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."

Something screwy sound bite Bugs Bunny sound bites

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.

Animator

This is Dub Riley. He's like the voice on the old cartoon shows who would talk to the characters and stuff before you'd see an eraser take them out or draw a hole in the ground they'd fall through or whatever.

I'm here because this thing has gotten out of hand and it is time to wrap this puppy up.

A little background.

1. There aren't enough readers to justify any of this in the first place, let alone some long drawn out explanations. But hey, if you don't like it, be careful. I've got an eraser or can send you down the rabbit hole. Beware.

2. Don't ask me why I'm writing numbers and making a list. Feels good. OK?



3. Does anyone remember how this whole thing started? Solution to that puzzle:

Reya Mellicker made a comment on her wall about "Who Knew?" She had gone in to Perrigrine Coffee (Is that the name of it?--not sure, you may have to go back a few chapters). She went to the real place, not this Alice in Wonderland version. I really don't know Ryan. I just went and found his picture on the internet. But he too is a real dude. Who knows if he'll ever become famous as this Lewis Carol version of himself. All we know so far is that Zol is real. Zol Damn the Pusher man!

So she mentioned that if you go in to Perrigrines on the day after Christmas, there are no lap tops and people reading real newspapers and just talking. Someone else commented that she had gone in to a time warp or something. A few more comments ensued and I said something about it had the makings of a good short story. I threatened to treat it with some kind of Social Media flavor and voila--welcome to the bizarro world of Derby and Hasson DuBois.

5. I've got to make some progress and I trust that no one has followed with enough attention to see some of the nuance. You would have had to trace each link to be totally up to speed and as much as you love me, no one has that much extra time on their hands. So let me spare you some torture and give you a few clues.

a. I had also mentioned to Reya about reading a Christmas card from someone and misreading the number 2010 as Zolo. Someone had wished us a happy 2010 and I asked, "What is Happy Zolo?" or something like that.

So, for your history of Zol lesson, it goes kind of like this. Zolo is 2010. Zoll is 2011, zolz is 2012, 2013 is zoB, 2014 is zoH, etc. This is important. Pre-Zol NYT (which is the New York Times prior to the time of Zol) makes a word kind of like prezolnyt, which someone may interpret as Polish.

b. Pretty soon you'll start seeing what is going on with these whack cases in the Himalayas and their printing presses.

The simple details such as these were thought through in that first moment after I promised I'd write this stupid thing. But getting to revealing these surprises is tricky business, complicated by a work day and being a dad and allowing plenty of frivolous time on Facebook.










Anyway. Happy 2010. May Zol be with you.

Chapter Eighteen. The Tree.

Alfred Warbling continued to explain his awakening~



"Tio's head had been buried for three weeks and reports came from as far away as Riobamba that sprouts of the Jatoba tree were pushing through the jungle carpet of leaves and humus.



While new growth of Jatoba was establishing itself, my awareness of knowledgelessness was also taking root. What do I mean by knowledgelessness? That which comes before knowledge and swallows it joyfully.



Derby, there is a reason for everything but not how religions explain it. Not like predestination or right and wrong. The reason things happen for a reason is because there is nothing like logic except in your head. Everything is connected and everyone gets to where they're going. SPIRIT only moves in one direction. Everything pushes up. There is no collapse. Brick on brick. There is constantly a new sum total.



Does this mean all mystery is known? Heavens no my boy! If the final mystery was known there would be no art. Have you ever thought about that? Just let one question remain. That's it. Only one. As long as there is one unanswered question, there will be beauty. But if all was known, there would only be bland colors and no flavor to delight in. Sleep on that tonight and savor your next meal after fasting."



Alfred went away from me and a cascading waterfall crashed through my being. I shook as I wept uncontrollably. Mechanically, I started packing a small bag. Still moving like a robot as the undulating knowledgelessness shrieked and pulsed through me. Shadows flashed on my occipital monitors. My ego thoughts created phantom visions of devils and men in business suits, naked zombies and women of ill-repute, dismembered children and sick animals. There were also feelings of pleasure and thoughts of vast riches, luxurious dinners and extravagant liesure.



