Negotiating Karma (P.5 of 5)

 

This was certainly a “groundhog” moment. I was repeating a scene in the past for the third time. George, the younger, sat at the barstool next to me, nursing his scotch neat. In a few seconds, he would turn to me and say:

“I'm sorry, but do I know you. Sorry if that sounds weird, but really, you do look familiar.”

As this is the third repetition of this short moment in a long life; instinctively, I knew that something needed to change to set the future straight or in the right direction. At that time, I really didn't have the slightest idea. I replied:

“No, I don't believe we have ever met before. But I must say, you look a bit familiar as well.”

George the younger turned away, sipping his drink.

As the silence between my younger self and I continued, the beautiful woman, like the past two times, entered the bar. George the younger peered longingly back at the lady sitting alone at the seat next to the open windows. It dawned on me that perhaps by running interference between them, the adulterous encounter would never happen. It was then I thought, 'I'll initiate the encounter!'

“Excuse me, bartender.” I said.

“Yes sir.”

“You see the young lady by the window. Please give her a glass of your best champagne.”

“Certainly, sir.”

George the younger gave me a disapproving look. “She's a bit young for you. Don't you think?”

This statement had taken me off guard. I looked down at his sparkling gold wedding ring. “Well, George, is it? I'm currently single, and by what I saw on the beach today, your new bride is quite attractive.” He saw me peering at his ring, shrugged, remained silent, and continued to sip his scotch.

The bartender served the woman the champagne and told her who it was from. I raised my glass to her, and she did the same. It was then she beckoned me over to her table.

Our conversation touched on the banal, telling her that I was a heart surgeon practicing in Los Angeles. She told me she was a model, meeting a fashion crew over the next few days to shoot for some sports company. Over the years in my medical practice, I always know when someone is lying to me. This beautiful woman was not a fashion model, but the hotel's resident escorted anyone she deemed appropriate for her special services. Our conversation was coming to a close when she handed me a card with her room number. George, the younger, walked out of the bar with a noticeable scowl. I accepted the card and whispered in her ear.

“How much for an hour of your services?”

Rather than verbally respond, she grabbed the card out of my hands and wrote down something, and promptly exited the bar. I looked down at the writing, and it said: $1000 for the hour. The original memory of the scene returned, and I remembered the woman only charged George the younger a mere $500 for the hour. This didn't upset me because I was old and an established professional. This beautiful woman knew her business and understood her mark. But my next thought was filled with anxiety; did I change the course of my life?

Again, Jasper is sitting outside in one of the lounge chairs on the deck.

Jasper never offered his thoughts but offered his right paw instead.

Jasper and I am now standing at the rear of a huge church. At a younger age, I see myself sitting beside two boys I know to be my sons. I know this is a funeral because I can see a huge portrait of Christine at the front of the church. I can barely make out what the pastor is saying:

“Christine was taken from us by a freak accident, hit by a speeding car as she was crossing the street to a movie theatre to see a film. Going to the movies was her greatest passion...”

I turned to Jasper and thought, “What is this?”

Jasper lifted his paw, and now I see Christine and I standing in a park, watching children play. We are much older, in our late 70's, and the children we are seeing are our grandchildren. So, I thought, we did grow old together and enjoying the fruits of our hard work with our grandchildren. I can see and feel that we are delighted at this point in our lives.

The scene changes again. Jasper and I are back in my office. The old cat is sitting by the window, sunning himself. I'm sitting on a visitor's chair facing the window. And it occurs to me that without a doubt, I'm dead.

“This may sound really corny, George, but you had the opportunity to see what your life could have been like if you had made the right decision back at the time of your honeymoon. What is promising is the fact that you witnessed your terrible decision and attempted to fix it. This, in turn, allowed you to see how your life could have been by rectifying that decision. But the fact remains you decided to have sex with that escort on your honeymoon, and your wife witnessed it. That choice has led us to here and now.”

“So you're saying all this moving through time has not changed a single thing. I'm still dead, and that's it. Right?

Jasper jumped off the window sill onto the desk and stared me straight in the eyes. “You saw what you did and knowing it was wrong, changed it. That's good enough for me.”

“But what about Christine and Saul? What will happen to them.”

Jasper replied, “At this stage, it's none of your concern. But there will come a time when you souls, together, can work this all out.”

“So George, you need to move on. And let me say it was a pleasure knowing you. And don't worry about Christine and Saul. They'll negotiate their own karma.”

My perceptions changed, and I felt myself moving...

Negotiating Karma (P.4)

 

As I stood above my younger self laying next to his new bride, my first thought was how young we appeared, and that it was almost 25 years to the day of my death.

Jasper was behind me, jumping up and down like a jackrabbit because the heat of the sand was burning his paws. He eventually made his way to the path above the beach.

The younger George sat up and said, “It's getting way too hot. I'm going to the room for a shower and hit the bar for a cool drink. Care to join me?

Christine slightly changed positions and said, “No, I'm staying here for a while. But I'll meet you in the bar later.”

“Don't stay out here too long, or you'll burn.” he said.

I followed George, the younger, inside the resort, and up the elevator to his room. He didn't waste any time jumping in the shower, dressing and out the door, back down the elevator, and into the bar. The bar is relatively empty. He sat on a stool and ordered a scotch neat. I decided to sit beside him, wishing I could have a drink as well. When the bartender walked in front of me and asked, “What will you have, sir?”

This was a great surprise because let's face it, I was dead.

“Are you talking to me?” I asked.

“Who else would I be talking to, sir?” he replied with slight sarcasm, looking around the empty bar.

“Of course, sorry. I'll have a scotch neat.” I said.

The handsome bartender returned with my drink, saying, “I gave you a double on the house. You look like you need it.”

