ahead and leave the mess because you may be adding to it. You know the whole story with Kindle and the implant. When did you get yours?"

I had to think back about that. To make it easier I imagined a time log and calendar and set my intention on knowing the schedule of how that all went for me. Here is the information I saw on my internal monitor:

Event: Amazon luanches Kindle
Date: 2008
Kindle was a novel invention from the founder of a book reseller on the internet Originally designed as an electronic "book"

Event: Amazon acquires Shell/Exxon/Mobile
Date: January 2011
As paper becomes more rare, the Kindle becomes the most popular Personal Information system. PIS generates the next Silicone Valley boom, eclipsing that of the 1980s

Event: All Shit hits the fan
Date: December 21, 2012
World in crisis after economic collapse, mass species extinction, environmental catastrophies, nuclear weapons disasters blamed on third world terrorist. American Idle ratings soar

Event: POP (Power of the People) formed
Date: December 22, 2012
The World Bank, along with the IMF manuevers to "nationalize" on a global scale, a new utility company which controls all PIS systems, all electrical utilities and all oil companies

Event: Mass exodus from traditional religion
Date: April 2013
In an unprecendented event world-wide a new religion swept the globe with the appearance of Zol, thought to be the Lord of the Universe

Event: Richest 8.5% of the population get PIS implants
Date: May 2013
The internet, phone systems, entertainment, all advertising capabilities are sent via PIS by POP directly to the inside of humans' brains, for the first time

(Click on the excel sheet below to enlarge)

















So two years after Kindle acquired the Exxon/Shell Oil conglomerate and one year after it merged with all the city utility companies throughout the world, I got my implant.

"So what is your point," I asked.

"They control everything and they even have a direct link to our brain. DuBois will fill in the rest. He initiated the shift in me already." I could now that Ryan was a different man than he was before Keya disappeared. He continued, "But I am only a few days into this. So you and I will evolve spiritually at about the same pace. What is still flipping me out is Zol. I don't think Zol is a plant by POP. It's weird but I think Zol is real. The trippy part is the whole Beatles thing."

I took in everything Ryan said and felt like my head was going to explode. I tried to let all the data that was flowing in have free passage. The conscious human brain can process billions of bits of data but we can only filter so much onto our occipital monitors. We physically aren't fast enough with our recognition faculties to keep up with the POP information, the never ending advertising slogans and everything that we consciously and subconsciously trigger.

As I watched this stream of information exploding in my head, like fireworks on the 1st of You Lie (Independence Day for Republicans who control the World Bank), Zol manifested and calmly reminded me "All you need is love." I made up my mind right then and there, that I'm down for this whole adventure, but Zol is coming with!

"Of course Zol is real," I affirmed. "Zol is All. Zol loves you. Zol Saves. He came into our electronics so that we could be forgiven."

I stopped in my tracks after I repeated the last mantra. I thought those words over and pulled up data about it. I crossed referenced key words and did searches on Zol and the term "sins forgiven through electronics".

On my occipital monitor a flashing warning sign scared the shit out of me. It said

"Access denied."

Chapter Eight. Zolo Comes to Town.


During the Christmas season in 2009, before America merged with Russia, about 17 billion cards, letters and packages were sent via the US postal service. Very few people know the astounding rippling effect of just four numbers, written within just three lines of sentiment, contained in just one card, sent to just one family, on one day in the ancient time. The card was sent to wish the Ripleys of Tinytown, Missouri a very Merry Christmas. Joshua Clearwater Ripley, the head of household read the card aloud to his wife and twelve year old daughter:



Dear Josh, Pam and Barbie. Wishing you A Very Merry Christmas. May Zolo bring you much success.



Mother and child, and father too, had the same question. "What is Zolo?"



When Pam studied the card, she discovered that the word was actually a number, 2010. In other words, their friend was just saying, "Happy New Year." Who would have guessed that such a simple misunderstanding would change the course of the universe forever!



Even though the error was discovered instantly and not much more thought was given to it, the fact remained that a statement was made, compounded by the fact that it was read outloud and that two other people also asked outloud, "What is Zolo?" You see words and sound have power beyond description.



As Hasan DuBois explained this account to me, I would have flinched and squirmed were it not for his amazing ability to relieve anxiety. Even though it was impossible to stop the flood of data from the book of Zol, which bombarded my occipital monitor, even as he spoke, I remained calm and serene.



From the W. C. Field's edition, Book One--Gin It Is, we read, "And Zolo appeared in the ancient time, which was the worst of times and the best of times. The world was in the grip of the longest war ever fought and many women and children had died. As the velvet waves caressed the shore, children splashed safely on the Riviera.



The stock market had nearly collapsed and families lost 2/3s of their savings. Oprah was making scads of crazy money. The ice caps were melting and many species did not survive. The mosquitos in the Amazon were thriving. People were suffering all across the planet and 16,000 children died of starvation per day. America's Biggest Loser had no shortage of potential stars.



The Jonas Brotherhood sat on a great wall. Bernie made off with the dough and had a great fall. In these extreme times of hardship and contrast, Zolo appeared from nowhere. In the beginning was the word. And the word was Zolo."

Within my body I noticed spaciousness and a euphoric sensation very different than electronic induced communion. The teaching of DuBois, contrasted with the downloads from the book of Zol seemed oddly compatible, though it was obvious they were wildy conflicting.