But the basis for this violent, tumultous uproar in me was an energy that was revamping and restructuring my essence!



As I spoke the instructions, "Requiem City" to the navigator module and felt the lurch of the electron propulsion system, I remembered why I had to visit. Though the pine forest had long ago vanished, there remained the "One Pine" which was cared for as a museum in a huge parking lot, to accomodate visitors who craved communion with the most beautiful tree in the USASSR.

Laying back in the photon cruiser I watched this energy within me. Similar in feeling to witnessing storming rain and an electrical light show from behind a glass storm window, the sparks and flashes resonated at familiar octaves. The grief and fear and worry and anger and self judgement were being replaced with hope and courage and strength of conviction.

"So when you approach a tree," I remembered the voice of a traveler who was explaining the interconnectedness of all life, "first ask for permission to touch it. Would you like it if someone came up to you and started rubbing your leg as if you were a lump of coal?"

Rarely had I followed through with my lesson. There were still groves of trees, I have them comfortably tucked away in my memory, when I was a boy. They were there for climbing and for shade but I could not for the life of me remember ever honoring them for their ancient SPIRIT.

"They are aware of you but they're cautious of the human." The traveler was 1/16 Cherokee Indian. His ancestors were from the pre-ancient time. "They patiently have watched our progress and our transgressions. But they accept SPIRIT on a one-to-one basis. If you honor them, they will honor you.

So as I sped through hyper-space, the vision of a new world swirled in my mind. The flood of PIS information was calmed to a trickling stream. I imagined Keya talking to us with a wet cloth on her forehead, from a rickety bed with a lumpy down mattress.



"And you were there, and you were there."

Zol, the indomitable wizard was transmuting into a metaphor!

"Requiem City..." the voice of the photon cruiser announced my arrival and the pod door opened with a smooth gliding motion.


"Hello Duchess," I greeted the pine. Tall and straight and majestic and beautiful beyond description in so many inexplicable ways. Though abandoned and taken for granted, she was still home to a teaming life of family and species far too many to name. I realised as I kneeled at her side that I'd always cherished her unborn wisdom. This was a love before time. An unending love.





"We'll have each other forever Derby," said the most beautiful tree that has ever lived. The vibration of her voice rippled across my tendons and flowed lava like across my skin. This was the first time "Duchess" had talked back to me! And I knew that the story was about to radically change for the better.

Chapter Nineteen. Rejuvenation

The weather warnings which had streamed my PIS system were sluffed (see chapter two or insert your own definition. Without sluffing we'd all be totally wild by now). So the wall of water took me by surprise.

As the sheets and layer after layer of crashing rain soaked every stitch of me, Duchess seemed to be smiling. "The Chinindians call rain--money." It seemed strange to be having a conversation with an ancient Pinus Lambertiana (Sugar Pine). Duchess was nearly 200 feet tall, perhaps the tallest tree in the world. When the planet was populated more by trees than parking lots, she would have been one of the tallest, even then, as the Sugar Pine towered above the rest.

Let me draw a better picture folks. My mom and best friend have been missing for...what chapter is this? God knows this crazy thing seems to go on forever! Anyway, for a long time.

If it hadn't been for the story about a gathering of people reading the paper and acting odd (hugging, laughing, in the absence of electronics), I wouldn't know Ryan, a decent guy.

Zol is...well. I'm really torn on that one. Maybe he isn't ALL after all. All being a really really big concept. And these central characters, Hasan, and Warbling, they are pretty cool, I've got to say. Yes indeed.

More in a minute about Hasan DuBois (as the rain seems to be working quite a miraculous baptism), but we will be mild with our description of him and say he is like no one we've met. Andrew Warbling too, as monks go, is...well, more on him too. I started to say an unorthodox teacher--but who am I to brand what is orthodox when it comes to monks. Let's face it, monks are a weird lot. Period.

As to cartoon characters appearing in my dreams, some fixation about Elmer Fudd



and other abominations of imagination which seemed to resurrect (or rearrange) my pysche, I didn't realize that the many diversions and bizarre twists were bringing me (us precious reader) closer to the end--hey you know why a Flamingo has such long legs, right?--to reach the ground silly--same here. We will get to closure, I promise. Please forgive me when you find we're really in a giant figure eight here and that old black magic just has us going round and round.