I smiled and sipped the drink and relished the taste.

George the younger turned and asked, “I'm sorry but do I know you. Sorry if that sounds weird, but really, you do look familiar.”

 As far as I know, one living has ever looked face to face into the eyes of one's younger self. I remember back in medical school taking psychology, and this is a treatment in certain therapy sessions. That is, asking one's younger self why they made certain decisions in life, etc... This wasn't a therapy technique, however, but the real thing.

I turned and said, “No, I don't believe we have ever met before. But I must say, you look a bit familiar as well.”

George the younger shrugged his shoulders, sipping his drink.

A few minutes passed when a young, beautiful woman entered the bar. I'd guess her age to be around her late twenties. She sat down at a table next to the open window overlooking the beach. I noticed George, the younger, turn around and began sizing her-up, admiring her beauty.

 The memory of this encounter with the sophisticated woman on my honeymoon in Hawaii flashed into consciousness at once. I absolutely knew the chain of events that would follow meeting this woman in the empty bar. We would strike up a conversation and immediately connect on a mental and physical level. In a few hours, she would hand me her room number, offering a more kinetic connection later that night. Once Christine fell asleep that night after dinner. I would sneak out of our room and meet the young woman in her room. We would have unmitigated sex like only strangers can or dare. After this meeting, I would come back to my room, relieved that Christine hadn't woken up, and slide back next to her like a garden snake.

Above all else, I believed it was necessary to prevent this encounter, this adultery, from happening because my future depended on it. But what could I do? And really, this betrayal had happened 25 years ago.

I sat at the bar, watching the entire event between my younger self and this beautiful woman transpire before my eyes. How could I intervene and stop this from happening?

In over an hour, I had consumed 4 scotches to see the woman pass George the younger her room number. He stood up and kissed her on the cheek, walking out of the bar and up to his room. 'What a sleaze bag!' I thought.

Leaving the bar, I walked outside to see my cat, Jasper, comfortably sitting on a lounge chair waiting for me. Sitting down next to him, I put my head in my hands, feeling confused but more guilty than anything else. Jasper waited without uttering a thought. He was waiting for me to come up with an answer.

“Jasper, this betrayal on my honeymoon started all the crap in my life. I wish I could change my mind about going to that woman's room. I really don't know why, because I never admitted the fling to Christine, over our 25 years of marriage. I don't understand.”

“There's something you need to see,” Jasper said.

He extended his paw, and instantly we were standing in the hallway of the hotel. The elevator doors opened, and out I walked with a strange expression. George the younger knocked on the door of a room, and the beautiful woman from the bar let him in.

Jasper whispered. “Look.” Standing in the shadow of the hallway was Christine, who I guess followed me to my adulterous rendezvous. She put her ear to the door, listening to the rough and tumble of my fling. After a few minutes, she walked to the exit sign leading to the stairs.

“My God, Jasper, Christine knew about the fling the entire time and didn't say a word for 25 years. I'm a total idiot!”

Jasper looked up and said, “She found the card and number in your pants and waited to follow if you decided to go through with it.”

Jasper extended his paw, and I bent down and connected. There I was sitting at the bar again at the same time earlier that afternoon. George, the younger, sat next to me as the handsome bartender asked me what I wanted to drink.

“Give me a scotch neat.” I said.

“I gave you a double on the house. You look like you need it.” he said.

Negotiating Karma (P.3)

Sitting on the bed next to my cat, overlooking the beautiful view of the ocean from my wife's bedroom window, it dawned on me that seeing this mass betrayal from Christine, keeping her lover in her own closet within our home for so many months, surprised me, yes, but there was no epiphany as to why I was continuing to hang about like a ghost in this world.

It did surprise me how she had got away with it for so long, but even more surprising was my utter ignorance and zero suspicion that she was even having an affair, let alone literally right under my nose. Add to the fact that she was also having an affair with my closest colleague at work. I trusted Goldstein. He's not only a great surgeon, but I thought, a good person, too. Why has he betrayed me as well? At that moment, I began to feel extreme self-pity. Interestingly, the more I felt sorry for myself, the more I felt like I was vanishing from the scene. It seemed that the “victim-emotion” is not suited to my current standing in this dimension. I could feel myself slowly moving into a dark void. It was then that Jasper spoke up:

“This emotional self-indulgence crap is not going to help anyone, George. Here, take my paw and close your eyes. There's something else you need to see.”

As I touched Jasper's paw, opened my eyes, and was standing in a bar/restaurant that my wife and I used to frequent on the weekends. The place is called the “Rusty Scupper” and has the best seafood in LA county. Once I got my bearings, I saw Goldstein and my wife sitting in a booth at the back. I decided to join them.

“ George signed the insurance policy over 6 months ago before his diagnosis. Like you suggested, it's worth over 1 million dollars. There's no way the death can be traced back to us because it was simply a failed heart transplant.” she said.

“Well, it helped that I postponed giving George the diagnosis until after you had made a few payments on the policy.” Goldstein replied.

“So, we're in the clear.” she said.

“Not so fast, Christine. Because it was a failed transplant, there's going to be an autopsy. It's standard procedure in any failed heart surgery. George would have wanted that considering he was the leading hospital instructor for all our current residences.”

Christine sipped her Vodka tonic and peered into her glass.

“You know I'm just careful, but will they find anything suspicious in the autopsy?” she asked.

Goldstein looked hurt. “I'd hoped you had more trust in me as a doctor, Christine,” he said.

Good old Saul. He always did have an ego the size of Texas! Knowing Goldstein, he would have left nothing to raise suspicion in my surgery. He is the best heart surgeon in the state. And even if they did find irregularities during the surgery, the hospital would over-look them to maintain Goldstein's reputation, and of course, their own. As far as I could see, now hearing the conspiracy from their own mouths, the whole plan appeared foolproof. My wife and a close colleague had been successful in murdering me for what, a million dollars? This didn't make any sense. Goldstein is a wealthy man from his practice and a vast inheritance he received when his parents died some years ago in a strange car accident.