Hasan continued, "now when I touch you here," and I felt his finger on my left temple, "you will be shown a place, of which, you have never imagined."



As he said I was transported to a gathering of men, women and children. A picnic if you will. The sun was warm, though filtered by the leaves and branches of trees. We were in this long grove, seated around a rustic, stretched table and the chorus was of laughter and conversation. Often there was the clang of tipped wined glasses, touched in salute. Instantly when I wondered if such a scene could exist except in nature, the throng was transported to a country home, seated in a beamed dining hall. The setting had changed but the same lightness of heart was present. The room was full of sharing and festivity. The place was different but that which was important remained the same. I found myself asking, "Important? And what is important?"



Having this vision and aware of what my own definition of importance was, the gathering was once again swept to a fresh location. This time we were in a work environment, at a long desk, in a well lit auditorium. Instantly I recognized what was missing from this work scene. There were no computers, no devices, no phones. More conspicuously, what permeated the scene was this feeling of joyfullness. Naturally there was no wine. This time we were at work, but our work seemed to be play. For the air was filled with laughter.



Much hugging took place between women and children and men and women and even between men and men and kids and kids! There wasn't a frown to be seen or a discouraging word to be heard, or if there was, it was seldom.



Just when this game was really getting juicy, and I was about to fall further in to the midst of this loving collective of companionship, I felt Hasan's finger touch me on my left temple again. "This was the scene at Preregrine's, which Keya had managed to join."



Just then I looked around, for we were indeed at Preregrine. All was as usual, each table crowded with LapZols. The vibration of electronics buzzing like ten thousand bees swarming the hive. The atmosphere was charged with deadlines and fear, hopelessness and regret. Fear of missed opportunity. Hopelessness from misplaced trust. Regret that pending news of another abduction by the Polish Police would soon be announced.



As I had that thought, Hasan spoke. "I've asked Ryan to join us. What I'm about to explain will change your views of those whom you call the Polish Police. Sit Ryan. There is no Gestapo and no one is missing. This is all an illusion."

Chapter Nine. Papers.




That night, I dreamed about finding Keya. In my dream, I found my way back to that vision of the picnic and the people. Oh what fun! The children all had headbands made of miniature lily-of-the-valley blooms, daffodils, even tiny roses and irises! I actually bent over and studied them. Exquisite!



My dream was like a course in observation. Everything was more alive to me than they seem when I'm awake. Plants vibrated. Bunnies nibbled on grass within feet of us and in a silent discussion, I heard the cottontail say, "The grass is excellent here." And my smile back was taken as a sacred expression. I think she was a yearling female. I couldn't tell you how I knew that. She was pregnant. She told me.



The trees seemed to be engulfed in their own aura which was pulsating! I would describe the experience as magical, except that would exempt my connection to it. I wasn't inside it and it wasn't inside me. It was as if we weren't there at all. It was before time, before words, before creation. Words don't work. And it felt like home!



The people. They were so familiar! Is it possible that any person could be more familiar than family? Is it possible that you could find a stranger who you know better than the person you've become? They felt connected to my soul! I loved them all, each one. And something that struck me that I'll never forget. I saw them as SPIRIT...as if they were shimmering. We had a glowing cord connecting us, so thin it seemed more fragile than a spider web and it glowed like the filament of a light bulb. And this tiny glowing filament was unlike blood in a vein, but that is the closest description I can think of. Each detail of every connection was revealed to me. There was another observation which gives me chills now as I remember it.



In this soup of exultation I seemed to have a conversation, within myself. It must have been with Zol, but it was different than before. And if it was Zol (Was it Zol?), he said, "So...are any questions unanswered?" Such a different thing for Zol to ask!



I laugh now because it seems so silly to have been able to answer back so quickly and without any doubt. But I knew it was correct. Instantly. What I said came with laughter because it was so amazing. "No. Nothing else." It was as if my physical needs of air, water, food and sleep had been removed. I had a body but it didn't require any care. Did I have a body? You know... I can't be sure!



So for that flash of an instant, the great mystery was revealed. Right then Keya walked out of a light from the end of the grove. Her silouette approached and there was something about her form that was unmistakeable. Even though it was ust a black shadow emerging from a bright light, there was no question it was her. Her features became clear as she got closer and she wore the head band of miniature lilies, roses and irises. Like those the children wore.



"Come on," she said as she took my hand. I was awestruck because she seemed so casual. I wanted to burst out in amazement, "What is this place? A minute ago I knew EVERYTHING!"


But I was speechless. I tried to object. But my words were stuck. I pushed my tongue to force something out. Nothing. I guess it was my frustration that woke me and I laid there for half an hour, beaming.



As I got dressed to meet Hasan and Ryan, my thoughts turned to Thanksgiving season last year. Keya and I walked to the farmers market. Everywhere was the sale of "guaranteed" Polish papers. Birth certificates, land leases, declarations of citizenship.

"Illegal paper everywhere," Keya said.

"Yeah, amazing isn't it?" My reply was based on the fact that the illegal documents were actually printed on paper. But she was referring to something I hadn't given much thought to...

