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.



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


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!"