My wife, according to my Last Will and Testament, would get everything. I made a quick calculation, and $ in the bank, including my many assets, amounted to over 10 million. I don't understand. At that moment. I felt another pang of self-pity and noticed myself falling again into nothing. Looking out the window, I saw Jasper sitting on the hood of a 2020 Mercedes staring straight at me. I ran out of the restaurant and finally reached my cat, who had his right paw extended in the air.

Before entirely disappearing, I reached Jasper just in time. The entire scene changed, and now I was standing on a beach looking down at my younger self, sunbathing next to my gorgeous bride, Christine, a newlywed couple on their honeymoon in Hawaii so many years ago.

Change and the Typewriter

 

Read today a small piece about Theodore Dreiser, a New York journalist and critic, whose pen controlled the fate of any "up-and-coming." author, painter, or filmmaker during the early twentieth century.

Some say Dreiser had too much power, his pen more a thundering sword or hammer than a simple writing tool. What interested me was a small point: He was the first to announce that he was writing with a new "machine," he called a typewriter!

The blow-back from this confession was extraordinary:

"One cannot write with a machine, absolutely impossible"!

"The purity of the written word would be lost forever!"

He received letters from around the world, some pleading to not use this diabolical invention.This reminded me of a time when a fellow student told me she could tell the difference between a piece of writing performed by a pen or a computer. I plunged into the challenge and the next day handed her two pieces of writing, one written with a pen and the other, the computer. A fifty-fifty chance, yes, but could she tell the difference?

My friend read both pieces intently. Looking up, she said,

"Honestly, Craig, you're trying to trick me."

"No," I responded. This is the real deal."

She reread both pieces and said, "This one is written with a pen and the other, a computer."She got it wrong! My point is whether writing with quill and ink or Microsoft Word, the writer's thoughts remain untainted.

Change is inevitable, adapting to change is what challenges us every day.

Steven Spielberg – Schindler's List – Comment

 

Although there are numerous books, novels, documentaries, and films about the Holocaust, all shocking and deeply sad, one would have to rank Steven Spielberg's 1993 masterpiece, Schindler's List, somewhere at the top for its alarming realism, meaningful pathos, and informative message, designed to ensure that the brutal crimes of the Holocaust during WW2 will never be forgotten.

Shot entirely in black and white, the decision to do so by the director, Spielberg says he had never seen a photo or primary documentary of the Holocaust in color, thus shooting the project in monotones seemed the logical action to take. This proved to be problematic for the cinematographer and set designer, because certain colors appear wrong under mono photography, and of course, the lighting is set-up much differently to achieve particular effects. As one producer stated in an interview, "It was like we were shooting two movies." One would have to admit that the film felt to the viewer to be a primary historical source (a dramatic 1940's documentary) as a result of the black and white tones, but also the performances from the entire cast.

Liam Neeson as Oscar Schindler is a performance worthy of all the awards he received at the time. His Czechoslovakian accent is subtle and accurate, every line spoke with deep meaning, and his performance during one of the last scenes, leaving the factory with his wife, the Jewish worker's awarding him with a letter of honor and a gold ring, (made from the filling of one of the worker's) is absolutely superb and terribly moving. Oscar Schindler is a true hero during WW2, spending his fortune to save as many Jewish prisoner's as humanly possible from the Nazi SS.

It should be noted that the violence and abject cruelty of the Holocaust for younger audiences at least, when hearing about the event, can become desensitized, flippantly dismissed as just "something." that happened in the past. What makes this movie so important is the violence depicted is in no way gratuitous. These sadistic criminals acts actually occurred, driving home the point that we should never forget what happened, and do everything possible to prevent the same crimes repeating.

Unfortunately, genocide seems to occur across the planet in various forms to this day, ( Yemen, Rwanda, Bosnia, etc.) all terrible, all crimes against humanity.

If you are a parent, teacher, or citizen, this is the film that depicts the true horrors of the Holocaust, giving it tremendous meaning and has enough impact to ensure it remains in mind, hoping that in the future, this awful event is never repeated.

Australian War Crimes in Afghanistan

 

Opinion

Filling the 24 hours news cycle in Australia today is the newly released inquiry alleging that the Australian special forces committed 39 murders in Afghanistan. There are now 19 current and former soldiers that could face prosecution in the coming months. The defense inquiry reveals a military culture that resembles a common city street gang tactics (blooding) immersed in murder, cover-ups, and on-going lies.

It is reported that the majority of these war crimes were committed or ordered by non-commissioned officers that are part of The Special Air Service Regiment's second squadron, who spread a “warrior-hero.” culture, involving an initiation called “blooding,” where serviceman are ordered to murder innocent no-combatants to establish there 'standing' in the Unit.

In the report released on November 19 contained a particular instance of 'blooding,' where an Afghani father, a non-combatant, was forced to kneel at the foot of a precipice, bound, shot in the head, to then be kicked over the edge. According to the Geneva Convention, this is a blatant 'war crime,' and a crime against humanity. There are other such crimes recorded in the report that will cause great distress for many Australians and citizens across the planet.

It should be noted here that in the past, modern-day war crimes rarely see justice, but the commission stated that reparations for the families of these Afghani murders should be made. Whether those soldiers that committed these atrocious acts see any punishment for their crimes against humanity, the victims' families should indeed be compensated.