"What is it about Polish papers that could possibly keep you safe?!" she offered. "I mean, it is all speculation. How many times have you witnessed someone unpacking the illegal documents as the Gestapo is taking them away, without so much as a pause by the Polish police to examine them?"

"You're right," I readily submitted, and then in the excitement of the suggestion, I continued,"the paper itself is the only thing of value, though illegal. But to pay these prices? I mean look at the lines. People are desperate and holding on to any fantasy to stay safe!"

Keya strayed from the conversation and was handling some organic fruit at a nearby vendor's booth when we heard the ruckus. An older woman was being questioned. Who appeared to be a grandson was interfering and raising his voice. His shouting escalated until everyone in the market was watching.

"Leave her alone. She's a Polish citizen," he was screaming. She has papers to prove it!"

The brutes weren't phased in the least by the young man's desperation. The old woman was distraught and wimpering something about her documents and her allegiance to Poland. As they tucked her in the van, the boy was frantic. He was pleading with all of us in the crowd to help. Naturally we all kept our place. Far too many of us have witnessed the repurcussions of trying to help.

That's when Keya and I decided to get in line. She bought a birth certificate and I bought a land lease. We hoped that if it ever came to it, our counterfit documents would allow us to stay free.

For now, it was time to meet Ryan and Hasan.

Chapter Ten. Presto.


On the flight to Pokhara, from Jomosom, I asked Hasan why he didn't just "teleport us" or use some other magical juju to get us to Srinagar.

"What makes you think you're qualified to fly first class?" His smile radiated. I was keenly aware of his genuine affection for me.

"Well, I mean, if you're this multidimensional being from another realm, why do we have to go through the rigors of using trains, planes and automobiles?"
Ryan was reading a magazine in his seat across from us. He seemed to be interested in the forthcoming answer, even though his gaze stayed fixed to the magazine.

Deliberately careful with his words, Hasan proceeded slowly, "Derby. As I place my finger on this spot...," and he marked an imaginary point in the air in front of him. "How much space does that point occupy?"

"You mean the area in front of you?," I asked him, slightly perplexed by the question.

"That exact point," he explained.

"Well, if it is a point, it takes up no space, if I remember my geometry," I submitted.

"Correct," he motioned as he made a line in the air. "Now this line. How much space does it take?"

"Again, as a series of points, it occupies no space," was my answer.

"Now Derby," he seemed to search for the right expression, "how much space does time take?"

"Time? Space? How much space does time take?...," a combination of perplexity and confusion caused me to twitch uncomfortably in my seat. "I don't think time takes up any space. But physics is not my thing."

"OK then. How about a thought. How much space does a thought fill? Or a feeling, say sadness...what kind of space is required to accomodate sadness?"

"Mr. DuBois. While this line of questioning is intriguing, would you mind just telling me what you're trying to say," I offered in frustration.

"You suggested that I am multidimensional from another realm," Hasan seemed elated at my confusion. Then he continued, "I'm just pointing out that everything is composed of many dimensions and that all of us deal in what appears to be real time, in what appears to be real elements, concerning objects and ideas from other realms."

"And your point is....," I hinted.

"My point is that, yes, I'm multidimensional. Yes, from your point of view, I'm from another realm. But these are just relative perspectives. You see, nothing means much except in comparison to something else," he said, as if it would make perfect sense to me.

"I'm sorry sir," I countered. "But I'm still confused. Are you suggesting that angels and spirits and things that go BOO in the night only appear to be from another world, when really they're part of the same world as we're in?"

"Precisely!," he exclaimed, quite excited. He dove in further when he said, "It is all a point of reference. Take the acute sense of smell of a dog or the impressive eye sight of hawks and eagles. They only seem outstanding to beings whose sense of smell and sight aren't as developed. And yet we don't assume that Cocker Spaniels and Red Tailed hawks are of the "spirit world!" Now do we?"

"Well there is a difference, " I countered. "I can see pets and wild animals."

"Ahhhh!," he said, as if he was a lawyer in court or a scientist arguing a theorem. "Can you see a mouse in a field from a mile away? No, of course not. But does that mean the mouse is in another dimension? As a matter a fact, the mouse dwells in many other dimensions. And so do you! Did you know that you and the mouse are connected by a glowing thread, which you can't see? And that the thread occupies no space, but is in another dimension?"


I remembered my dream from the night before, of the people and the picnic and the glowing thread that connected everything. As he finished that question, he turned toward me and waved his right hand in front of me.

In the flash of what seemed to be a fraction of a second, Ryan and I were in the Himalayas, equipped with backpacks and canteens, decked out with goggles and hiking boots and parkas. Overhead we heard the loud shriek of the Ceylon Hawk Cuckoo. We stood next to each other, looking around in disbelief. The chill of the mountain air reminded me I was glad to be bundled up. Ryan spoke first.

"What the....Where is DuBois? Do you remember how we got here?"

(Watch a video of the known universe, starting at the spot where Ryan and Derby found themselves. Amazing!)



I assured him that we seemed to have been transported by some kind of magic and that the last thing I remembered was on the plane next to Hasan. Then we heard the confident voice we recognized, coming up the path behind us. It was DuBois, in the same gear. He had a proud look of achievement. He reached our position and snapped his fingers. We were back on the plane, as if we had never left.