She continued. "Would you like to know why the Chinindians thought of rain as money?"

I looked up at her. Majestic. The two of us stood alone. A deluge. I'm not exagerating. Rain like you've never seen. Really rain, the word, doesn't capture it. It was a block. An unending mass extending from Heaven. It seemed to be powered by some big, churning machine. Like an ice maker gone berserk, except on hyperdrive, and melted. Like an upside down volcano, right over your head, but instead of really scary molten rock burning off your face (forget singed eyebrows), it was harmless rain. Usually beautiful but now a bit too much. But Duchess seemed to be soaking it all in, quite cheerily in fact.



With eye brows dripping, nose dripping, flooded vision and covered in clothing still in heavy rinse mode, I offered my guess, "it must have something to do with making things grow?"

"Exactly." Being a tree of few words, she guided me to understand, without having to say it, "stand near me and I'll be your umbrella."

Such a gentle suggestion, and received so...naturally, it made me understand that plants are always trying to communicate to us. I wondered for a moment, "is it possible that we'd be more advanced as a species without Jet Phones? Which came first, the chicpea or Zol?"

I moved closer. Her energy seemed to warm me. I felt clean. Refreshed. Clear. What is it about a good rain that can really wash the layers of cat dander and creepy crud build up away? And why do I feel like I'm really wanting to hug this tree? My flailing internal chatter was just as gently replaced by her soothing continued suggestions...

"Hasan and the Chits...you've attracted them to you Derby. Rejoice my love. You are reborn."

Chapter Twenty

Dander on a Snow Monkey

Rebirth is not what you might think. Past sins are simply reclassified. They don't go away. Life ahead is still tedious. Lunch isn't free, but you probably qualify for the senior discount. There is a new cast to the color of everything, as long as you remember to apply the filter. You are subject to periods of forgetting though.

And one more thing, from the point of being reborn, you must grow. The secret is in the crystalization process. Concentration isn't exactly the right word, but effort must be applied for the light to become totally pure. If I tell you much more you'll be subject to arrest by the Polish Police (this one you're supposed to laugh about because you will soon learn that the Polish Police is a concept to keep the uninitiated in perpetual imbalance--how's that for a mind twister?).

A friend once suggested that I try to write with restraint. I notice now that I'm bending the rules a little. Let's see if I can return to simple story telling....

Duchess was the teacher whom I summoned. DuBois was a dimension of my own higher self. The Chits were protein on the road to health. Keya acted as a magical mirror to reflect a light which shines within. Before I reveal the surprise ending to this dance of the gypsy moon, I want to share some shining jewels.

One. Take a deep breath and savor it. If you're not smiling at this moment, you're doing something wrong. Rinse. Repeat.

Two. Realize that nothing could be any different than it is. How could it be? If it was ANY different, it would be COMPLETELY different. So hold up your level palm to your mouth and blow that concern away. Watch it separate into hundreds of little umbrella like pistils and stamens that float down and fertilize the organic humus of creation. Hence the expression "shit springs eternal."

Three. All that lies before and all that follows isn't worth the dander off a snow monkey's ass. When you arrive at contentment in the center of your NOW, recognize it. It is pure light. Learn to stabilize it and your home and everything connected to it will be wonderous and rejuvenating.

Now on with the show.... (hint, this video will change soon, but for the time being, this is what's up...Doc).





After the Rain
I was back at the scene where I had originally met Keya for our New Year's get together. She came around the corner. I wondered, "Is she familiar with what has transpired since the first time we met like this? Has she come back, also with new tools to navigate life? Or has this just been my own Scrooge like fairy tale of a dream?"

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

It was hard for me to contain my own joy connected to this journey. Extraordinary? Is that a big enough word? Then this hand seemed to hold me down from my shoulders and I got still. For a moment I wanted to run off with excitement and explain everything I know. But instead I just smiled. My heart was open. So I listened.