I find it astonishing that earlier this year, The Washington Post published The Afghanistan Papers revealing the military and their advisers in a deep quandary as to who was the actual enemy. This report went onto describe Afghanistan as one long “cluster fuck” and an endless money pit for the major weapons manufactures. This is a 'war' that has gone on for over 19 years with no real end in sight. As an aside, despite being a lucrative war for the weapon manufacturers, the country is also rich in natural resources and a major supplier of opium on the world market.

What also should be said that earlier this month, when President Trump announced bringing home the troops from Iraq and Afghanistan, the true warmongers came out of the woodwork in droves. Especially the mainstream media, claiming Trump was being irresponsible and putting our serviceman in harm's way. This is your quintessential war propaganda, spread by the corporations who are an important arm of a vast military Industrial Complex.

Australia has followed the United States into just about every illegal war and conflict since the end of WWII. As part of the 5 eyes network of Intelligence, including New Zealand, UK, Canada, and the United States, it is no wonder we follow the warmonger neoliberals into any conflict around the planet that only behooves Corporations.

The war in Afghanistan has been waging for over 19 years. WWII only lasted 5 years, so this begs the obvious question: Why are we still waging conflict on another sovereignty's soil? The answer is a cynical one, but I believe the truth: It is 10% strategic, in terms of the country's geographical location, and 90% for the corporations and their on-going profit.

When one views this “war” through this particular lens and sees soldiers' carnage on both sides, the war crimes committed. The huge amount of innocents dead simply for profit... anyone with a sliver of conscience should feel a tinge of guilt for what our governments have committed us to in 'our' name – an illegal war for the geographical position and unadulterated profit.

This war must end, and every Australian should feel shame in this latest crime report against humanity, all for the elites and the corporations to make an on-going profit.

Disgusting.

Negotiating Karma (P.2)

My perception of reality, similar to a slow fade-out and fade-in of a scene disappearing and a new one appearing on a screen, like the black and white films of the early '40s (minus the corny soundtrack) something was manifesting into view. My perceptions were fading and were shifting to black. I felt like a piece of dust spinning on the edges of a massive, twisting tornado, heading downward, out of control, towards the eye of the storm. When out of the ether, I heard,

“George, George! Get a grip on yourself. Think! USE YOUR THOUGHTS, GEORGE.”

Like falling out of nothing, I found myself sitting on my desk chair, facing a framed photograph of my wife and me, taken professionally on our wedding day, so many years ago.

Jasper had moved from the window sill and was now sitting on the desk directly in front of me.

“George, I believe you need to hang around a little longer. You may need to rectify a few problems before taking the final leap. And for goodness sake, you're not in this dimension anymore...well”, he paused for a moment, “you're kind of half in this one and a little in the other one. What I'm trying to tell you is you're in control now. You just need to use your thoughts with intention.”

I peered at the old cat, and said, “I really don't have a damn idea about what you're talking about.”

Jasper sat silent for a few moments, and I could see the kitty-wheels turning in his head. He jumped back on the window sill and began cleaning in his left paw. I knew not to ask him anything and bother him because I understood that a cat cleaning themselves is the time they are deep in thought, deciding something, meditating on a problem. I remained quiet and waited.

“George, we have become good friends this lifetime during our short time together. I'm going to be what you humans call “Brutally honest.” You have been living in your own little world, and have missed the important things in your life. Why I believe you are still here, sort of, is you need to reconcile something, something to do with Christine.”

“ Over the years, I've given Christine everything she ever wanted, and more...”

“Stop right there, George. Christine has been doing stuff, bad stuff, right under your nose for months.” he said.

“Like what, Jasper?”

“Okay, this is the hard part. I will give you my right paw, and I want you to grip it tightly, but not too hard. Got me.”

“Okay,” I said.

Jasper lifted his right paw, and once touching it, the entire environment changed. I now stood at the bottom of the stairs in my home in Malibu. Jasper sat on the stairs a few feet above me. I loved this home. Christine wanted to live in southern California's upper crust with the pop stars, film actors, and the rich. A beautiful home over-looking the pacific ocean. We built the house from the ground up according to Christine's specifications. She hired an architect that cost me a small fortune. After two years, we finally moved in, and I thought she was happy. Now Jasper, my cat of 14 years, is telling me a different story.

“Follow me, George,” Jasper ordered.

I followed him up the stairs into my wife's expansive bedroom. The room had a fantastic view of the beach and sea. The problem is the room was solely hers and hers alone. She claimed to need more space, and sex could be arranged between us in any room in the house. (So she said at the time.) I went along with the idea because she did amass clothing and shoes that would rival Denmark's princess. Christine's closet is as large as the living room below, taking up most of the entire second floor.

“What are we doing here, Jasper?” I asked.

I opened the doors of her closet to see a vast space devoid of any clothing. Instead is a make-shift apartment, with a single bed, nightstand, flat-screen television, and a clothes rack full of men's clothing. The room/closet was a pigsty: dirty dishes sprawled across the floor, including fast-food wrappers and empty bottles of Chivas Regal. It then dawned on me why I kept running out of scotch. I would buy a case, and most of it would be gone in less than a month. I kept telling myself that I couldn't have drunk so much and vowed to slow down. Now I get it. This is my scotch!

Jasper sauntered into the space between my legs, and looking up, said, “The tenant's name is Raul Gorgonzola. Your wife met him at a Tapas bar in downtown LA. They started the affair over a year ago, but 3 months ago, Raul ran into some financial difficulties. Christine decided to move him to your home and keep it a secret. Raul has been an 'unknown' tenant of yours for just over 3 months.”

“You mean Christine's lover has been screwing her in my house right under my nose?”

Jasper walked out of the closet, settling himself on Christine's king-size canopy bed. I followed him and couldn't really find anything to think or say at that moment.