My look of amazement and raised eyebrows were enough of a question for DuBois. He offered this explanation, "We never left. You just saw a memory."

Ryan had dropped his magazine and leaned across the aisle to ask, "A memory? We've never been to Chinindia. How could it be a memory?"

"All information of all time, past and future exists as consciousness. This consciousness is unborn and undying. It is not to be compared to anything, so it exists without dimension. Your Zol exists in consciousness. Our thoughts and feelings reside in consciousness. All pairs of opposites have arisen from consciousness." As Hasan spoke, Ryan and I exchanged glances more than once. He motioned for me to ask the next question.

"But the temperature was low. I distinctly recall the frost in the air. There is no question. It was real. We were there."

"Real and unreal are also pairs of opposite. Both need a point of perspective. As you now remember being in that pass above Ghorepani, the experience is related to your amazement about arriving in a non-conventional manner. Is that memory less real than this conversation? What if I told you that going or coming, there is really no beginning and end to our life. So if you viewed your memory as a movie running backward, you would first have been hiking above Nepal then later on a plane going backwards to the USASSR."

"That is a freaky thought," I replied. Ryan took it up where I left off.

"How did you do it? How did you show us a memory from the future?"

As Hasan DuBois answered that question, I had no further doubt about his credentials. He said, "I didn't do it Ryan. And nothing happened except you both changed your perspective. I simply dusted off a blockage which serves an important purpose for you both. Just as information seems to be passing through space in to your PIS, so too does consciousness permeate everything, except at a much more profound level. The thing is, a mystery keeps everyone and everything from seeing the total picture. What we know for sure is that we all are on a journey and that there are gifts along the way."

Chapter Eleven. Musme Ahreesan!



Alfred Warbling was an unimposing man. I don't think I've ever met anyone who made a less memorable first impression in my life. He was rather small framed, mostly bald and he reminded you of someone who you wish you could remember but couldn't. He spoke in a slow deliberate manner with a nondescript accent, from somewhere, perhaps in a small town, in some region of the ancient USA, which you'd never been in, but think you'd like to visit.



"Musme ahreesan," he greeted me as he shook my hand. I looked first to Ryan, to see if he understood. Then my eyes met Hasan's for clues on this language. Was it a customary greeting for Srinigar? I thought these were American monks, in a secret monastery. "Why do they use another language?," I wondered.



"I'm sorry," I replied. "Is that a sacred expression for Chits?"



Hasan had already explained that Chits was an outsiders name for the secret order who practiced Chi Kung, Hindu and Taoist esoteric philosophy and exercises (CHT's).



"It is our standard greeting. Must be a reason," he returned. This time he clearly enunciated each word and sylable. Then he continued. "We've often reflected and sometimes with a fair share of laughter about the origin of the expression and our unique way of pronouncing it."



This time as he spoke, there was a type of shine in his eyes. All at once he seemed as if he could be an old friend and was someone to trust.



"Ahh," I said happily. "Musme ahreesan. Musme ahreesan. Yes, there must be," and we all had a good laugh.



Srinigar is situated in Kashmir Valley and lies on the banks of the Jhelum River, a tributary of the Indus. It is also a very beautiful setting. When I finally let myself relax at the monastery, the peacefulness seemed too good to be true.



We accompanied Alfred to the main building in the monastery, which was very old. The original architecture retained an exotic flavor which served as a foundation to the additions which were modern, though very simple.



"Everything in the compound," Alfred explained as we were taking the tour, "has been totally rebuilt by the Sangha BD. We've done every bit of work ourselves and none of us are carpenters or builders of any kind. We're monks, after all, not trained craftsmen."



"Excuse me," Ryan asked. "You said built by the Sangha BD. What is that."



"Oh," Alfred laughed in reply. "Naturally you wouldn't know our little inside joke. You know there are thirteen of us, right? And our Sangha is our small congregation. So we think of ourselves as a baker's dozen. Plus part of our routine involves making bread!" As he laughed and guided us further in the corridors, the smell of fresh baked loaves added to the deliciousness of the experience.



Alfred motioned for us to be quiet by touching his raised finger to his lips, as we walked past the monks who were doing their mesmerizing exercise routine. A hybrid Tai Chi-Yoga form they called Dance of the Twelve Emperors. As it happened, there were twelve monks in the group, and I wondered if the practice could have fewer or more, but didn't have a chance to ask the question.



After we were well past the monks, as if he had read my mind, Alfred commented, "The name of the form has nothing to do with how many of us do the routine. The history relates to twelve emperors, going back to a dynasty in China. We cultivate the spirits of ancient warriors and store the energy in our lower dan tien."



After he finished explaining, without the slightest interuption in our march down the hallway, he gracefully swept his hand out in front of him and then in figure eights. Then after he appeared to scoop something from his abdomen, he sprinkled this imaginary substance in the air in front of us. For a moment I thought I saw butterflies flittering, but there was nothing there except a remarkable fragrance of Hyacinth!



Both Ryan and I looked around to see if we could locate the source of the smell, but I noticed Hasan walked calmly ahead, though bearing a delighted expression of contentment.