"Derby, have you ever wondered what life would be without JetPhones and Lapzols? Does Zol rely on the snap and crackle of electrons? And if a tree fell in the wilderness and landed on your foot and you cried out but no one was there to hear, would that be similar to the sound of one hand clapping?"

I scratched my chin. "Is it possible that there was a tear in the fabric of creation, and Keya is now doomed to be an endless stream of mixed metaphors?"

Stay tuned...

Twenty One--A Rumbling in Your Belly

"People were actually listening to one another!," Keya continued. "There was no zizzit beams because there were no Lapzols! Instead people made eye contact with EACH OTHER! And there was hugging and laughing and not a tantra text within reach."

As she recounted her experience from Preregrine's, my mind raced back to the revelation by Alfred Warbling and the rare visit of the Chits printing press. We entered the chamber of the forbidden word--the only known surviving mechanical printing machine. Lubricated by the oil of Sacha Inchi, the mechanical gears clinked and churned out the sheets of the Lokta plant paper. The emblazoned name across the top of the paper had nothing to do with the ancient metropolis. NY. What was the significance of NY? The NY Times. What does it mean?

I watched sheet after cascading sheet be printed rhythmically. Whir, clank, clip, whish, whir, clank, clip , whish. My skin pulsed to the vibrato of the coordinated collision and my nostrils were filled by the smell of the natural ink. This mammoth machine which may as well have been rescued from the volcanic pits of Pompeii, with its rubber rollers and syncopated crush of type and template was printing some sacred document at the whim of a clandestine sect of Taoist monks in a reclusive monastery deep in the mountains of Tibet, by the name of NY Times.

"We've revived important symbolism from the times before Zol. In this one document is the image of the Tianamen Tank Man, the story of Phan Thi Kim Phuc, whose naked body was photographed after the horrors of a napalm attack in Vietnam.  Another article covers the disaster of BP in which the ecosystem was finally disturbed beyond repair with the anihilation of 3/4 of  marine life, formerly quite diverse.

There are also happy articles, such as the encouraging account of The William and Melinda Gates Foundation action to eradicate the practice of PISS implants in the Pygmy tribe Tubigtufail and the astounding tale of the discovery of Elvis Presley still living and well in a jail cell on Planet Rock.

But the most important thing isn't content.  The magic happens as a result of the imbedded SPIRIT which accompanies each freshly minted copy of our paper." Alfred paused, obviouisly expecting a question on this point...

"Imbedded SPIRIT?," I asked, not only obliged but eager to take the bait.

Just then he slid a folded copy of the pre Zol NY Times in my bag. As if twelve mice and three cats had been deposited, there was an explosive rumbling from my shoulder valise, which transferred to my hip, then my abdomen. I was unable to control the convulsions which followed. My body shook and I felt as if my internal organs were expanding like overblown balloons. I felt for the first time that the container that held me was itself a wrapper composed of fluid lava and  my eyes weren't catcher's mits of light but instead shot laser spears that could heal or destroy whatever I set them to focus on. And with the metamorphosis of a different vision, the scene which surrounded me was illuminated with a jewel like glow, which thumped and bleeped to the beating of the printing press.

"What just happened?," I asked as my normal breathing and eye sight returned.

"You've just had your prezolnyt initiation," he replied.

"Prezolnyt?, " I inquired.

"Yes." And the loving light of his eyes reached me as I heard him explain further. "Mistakenly believed to have been a polish term. Welcome to the headquarters of the Polish Police!"

Twenty Two

Got Their Hands on Some Good Shit

As I recall, the first time Keya and I met to discuss Preregrine's, I couldn't wait to plug into Zol. Now I don't even notice the streaming PISS. I'm aware of the potential to be distracted by the endless chatter but I'm totally in control of which information seems to be of use and which can be sluffed to my junk bunk. As to Zol...Well, there is a place for everything and everything in its place!

"Derby," Keya's gaze locked on to the backside of my optic nerve. Her essence penetrated cornea, iris, pupil, lens, and retina. We were seeing each other, beyond the mechanism of human tissue. "You know something about this phenomena don't you? This schism of culture and SPIRIT. Did I wake up to a revolt? Has there been some mass shift of consciousness that, somehow, I stumbled onto?"