Jasper's ears pricked-up. The front door of the house just opened and slammed shut. I heard someone bounding up the stairs, three steps at a time, to see a handsome, young man of around 25 years of age enter the room with an arm full of grocery bags. At first, he appeared startled because the closet door was opened. He shook his head and entered his make-shift apartment, closing the door behind him.

Of course the man didn't see me because I was dead, or half dead.  I was furious with Christine for pulling off such a covert betrayal. Her live-in lover, staying in my house, and me, without the slightest clue. The anger turned in-ward for being such a fool. This was certainly a difficult reality to face, but now I was actually facing it from a different reality. I had to die to discover such an absurd situation and the ultimate betrayal.

“I know what you're thinking, George.” Jasper said.

“I thought Christine was having an affair with Goldstein, not this Raul character...”

“Think about it, George?” he asked.

I thought about it for a second. “Is she playing them both?” I asked.

Jasper ignored that thought and began vigorously cleaning his paws.

Negotiating Karma (P.1)

Standing next to my cardiovascular surgeon, I heard him announce the exact time of my death:

“I'm calling it. 3:43pm. Close him up!”

I followed my old friend back to prep, where he discarded his greens, washed his hands, and rushed out of the operating wing up to the third floor to his elaborate office. He sat down behind his desk and let out a noticeable sigh. 'How can I tell George's wife that I failed the transplant when I virtually promised a positive outcome. I'll use the receptionist.'

'Exactly,' I said out loud, but Dr. Saul Goldstein didn't seem to hear me. It was no more than 24 hours ago that my wife and I, Christine, sat in this office, and listened to Saul weigh-in on the pros and cons of the transplant.

“We have a perfect donor, so I see no foreseeable problems. George, you've known me for years, and I know a winner when I see one.”

Saul picked up the phone and called the reception, asking for my wife to come into his office.

“And I want you in here, Kerri when I break the news to George's wife.” he asked.

“Yes, doctor.”

My beautiful wife of 27 years entered my friend's office and knew exactly what Saul was about to say. She broke down, her head in her hands, and sobbed silently, shaking from grief and disbelief. Saul didn't say a word, now sitting in front of her, holding her hands to somehow alleviate the loss of her husband.

Christine finally looked up and said, “You said our chances were excellent. That's what you said, Saul. You promised.”

“I'm so terribly sorry, Christine. But the heart wouldn't hold. Again, I'm so sorry for your loss.” he said.

Suddenly Christine's emotional level turned from sorrow to anger. “That's not good enough. You promised! You never liked George, anyway.” she stood up and stormed out of the room.

'That'll be all, Kerri.' he said.

Saul didn't make any attempt to stop my wife from leaving his office. He just sat there like a knowing Buddha, walking casually back around his desk and sitting down.

I didn't bother to follow my wife but decided to remain in the office and offer my old friend a piece of my mind.

'You piece of work. I think you failed the surgery on purpose! You're a petty old shit who wanted me to die because of your god damn career. You knew if I survived the procedure and healed properly, I would have retained my position as head of the department. You just wanted my job.'

I wanted to continue ranting in Saul's ear, but I finally stopped myself because I knew he couldn't hear me. Hell, I was dead, And really, why should I give a shit now? But for some unknown reason, I didn't want to let it go. Something has been left unfinished. What was keeping me here, anyway? Where was that “tunnel of loving light” that many of my patients talked about after a near-death experience under my scalpel on the operating table. Why was I still here, a damn ghost?

Acting like nothing had changed, I entered my office across the hall. On my filling cabinet sat my cat, Jasper, curled-up, and sleeping. He finally opened his eyes and stared right at me. He yawned and had a big stretch, and said, “So I see Saul got away with it.”

Jasper and I go way back to the time I picked him out of a litter of alley kittens discovered in the hospital's basement. All three of the newly born's were scrawny and looked near death because the mother didn't survive the birthing process. I knew I liked him when he walked out of the blanket away from the litter in a kind of search and discovery mission. Jasper was different, so the hospital gave away his sisters, and I brought Jasper home. He now is an old man of 14, and has really never left my side since our first meeting. Jasper is now talking to me in human English, and I know I'm absolutely deceased, dead, gone, kaput.

'Can you see me, Jasper?' I asked.

'Gezz, doc, can you hear me?' he asked.

'Yes.'

'Then yep, I can see you, and I know you're dead. And there are a few things we need to discuss. ' he said.

I thought: 'So this is what death is, you can talk to the animals like Doctor Doolittle?'

'What do we need to discuss, Jasper?' I heard myself thinking.

'The reality is that your lovely wife and Dr. Goldstein have been having an affair right under your nose for the past two years.'

'That's not possible.' I thought.

'George, really, for such a smart and kind human, you sure can be an idiot.' he said.

'I just left Saul's office when he broke the news to Christine. She appeared pretty upset to me.'

Jasper jumped off the filling cabinet onto my desk, and elegantly placed himself by the window under the light of the sun. Positioning himself comfortably, he said, “All an act. You didn't see Saul's receptionist in the office, acting as a witness to the big charade?'

'Well, as a matter of fact...'

'They've got big plans, and the grand plan is in motion, now that you're out of the way.'

Mexcalito & the Cliffs (P. 3 of 3)

One would be mistaken to describe the effects of this plant as something akin to grass or even mescaline. It is like you are stamped wholly in this illusion that we term reality, where glimpses of another reality pops-in on occasion, revealing an alternative. Everything inwardly and outwardly feels normal, as sober as the morning. Then, from no-where, something odd appears that doesn't fit at all in one's “normal” perceptions.

We were traveling east on Interstate 40, otherwise known as Route 66 towards the Texas panhandle to the college town of Amarillo. In the summer 0f 1974, I believe there was a single gas station the entire 100-mile trek. You would look out the passenger window to the south or the other window to the north and see nothing but stretches of endless sand.