Soon we came to two large doors with huge steel rings fastened as openers. As Alfred lead us through the entrance to this chamber, a chill of cooler air greeted us. I shivered and was about to use my hands with crossed arms to increase the circulation from my shoulders to my elbows to warm myself when Alfred made another gesture with his mysterious powers, only this time he seemed to fling air from his fingers directly to Ryan and I. When he did this, it was as if we were wrapped in the warmth of a nearby fire.





"What is that smell," I asked with a squint. "Is that ink?"



For indeed there was a strong ink smell. We're not accustomed to the smell of ink as printing was no longer practiced. Printing presses existed only in museums and even personal printers for computers had been outlawed years before. Again, with these thoughts, Alfred seemed ready to give reply to my internal questions.



"You have your tantra texting and we have our newspapers!"



When he said this Ryan and I looked at each other with amazement. "For whatever reason in the world would you want to read a printed newspaper?," was my automatic question I thought to myself, without physically asking him.



"Musme ahreesan," Alfred laughed.



"Musme ahreesan indeed," Hasan replied happily.

Chapter Twelve. Dance of the Winter Moon.




Tio Tabasco was a great doctor for the people of the middle Amazon. His family had practiced the ancient art of plant healing for almost 2,000 years.

"La mitad de las especies del planeta de plantas, animales y organismos de espíritu será destruida o amenazada durante los próximos cinco años, a menos que el aliento del Abuelo vuelva," he said.


This is the translation of the village shaman of Progresso, the capital community on the Rio Ataya, the small river which flowed deep in the jungle:

Half of the planet's species of plants, animals and spirit organisms will be destroyed or threatened over the next five years, unless Grandfather's breath returns. This burden of wringing out the toxicity of evil spirits rests with you Cuchibambas (little warriors), and now you must act. The trajedy of deforestation is that the planet loses 137 plant, animal and insect species every single day, the equivalent of 50,000 species a year. As the rainforest species disappear, so do many possible cures for life-threatening diseases. My ancestors have been healers for 75 generations (to the time of Roman Emperor Antonius Pius).


Tio explained that in the time of his great great grandfather, there were an estimated ten million Indians living in the Amazonian rainforest. Today there are less than 50,000. And this day marks Tio's 77th birthday. His final words were, "Cada vez que un chamán muere, es como si una biblioteca ha incendiado.

Si sus artes no son transmitidas a la siguiente generación, la tribu y el mundo pierden miles de años del conocimiento irremplazable sobre plantas sagradas."

Each time a rainforest medicine man dies, it is as if a library has burned down.

When a medicine man dies without passing his arts on to the next generation, the tribe and the world loses thousands of years of irreplaceable knowledge about medicinal plants.


Orlando was the Más Cicatrices (leader, literally, most scarred) of the Cuchibambas. He bowed his head and ordered the other men to do the same. He ached with fear of his next act, but Tio Tabasco had sealed the resolution by drinking the venom of the Surucucu, the most poisonous snake of the region.


With one swift movement, Orlando swung his machette as he rose from the kneeled position, and the sharp edge of the tempered weapon sliced through Tio's neck as if it was first growth bambu. With his eyes still wide open, Tio's head dropped like a bowling ball, while his body followed the trajectory of the machette. For two minutes, a pulsating red fountain shot like a geiser out the neck of the slain doctor.



Orlando choked back his anguish while he methodically placed Tio Tabasco's bloody head in to the tejido basket, to display to the village residents. At the ceremony, the English translation of the decree was as follows:



My people. Tio Tabasco has left this world, only symbolically. His body is no longer with us but his medicine survives. His vision was clear and direct from the Great Grandfather Spirit. This was the message from the Father of all brothers.



"The blood of your ancestors runs to the time when the mighty Jatoba tree learned the language of the wind. When the first blessed trance dancer of your family initiated the art of healing hands, the Jatoba line reached maturity. Jatoba has now been displaced by pulpwood plantations for cursed papyrus soup. To reverse the fall of mankind, you must sacrifice your family heritage. The knowledge of your ancestors will now speak a subterranean language. Your own people will enter a dark period but the insect and soil spirits will rejoice.



The house of your eyes and mouth shall be separated from your body and will be planted in the forest. I will gather a strong wind from within your nostrils and my breath will restore the ancient Jatoba. In the time of 75 generations, the forest will rejuvenate and eventually your people will emerge as elders for the world.



That night, the village people drank the elixir of Shambasa, made from the mother vine of Turimlaka. A celebration held once in 25 generations, marked by the dance of the winter moon was dutifully performed by every soul of the village. But the healing hands and sacred knowledge of Tio Tabasco would no longer nurture his people and a deep sadness rose in La Selva.

Chapter Thirteen. The Chart of the Zoliac.



"On my third day in the Amazon, Tio explained the relationship between the 24 cardinal directions and the 24 phases of chi."



I observed Alfred Warbling as he spoke to us and he seemed to be an empty vessel. It is hard for me to explain it exactly. But it was as if he spoke from a place with no connections. If it was math for instance, it wasn't ONE plus ONE equals TWO, but TWO only, independently. And TWO would lead nowhere. It was complete. Nothing could be added to it and nothing could be taken away.



"Notice the chart of the Zoliac," Alfred continued. "There are 24 divisions. From these you can pinpoint any location in the known universe. You can tell time. You can predict weather by wind and you can understand when to plant and when to harvest, when to rest and when to increase speed. It is based on the integration of the phases of chi and the phases of the sun and moon."