This was the moment that I realized the ramifications of my power. The world was now run by the most powerful global conglomerate ever formed, disguised as a democratic utility service provider called POP. POP controlled all information which was both blood and veins to the traffic of human cognition. At this moment, most humans (I say most but still the number of initiates is in the millions) are trapped on the verge of insanity, due to this barrage of electronic noise.

While a trace of connection still remains between them and the underlying intelligence of the universe, the masses are held in suspension. Exactly half of the uninitiated think the world is blue and the other half red, which has been expertly programmed into the outflow of information, so their distraction will prevent them from learning about their true natures.

I'm able to watch this colorful stream and appreciate it as an art form. The beauty of it entertains me as I watch it now. Such a complex development, as is Zol. Though pale in comparison to elements of the natural world, I appreciate POP for the weasel that it is. What a prankster! Zol, the only begotten son of POP--you're a naughty boy! But I have perfect peace with the situation. First there was a mountain. Then there was no mountain. Then there was Zol!

Without blinking or without missing any nuance of her body language or the distinct meaning of each of her words, I absorbed every layer of meaning communicated by Keya. "Listen by non-listening, see by turning the light around," DuBois had said to me, when we left Warbling and the chamber of the Forbidden Word. So that now, as I stood back to study the art of POP culture, while simultaneously holding hands with Keya in the anteroom of our hearts' conjunction, I was also easily able to recall the rest of the conversation with Alfred...

"The Polish Police?!," I resisted. "How? What do you mean? Why? Is this a joke?"

"Musme ahreesan," offered Warbling.

My blinking encouraged him to continue.

"Chits were originally a group of political protesters in the region previously known as America. They held an uprising. It was February, in the two "L"d Zol time. They saw the writing on the...

I interrupted Alfred, "What do you mean the two "L"d Zol time? I don't understand."

"I think DuBois explained to you but I see you still haven't grasped the significance. The ancient time. The prezol record is Akashic. 20l0 is Zolo. 2011 is the two "L"'d Zol time. 2012 is Zolz. 2013 is ZOB, etc. All things which become words become phenomena. Human brains are powerful beyond comprehension. Zol is an outcome of those times. So in February 2011 there was an uprising because Amazon was about to merge with Chevron/Mobile/Shell to control all energy and all information. The organizers which eventually fled to Tibet tried to prevent the merger," Alfred was talking fast, but everything was falling into place.

"By the time of Zolz (Dec 21, 2012) the last straw of the BP (Beyond Profane) disaster had broke the seahorse's back. The economic collapse had impoverished 98% of the human population. Great cappucino was nearly impossible to find anywhere. My feet were killing me."

I noticed him pause to see if I was paying attention.

He continued, "Actually I was just a boy and my uncle brought me with him to Srinigar. Have you ever heard the story of the planting of Tio Tabasco's head?"

All the imagery of the machette being swung onto the neck of Tio Tabasco and the bloody appendage being buried to revive the Jatoba tree forest rushed in with his question. "Yes, I remember the story. How did it end?"

"Well," answered Alfred, my uncle and the rest of the protesters discovered the medicine from the vine of the Turimlaka. Seems the roots from the Jatoba had spread from below the oceans to connect continents. The record is incomplete but somehow they brewed the concoction known as the elixir of Shambasa. These ceremonies brought them in touch with the teaching of Tio Tabasco. They had visions. They had knowledge of the whispering moon. And they could dance like James Brown."

"Cool. I want some!"

Though compassionate, Alfred Warbling had more ground to cover. "We no longer require the elixir for clarification. Nor will you after your washing."

"My washing?," I asked.

"Yes. After your next visit with the Duchess, the pieces of your journey's puzzle will fit snuggly together."

Oh yes. That was one sweet rain.

Chapter Twenty Three

My Mother said "Grokked"

"Keya, there is something I must tell you. I'm not sure why and how, but our destinies have become intertwined."

"What is it Derby? What are you talking about? Please, if you know something that explains that weird scene at Preregrine's, please share. Did you have a message from Zol?"