In the beginning, we traveled in silence, when out of no-where. Greg yelled:

“What?”

“I didn't say anything, man.”

“Yes you did, man, I can hear you speak!”

“I swear, Greg, I didn't say a word.” I said.

We would travel for another thirty miles or so, when out of the blue:

“WHAT.” Greg would yell.

“I didn't say anything!” I said.

“Yes you did. You said that I was driving too slow and needed to gun it a little harder. You said there were no cops around.”

“That's weird,” I said. “I know I thought that, but I know I didn't say it out loud.”

“You also said you wanted to find Denny's restaurant when we get into town. You said you wanted to eat at least 2 cheeseburgers...”

Greg was absolutely correct. That's exactly what I was 'thinking,' but I know I'd never said any of those things out loud. Was this guy reading my mind or what?

Right up ahead sat a figure in the distance. As we traveled closer,  an old man was wearing a sombrero, sitting on an old leather suitcase, with his thumb in the air.

“Do you see that hitchhiker Greg? Are you going to pick him up?”

“No fucking way, man!”

When we reached the strange hitchhiker, Greg swerved the car hard to the left to, I guess, put as much distance as possible between the old man and the car. I looked back, and the hitchhiker was now standing and waving at us with a friendly smile.

Dusk had now turned to blackness. There were no lampposts along the thoroughfare at the time, so all that could be seen was what the headlights permitted. No more than 10 miles further along, sat the old man again, wearing his big hat and sitting on his suitcase in the short distance. This time Greg didn't swerve the car but punched the accelerator, and we zoomed past our persistent hitchhiker.

We didn't say another word to each other until we turned off the freeway on the ramp leading us to the city.

Along the main street of gas stations and various stores, in the distance, sat Denny's restaurant. We pulled into the parking lot, and Greg killed the engine, and we sat there in silence, for it felt like over five minutes. “Okay, man. Let's eat.” Greg said.

After a month of ham and cheese sandwiches and rank TV dinners, sit down in a restaurant and eat real food felt like a brand new experience.

“ Were you screwing with me back there? I mean, you weren't saying anything to me?” He asked.

“No, man, I know when I talk or not, but I was 'thinking' those things you thought you heard I was saying.” I said.

“You mean you think I was reading your mind?” he asked.

Greg then looked out the window of the restaurant and turned a mild form of green. I followed his line of sight to see an old man sitting across the street, sitting on a suitcase, staring at us.

“Well, I'll be damned,” I said.

Greg grew panicked and said. “That's it. I wanna go back to New Mexico. This is getting way too weird, man.”

No, let's just find a rock club somewhere, listen to some music, and have a few 'real' drinks. Screw that old man. He won't follow us into any club.” I said.

Greg had a change of heart, whether from a full stomach of real food or putting aside the situation's strangeness, we paid the bill and headed out downtown. It was not long until we hit a part of town that consisted of mainly strip clubs and pool halls. Finally, we came to a place that had a long line in front of it, and the marque in front had the name of a rock band that currently escapes me. We joined the line and eventually entered the place.

After more than a month of living a routine existence of a Trappist monk, sleep, work in the fields, sleep, swim, work and sleep, day after day, can do a number on your head. Anything outside this strict and narrow routine becomes out of the ordinary. However, we had ventured out with not only escaping a monk's existence but with the enhanced variable of the local plant life running through our brains.

I made my way to the crowded bar and ordered two more G and T's. When I returned, a pretty blond girl was sitting next to Greg, chatting with him up. I remember Greg continued to have a look of shock and loss on his face. We listened to the band for a set, playing the Top 40 covers of the day. I was starting to enjoy myself, The set had ended, and I retrieved more drinks from the bar. Now that the music was less loud, a proper conversation could take place.

In an unusual moment of silence, the pretty blonde peered at the both of us and said. “I want to tell you before we get too friendly, but I'm known as the local white witch in town. And I know you have come across Mexcalito in your travels here to Amarillo.”

In that instant, Greg dropped his fresh drink on the floor and said to me, “That's it, we're leaving!”

At that instant, I wanted to ask the pretty girl how she knew, and who really was “Mexcalito.” But Greg wasn't having any of it. He grabbed my sleeve, and we scrabbled out of the bar in seconds. Back in the car and zooming back west on Route 66, we didn't say a word the entire way back to the hotel.

We never discussed the old man's incident or the self-proclaimed white witch in the rock club during the remaining two months of our working in Tucumcari. Greg was a pragmatist, a man who liked his steak medium rare and potatoes mashed to his liking. Anything that extended beyond this perception of “reality” was simply not discussed nor seriously considered.

It was a year later at college, that I sat on the bed of a fellow actor (we were in the same production) after a few beers, that she turned to me in all seriousness, and asked: “You've seen stuff, paranormal stuff, that others have never seen. I'm right, right?”

I turned to her and said,

“I'd rather not talk about it. And really, you don't want to know.”

Mexcalito & the Cliffs (P.2)

Over the first month working in the desert, nothing really occurred worth mentioning. Greg had our daily routine down to a science. The night before, he's making our lunches of ham and cheese sandwiches, and five Oreo cookies each for dessert with coffee for the mornings. Greg was elevated to the pile driving crew, the dirtiest, and most difficult work. Whereas, I landed with a cement crew, shoveling wet concrete in a crew of locals who could barely speak English. I managed to learn a little Spanish, though just enough to get by. I remember on one day, received two bee stings one after another, rolling in pain on the ground, while my concrete associates writhed with laughter. It was one Friday evening after work, sitting on lawn chairs drinking beer, that Juan, our landlord, approached us and began asking a few questions.

“I notice you two never leave the motel.” he said.