I studied the symbols of the chart and wondered about the strange writing. And I had never heard the term Zoliac before. "Was it connected to Zol?," I wondered.



Again, as his previous skill warned me he would, he answered my internal question.



"Your Zol has been created by years of myth and he is real." Alfred launched into a kind of dance, meant to reveal to me the eight directions of the Pa Kua.



Archetypes are no less real than the image you have right now of some distance between you and I. However, the primal force has no form and no beginning. It is neither love or hate, white or black, hard or soft. You and I have no distance between us because we are not separate. But the illusion of our separation is real. The unrealness of the illusion is real. We call it reality. The realness of this unrealness is quite unreal, wouldn't you say?"



As he spun that imagery I felt myself slip into a type of trance. But when he asked the question I was agitated back to myself as an observer and I found myself to be quite confused.



"Really is silly and Billy is blue," I heard myself say in reply with a chuckle.



We all laughed and Alfred reached out and gave me the most loving touch on my shoulder.



"Exactly," he said with a smile. Then I fell back in to the trance.



I could hear his teaching but I felt as if my skin was a weight which held me down. "Without my skin," I reasoned, "there would be no end to me."



The experience of being there but not there was a very delicious state of being. Alfred's words came like vibrating tones, which seemed to clean me out from the inside. I understood everything he was saying but the information seemed less important than the vibration itself. In fact, as he stated facts, it was if they were magnetized current which was sucked to a place where they had come from. And that place was inside of me, somehow.



He continued, "Chi passes through phases exactly like the seasons. The four seasons have six phases and each phase corresponds to fifteen degrees on a compass. Each of the four seasons has 90 degrees and represents three hours on a clock. When you let this simple equation transfer into your cells, you'll discover your orientation is exactly as it has to be. Nothing could be any different than it is and we are part and parcel of the weather, of time, of sun and moon and wind. The drama we find ourself in is the divine comedy. It isn't sinful to realize that everything is a joke. It is simply an understanding to make you laugh."



And indeed we spontaneously relished the laughter of each other.



"Happy little trees," I found myself thinking.



Alfred returned to his story of study on the Amazon, "After I had studied with Tio for six months, and had drank from the vine in ceremony three times a week, my understanding crystalized and there remained no more blockages. I'm empty now but things can stick to me when I let them. So it is constant work, brushing off the lent of illusion."



For a moment, as I floated freely in the timelessness of his vibrations, I watched a thought arise about Zol. "Were all those experiences and deep truths just ego? The messages? All My Loving, Won't Be Long, There's A Place, The Word... Could all of that be myth created by a collective illusion? How could the messages be so relevant and important? And how could it make us feel so good if it wasn't from "out there?"



"Derby," I heard Alfred say, with a certain resonance which allowed me to stay in a meditative state. "There are mysteries which need to remain. We create our life for the gifts which come with each lesson. The ultimate teacher isn't "out there" as you phrased it in your thought, and indeed there is no "out there." Your teacher, my teacher, Hasan's teacher, Ryan's teacher is within us each."



He paused and I bounced up and down on waves. Physically I felt as if I was on a raft which was anchored in a stream and the rhythm of the water was timed to the beating of my heart. As he continued, the motion of the raft subsided and soon my heart was still.



"Zol was necessary and served a great purpose. Soon, all Zolists will allow themselves to be free of Zol and Zol will be absorbed back to the place from which he sprung."

For the slightest moment, when he closed the session with three words, there was nothing separating me from anything else.

"All is well."

Chapter Fourteen. Paper, Pads and Magic.

"What's that you're reading?," I asked Ryan.



We're not used to seeing printed manuscripts or newspaper. All of our information has come through our PIS system for years, and before that, even during the 10 or 20 years leading up to the time of ZOB, we used the archaic "internet" for information. What was termed as social media had come to dominate communications, via physical devices similar to today's jet phones. These were called cell phones, and even though by today's technology these cell phone devices seem laughable, they were immensely popular. In fact, they were indispensable. It wasn't long that the technology gave way to the Kindle and the I'mBad (formerly named IPad by Apple but renamed because of the name association with the feminine hygeine item).











The joke at the time, before the I'mBad was renamed








"It is called the Sutra Kuan Yin Buha," Ryan said as he handled the book very carefully. I could tell he enjoyed the feeling of the binding, of the paper. He seemed to be in a sort of rapture. He continued, "Literally, the title translates to the Book and teachings of Kuan Yin, the female Buddha."



For some unexplainable reason, I thought of my old friend from junior high and high school, Linda Pascorati. Recently we were reconnected through the network and she claims she passed algebra only because of being able to see my test answers. I remember that I was thrilled to let her copy because I had a gargantuan crush on her.



Linda had luscious, long blonde hair, a perfect forehead and the most striking, magical eyes you've ever seen. She was universally popular with jocks, greasers, hippies, teachers, cheerleaders and the racier crowd, who seemed to indulge in some of the more "mature" lifestyles, only gossiped about by the goodie goodie community.



I was so happy back then that she was a big time "bud" of mine, and though I can't put my finger on what we always found to be so funny after all these years, we laughed constantly. She and Reya weren't best of friends but they lived near each other in Terrace Lake. They were both "hotties" but never acted stuck-up. I think it was their open and inviting nature that attracted me so much and why we became such good friends.