She seemed so scared and yet I had no concern that she would suffer much longer. Like a gentle stream reshapes rough rocks into round stones, I tucked Keya's being safely into my marsupial like pouch of consciousness. Kindness onto kindness my inner guide instructed me in the art of comforting her. I held her hand and set my eyes on her. She seemed to release tension by the second.

I closed my eyes and remembered what Mom said when she appeared in the tea room within the Chit's compound.

"Derby. I'm ill. If it hadn't been for a phone call from Keya, who was frantic to find you after an odd experience she had in a coffee house, I may have died. But just as she had stumbled upon a meeting which she wasn't supposed to have seen, I also witnessed her ascension with DuBois. So he had no choice but to take me along too. He immediately grokked my tumor. It's a miracle Derby. DuBois isn't from our time...Did you know?"

Grokked. My mother had said grokked. That stood out to me.

"Yes Mom, so I've been told." We hugged like we never had before. "These freaky folk are growing on me too mom." We laughed and held each other at arms length and hugged again and laughed some more.

I opened my eyes because I felt the burn of Keya's gaze.

"What you saw at Prerigrine's was a meeting of transformed humans," I explained.

"Transformed? Zolphoria? Possessed by the Zoly Spirit? Like flying Zolo except Zol is their co-pilot? Is that what you mean?'

"No darling." I pulled her to me and positioned the top of her head so that my mouth was an inch from her Crown Chakra. The sound of a distant sand storm emanated from my lips and I felt Keya collapse into a deep sleep. For 40 seconds I blew the cleansing breath of Tio Tabasco's grandfather directly into Keya's abdomen from the top of her head.

She stirred just before coming to. "Don't forget the steaks," she said, still asleep but talking.

"OK," I played along. "What kind of steaks do you want?"

"I don't care," she slurred. "As long as they'll hold up the fence."

And then her eyes popped wide open.

Conclusion. The Hand Off

The Beginning

Keya's wide eyed glare reminded me of my look at Warbling as he explained the convoluted mesh of myth and fallacy.

"There never was nor will there ever be a Polish Police. Naturally I'm kidding by suggesting that this is their headquarters. But we Chits are the basis of the rumor. And there is also an axiomatic foundation for people to have this frantic compulsion to possess Polish papers."

I blushed because I wondered if they knew of my own purchase when Reya and I bought ours.

"But wait," I offered. "I saw an elderly woman being taken while her grandson protested! Those men, they were the Polish Gestapo. I watched the episode unfold!"

"Circumstances such as the one you witnessed are stunts by the POP undercovers. Subversive staging to keep the masses off balance. It would be hilarious if it weren't so tragic."

"So what do you mean the foundation for people's compulsion to own papers?, " I demanded.

"The elders were informed by the great SPIRIT, while in ceremony, that the time would come that mankind would fall prey to the addiction of electronic stimulation, by the invisible hand of the corporate scourge. The Chit forefathers were guided to produce an antitoxin that would neutralize the cloud of blindness.

Our printing press is more than just a machine that snaps out stamped words," Alfred continued. "These papers...these NY Times...they're a passport to a higher potential. Our  outpost near Srinigar isn't Shangra La. It is a monastery. But we're paving a road to a human Utopia, one initiate at a time. Each of you are recruiters. And your copy of this special edition of the NY Times will enable you to guide others."

"So what am I to do? When will I find my power?," I protested.

"First your baptism. Then a second meeting with Keya. You'll know when to pass it along." Warbling left me hungry for more facts and I remember now, how empty I still felt at that moment. But now Keya sits transfixed, with eyes as big as silver dollars.

"Keya. I have to go now but you will soon understand your mission. Do you trust me? Will you relax into your full potential? Because you will soon find your house in the mountains by the river. This much I know!"

For a moment I saw a flash of panic in her eyes but my Inner Guide sent a spiraling energy from my forearms and when my fingers wrapped around her wrist and I pulled her into me, I felt her relax.

"Yes," she said. "I feel the warmth of your healing energy. I don't have a clue what lies ahead but I'm confident that a light will lead me."

We hugged one last time and as she walked away she didn't notice what I dropped in her bag.