“Well, there isn't that much else to do out here.” I responded.

“ Do you guy's like to swim?”

“Sure, Juan,” Greg responded in a loud beer belch.

“I'll come over in the morning and show you guy's something that many people around here don't know about.” he said.

The next morning around 9:00, Juan pounded on the door, waking us both after a long week on the chain gang. We hopped in Juan's truck and headed west off the main drag.

Stopping the truck, Juan, announced, “Well, here we are.”

From where we were seated in the truck, nothing could be seen except more sand and cactus. Once out of the truck, only a few yards away was the biggest “watering hole” I'd ever seen in my life. In fact, looking down into the water, it was surrounded by jagged rocks, cliff-like edges that had a drop off about 60 feet. To swim, one had to climb the cliffs downward to reach the water.

Greg began his decent, while I looked on with interest and a little trepidation. Though before Greg reached the bottom, Juan backed away and ran to the edge, taking a perfect swan dive, disappearing directly in the center of the water. He soon surfaces with a cheeky grin on his face.

“C'mon man”. Juan yelled. “Dive in. It's perfectly safe.”

It didn't matter that the drop was only 60 feet. It could have been 1000 feet from where I was standing. But something out-weighed my fear in that instant, so I stepped back a few yards and took the plunge, landing dead center in the water. It felt absolutely magnificent. The more difficult part was climbing the cliffs back to the top. Juan climbed the cliffs like a practiced climber/diver. Floating in the water, I watched his accent and followed his lead back to the water holes top ledge.

After witnessing Juan and myself dive from the ledge, certainly not wanting to be outdone, Greg reversed his descent, climbing back to the top. Without any hesitation whatsoever, he took a running start, jumping into the water below.

Over the next two weekends, this became our respite from the outside world. Juan let us in on a secret, that not even the local “gringo's” were aware of...it was our secret.

On the third weekend, the three of us bathing under a New Mexico summer's sun, that Juan brought up something unusual.

“Have you guy's ever heard of Peyote”? he asked.

Greg appeared a little confused. But through my high school days, read everything I could get my hands on by the author, Carlos Castaneda. Carlos was an anthropologist that met an Indian shaman by the name of Juan Mantas. Castaneda soon became an apprentice under the tutelage of Juan in the ways of the Indian sorcerers. His first lesson in “seeing” was under the influence of peyote. Only after this one experience of the local plant Castaneda didn't use it anymore in the art of “seeing,” Thus, his apprenticeship continued.

It was only much later that I discovered that peyote buttons were legal in the state of New Mexico for religious purposes within the Indian community.

Juan pulled out a plastic sandwich bag containing a green substance.

“This is not pot.” Juan said. “It's a peyote. Would you two like to try some?”

Greg and I looked at each other and shrugged.

“What does it do?” Greg asked.

“Well it's different for every person. It all depends on what the soul of the drug wants you to see and experience.” Juan said.

“How much?” Greg asked.

“You can have this one for free. Only, of course, you like it and wish to try it again.”

Having read Castaneda, I was more than willing to give the plant a go. So I asked, “Do we smoke it or eat it?”

“I'd advise eating the plant to gain a better experience.” Juan replied.

The three of us piled into Greg's Volkswagen, and not a word was spoken the entire trip home.

Once inside, Greg said, “Let's eat this stuff and take a drive across the panhandle into Amarillo. The drinking age is 18, so we can hit a few of the rock clubs.”

“Sounds good to me...” I said.

The substance tasted awful, chasing it down with the local 3'2 beer. After around 15 minutes or so, both of us began vomiting. This went on for a few minutes, where the two of us passed out on our respective beds. We woke up at the same time, and Greg was already in the shower, getting ready for our 100-mile trip east to Amarillo, Texas. I followed suit, and before long, we were barrelling down the freeway at dusk.

It was then that shit started to get very strange.

Mexcalito & the Cliffs (P.1)

The summer after graduating my 12^th year of high school, a good friend offered me a construction laborers job in the deserts of New Mexico. The town closest to the working site was Tucumcari, a town I only knew from a Linda Rostand song. After little negotiation with my parents and the excellent argument that the money would be sent home every week for my college tuition, the deal was set. However, only on the stipulation that one of my parents would drive me halfway between Colorado and New Mexico and meet my friend. My dear mother had just acquired her driver's license, so she would be my ride South down I 25. Looking back, this was a significant event for both of us. She had never driven that far before, and this was really my first long-stint away from home.

We finally arrived at a small park just inside of the Colorado border. My friend hadn't shown, so we sat under a large tree in the shade drinking a couple of cans of Coors beer.

“So you call me if you run into any trouble, right”? she asked.

“ Sure mom, everything is going to be fine.” I said.

In the distance, I could hear my friend's old Volkswagen. He arrived all smiles with that boyish charm he was known for all over town. Greg and I were the same age with similar interests in going to college and becoming famous actors. He certainly had the looks and a wonderful singing voice. Though I thought at the time, my looks and voice left a lot to be desired.

“Don't worry, Mrs. M, here is the motel we're staying and the phone number.” he said.

My mom gave us both big hugs and drove off, while Greg and I watched her drive back up North on I 25.

The motel was a real dive run by a local Indian boy. Juan loved us because we were from the big city of Denver. When he showed us to our room, he assured us it was the motel's best room. Once settling in, we ate a few local burgers and drank some beers, when I asked: “So, we start tomorrow, right?”

Greg hesitated and had an expression of guilt on his face.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Well, man, you don't really have the job yet.” he said.

“What'?!

Hey don't worry about it, man, the head foreman knows my dad, and I'm sure he'll hire you tomorrow...”

“Shit, Greg, you should have told me...” I said

“Would you have come all the way down here. If I told you you didn't exactly have the job,”? he asked.