When Ryan handed me the book, he noticed I was distracted and asked me, "You still here? You look like you just saw a ghost."



"No," I explained, "it's just that when you mentioned a female Buddha, for some reason I thought of an old friend from high school, who I never would have characterized as a Buddha type. Although she laughed a lot. Didn't Buddha laugh a lot?"



"I'm not sure," Ryan replied, as he finished the hand off of the book.



Then he finished explaining what he started to say. "Many of the teachings of Kuan Yin from her Buha Sutra are about healing. It is commonly understood by the Chit community, that those initiated at an elevated level will benefit by direct healing properties of the text. By the way," he continued, "the paper which the book is printed on is from the Lokta plant which grows here above 6,000 feet and has been used for centuries. Not only Chits but indigenous people from Nepal and other monks don't consider it illegal to use this paper for printing because it is totally ecological."



As he said that I felt an electric jolt pass from the book into my forearm. Then the current ran up and across my shoulders and I'm not exagerating when I say that for a flash of a moment, everything I laid my eyes on lit up and I could see directly through it, as if I had x-ray eyes. Then everything returned to normal after just a minute or so, though I had a very pleasant tingling sensation throughout my whole body.



"What are you smiling about?," Ryan asked.



"I'm not sure," I said, feeling as if I had just left the dentist office with a good laughing gas buzz. "I think Kuan Yin or Linda or some powerful juju just rattled my bones!"

Chapter Fifteen. Wobbins an Wicked Wascals.

The next morning I woke up in my own bed. The light came blasting in and I laid there for a minute watching the shadows of the tree limbs dancing on my wall, as if they were glistening reflections from a stream. Nothing seemed out of place except me and the date. The time was projected in normal 3D animation, like a globe held in suspension. Nothing unusual...7:05 am. I monitored the info and data which was streaming through my PIS system, and while the content of the information was bizarre to me, the system architecture and the use of "semantics" was the same as the day before I got that call from Scott, about Reya missing.


Outside my window my attention was drawn to a fat robin which was perched in the lower branch of the flowering crab tree. I had already been informed of the date, April 12, by the news which kept cascading across my visual screen of my occiptial monitors. But that robin and the light on its back, which was crystalized by the snap of springtime air captivated me. Oh faithful reader, you will not believe what transpired next. Having so little feedback from you, I wonder if you're there at all, so I'll proceed with this story, less from courage, and more from my discovery that I may just be talking to myself anyway....


As if the vision of my eyes had been turned over to a Hollywood movie director, the little face of that robin was zoomed forward. All of a sudden I could have been Alice and the face of that bird was the Cheshire Cat. The motion of the zoom lens would have been enough to scare me but there is more. Yes my mostly absent friend, the movie direction is just the first part of this little escapade. The robin's face was that of Hasan DuBois!


"Hello Dave."


I looked around. Dave? Dave who?


Hasan the birdie spoke more in that strange Hal voice from the movie 2001. "How are you feeling Dave?"


Look. I knew Hasan pretty well by now. And because I'm a bird lover I've studied my share of fat robins. Not to mention 2001 and Stanley Kubrick are nestled snuggly in the "favorites" folder, filed under RETURN HERE OFTEN in the strange corridors of my mind. This bizarre conversation was a freaky mix of Poe's Raven Goes Springtime and Tim Burton meets R2D2.


"I'm glad to see you Dave."


At this point I figured "What the Hell." So I decided to play along.


"Oh, nice to see you too Mr. Whack." As I said that I noticed I felt like Elmer Fudd... "Thei owe something scwoowy awound he ah." I said, almost outside of my own control.


Then Hassan's Hal voiced morphed in to a blend of Bugs bunny on a synthesizer, "ehhhh, it could be YOU, Doc...I mean, (pause) Dave."



By now my own voice was held hostage by the movie maker and I heard myself say, "Oh boy, wabbit twacks."


And sure enough I found myself out in cartoon land in Elmer's costume with antique shot gun, and silly hat, staring at the little paw prints freshly drawn by the invisible animator. The feeling was so exhilirating and the sights and sounds were so rejuvinating, that I went and sat under a nearby cartoon maple tree and squatted and then sat on lush green cartoon grass. I carefully laid down the cartoon shotgun and promptly produced a cartoon copy of a Batman comic book, which I remember finding in a box in the attic of my parent's house, when I was eight.


I think I subconsciously was hoping to escape a waking springtime nightmare and so had "willed" myself in to the script of "Guess Who's coming to dinner, twicky wabbit," but alas who should fly on to the branch just above my cartoon cap, but a cartoon copy of Hal the Hassan Body Snatcher.


"What are you reading Dave?"




OK. Enough. What is this all about? Where's Reya? Where's my Mom? What happened to the time between when we were in Nepal and now? What is all that Beatles music connection to the meaning of Zol business? What does ecological paper and printing using soy inks or whatever that was have to do with long gone forests? And who were those strange monks dancing with the twelve concubines or whatever they called it? And speaking of Zol, where is he? I could use a good Zol fix right now...


So I asked Mr. Whack in my most irreverant Elmer voice, "Scooz me wacky-bood-bunny-Hal-impuhsinating-monster-cahtoon-thingie--who ah you and wut havv you done with my mommy?"


"Why do you ask Dave."


"Becauz you wadical wicked wabbit wuhvin woom eatewr, I've had enough of this nonsense. I want to wetuhn to a nohmal wife where my we-al-weety is simple eweck-twonics. I just want my nohmal addictions and enjoy the twooth."


"You can't handle the truth Dave."


"One thing at a time you wascal. Wut happin'd to the time. Waast night we wuh in Nepah, you wacky wobin. Where did that time go?"


"Time flies when you're having fun Dave."

Sixteen. Who's Afraid of the Big Red Clown?



Sacred Reader:

This tale has taken so many mysterious detours and strange excursions in to the bizarre that I even hesitate to share with you what happened when I awoke, wet with perspiration, from the Wacky Wobbin dream. There on my pillow was a scrap of paper, upon which was scribbled the following:


You are invited to view a SnoozeTube video which has been uploaded to your PISS system. As I read those words, my PISS instantly played the following audio recording

Voice instructions for the mystery video:


(for you readers who may be reading this in the ancient time, splshsplsh is the newest version of video, short for splish-splash-watching-a-smash), descended from the antique forms such as flv, jpg, MP99M, wav, wag, tail, pck, nos, pop, zit, grs, burp, snk, peek, goto, slp, lit, baby, etc.

As I've always been a sucker for watching SnoozeTube videos on the big screen, and enjoying a bowl of popcorn and M&Ms, I chose to download the video from my cue to the JetSet and prepared to witness the next chapter of "Derby Does Zolly Hood."

I'm sorry to describe this to you because I know you've been through a lot with me on this fractured fairytale. You're as "in the dark" as I am about what happened to Keya, where my mom has gone, why are we lead to understand that the Polish Police are not a belligerant menace to society, who is Hassan DuBois DaFreakshow, why are Ryan and I all tangled up in this metaphorical mishap of mangled mystery and missing mortals and why don't more people think it was pretty cool that the Who sang "Who Are You" at SuperBowl XLIV.

But I fear if I don't share with you the content of the strange video that it will be impossible for us to emerge from this spiralling tale.

At first it was just bursts of color and meaningless symbols with extrordinary sounds and clips of audio arrangements which were too unusual to be described as music, but rhythmically very beautiful and pleasing. It put me in a zone very much like a Zol blast from the past and my senses were stimulated and heightened.

Then the voice...weird and hynotic, sometimes as if a baritone singer and sometimes like a scabby witch, it introduced itself to me,

"Derby, you've been a very bad boy."

"Oh Zol Almighty," I thought to myself, "here we go again with Crazy Characters from the Crypt!"

"Do you want me to give you a spankin?"

My eyes darted back and forth. I looked over my shoulder to see if someone was about to break down my front door. I put my hand under my rear and wondered. "I guess it depends who will do the pattling and what she'll be wearing..."

"Stop thinking disgusting thoughts you moron."

This time it was the voice of nurse Ratched from One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest.










"I want you to build an arc."

Did anyone ever hear that ancient ancient recording of Bill Cosby do the whole Ark Schtick?

This is the LORD!:


Well that was exactly what the voice immitated. Just like Dr. Crosby from the 21st century.

"An arc?," I found myself asking outloud.

At that exact moment the video sequence lurched back to colors and flashing symbols and rhythmic sounds. If it hadn't been so deliciously soothing and fascinating I might describe it as controlled chaos. It seemed to attract my "self" right out of my own body and into the movie. I felt as if my essence was being swept along on a magical carnival ride and that even if I had wanted to resist (which I didn't) there wouldn't have been a darn thing I could have done about it.

I'm not sure how long the ride lasted but all of a sudden, the space between the JetSet and my sofa was just as defined, as before being cast adrift the swirling ferry, and there I was again, held captive with my eyes. The colors and the symbols faded once again and the voice returned,

"Not an ark but an arch."

This time the voice was like my high school chemistry teacher, Mr. Harlan, who took us all on an AstroBus trip to Mexico. (He was a strange dude. I remember going in to class after school one day and he was conducting weird experiments in the lab. He got fired soon after our trip to Mexico and none of us ever heard what it was all about, but I think he was smuggling bathtub Zol appliances to sell on the Hack Market).

"Build an arch?," again catching myself whispering questions.

Next, upon my soul, I'm not exagerating what appeared on the screen. It was called a "commercial break" and a clown with big red lips and red hair and red striped sleeves and big red shoes was talking to strange, unearthly characters. They must have been from the future because we've never had anything as bizarre as these odd munchkin like people on our planet (as far as I know).

One was supposedly made of strips of fried potatoes and another was dressed as churned up beef (raised in attrocious and inhumane feeding operations) and pressed in to a frisbee like patty. They all danced around, happy as baby puppies on Christmas morning. They were singing and flitting around some golden arches and promised to rescue me from food boredom.

Thankfully, normal programming returned and the voice continued,

"The arch you need to build is a new passage way between your Zol compartment tucked just beneath your frontal lobe and to a land where all your questions will be answered. Now go take a bath, you filthy animal."

Then the JetSet flickered off, leaving me feeling dirty and alone.