I shook my head, “Probably not.” I said.

“Hey man, don't worry, I'm sure you'll get it.”

At that point, I was a little too drunk and tired to worry about it. The next thing I know is Greg is kicking me out of bed, and we're in his car headed towards the job site.

As soon as I met the construction foreman, Bob Freedman, a 50-year-old, leather-faced man from Arkansas, who I soon discovered had a slight speech impediment, I knew I was in trouble.

Bob didn't really talk like other human beings but kind of spoke under his breath, mumbled, and spat. He chewed a lot of tobacco, so his teeth were the color of slightly burnt logs. I guess he told Greg to go meet someone on the other side of the worksite. He then grabbed a yellow barrel of what I thought was drinking water and threw it in the back of his truck.

“You, boy, gurgle-spit- come with – gurgle – mumble – with me.” he said.

I got in the truck, and we headed out into the open desert. After around a 30-minute drive, we stopped, and he spat at me to get out of the truck. He grabbed a long-handled shovel from the truck and told me to get the water canister...

“Now boy - mumble-spit-I want you to dig a hole -mumble – gurgle- and dig me a hole six feet – mumble – by three feet-spit- gurgle- and I'll be back by quitting time. Got it-spit-mumble.”

All I could do was nod my head as he got back into his truck and drove away, watching the dust from his vehicle disappear, almost glittering on the desert surface like a mirage you see in the movies.

From what I could gather, he wanted me to dig a big hole in the middle of no-where, at a depth of 6 feet. So that's exactly what I did and only stopped every half hour to drink some water and rest. It was a hot day without any shade in sight.

It was around 3:00pm that I saw a vehicle coming towards me from a distance. Old Bob pulled next to the hole and got out. Looking down, he appeared to be inspecting my day's work.

“Okay – spit - mumble- get in the truck.” he said

We soon pulled into the work site, and I could see Greg leaning against the hood of his car, waiting for me. I got out of the truck and saw old Bob and Greg have a short exchange just out of earshot.

Greg waved to me to come over and get into his car. On the way home, I said, “Well, what the hell was that all about? He leaves me in the middle of the desert with no lunch and...”

“Look man, you got the job. That was a test. Don't you see it? He wanted to see if you'd give up or something. I don't know. But you got the job, man”!

Looking back over so many years, I remember being a bit shocked and mostly hungry. Greg stopped at a local shop and bought some tacos and 2 six-packs of beer because we were celebrating. I remember eating half the meat and drinking a few cans of the beer before I collapsed into an exhausted sleep, only for it start all over again at 5:00am the next day.

 

Will a Biden Presidency make a Difference?

 

Awoke this morning to the television blaring in the next room, announcing that Joe Biden had reached 270 electoral votes, and a declaration he is the next president of the United States of America. Certainly, this is a big step forward, removing a right-wing, narcissistic clown from the highest office in the land. Trump, in the end, was an embarrassment for America. A maniac tweeter, and a rambling fool, including his blatant racism, indeed divided a country. From the start, we knew this with his comments on the race riots, “good people on both sides,” emboldening every white supremacist across America. Now that the clown is gone, will anything of substantial change in the US?

In the last four years, the democratic congress has passed just about everything that Trump wanted: $ for his border wall; massive defense budgets, and barely resisted his SC nominees. Since COVID 19, the US is experiencing around 100,000 new cases a day and as a result, towering unemployment, and the great possibility that hundreds of thousands will be kicked out of their homes in the coming months. Trump and the democrats did nothing to prevent this fallout. They did coordinate the biggest transference of wealth to the top 1% ever seen in the world's history. Rather than write a check for the people to survive and keep the economy running, the government had simply taken care of their own. After observing a weak democratic congress over the last four years, there's no doubt that anything will be any different under Biden.

Once the celebration settles, and Trump finally goes away (not without a fight); what will the Biden administration actually do to help the American people.? My guess is absolutely nothing.

Biden even stated during his campaign that nothing would change under his presidency. The old adage, 'business as usual'; before Trump. And what was that business as usual, anyway?

In the Obama era, he brought the US into 7 wars from 2. Obama was hailed as the “drone king' by the military, as he bombed other countries to such an extent that they actually ran out of bombs. He turned Libya into a failed state. And shared with Saudi Arabia in the systematic genocide of Yemen. Domestically, he deported much more illegal aliens than Trump and actually began the systematic separation of immigrant children from their parents as a “deterrent – he also built the cages that currently house these children. He supported the poisoning of Flint, Michigan's water supply. He even visited Flint, and jokingly drank the water as a stunt. Under the Obama/Biden administration, more whistleblowers were prosecuted than under any administration in US history through the antiquated 'Espionage Act.' Biden's 'Crime Bill' created what is currently called the 'Prison Industrial Complex.' More American's are incarcerated per capita than in any country on the planet. Trump put a vulgar face on all these corporate fuelled catastrophes, but they were created and originally put into practice by Obama/Biden. I could go on, but I believe you get my point.

Though many people know my extreme cynicism about American politics and politics, in general, asked me who I would have voted for in this election. My answer was Biden because he is the lesser of two evils. Understanding that both parties are essentially right-wing, though Trump is a little more Right. The choice was an obvious one.

The so-called liberal Left in the United States essentially went to sleep under the Obama/Biden administration. They put a good face on bad policies. This must not be allowed to happen again. Now that we have a conservative democrat in office, the pressure should be laid on even harder. Politicians should not be allowed to only vote in their corporate donors' interests but held accountable for their actions or inactions regarding the American people's welfare.

As far as foreign policy is concerned, these hyped-up regime change wars need to stop. The Trumpian “might makes right,” and their application of brutal sanctions on countries across the globe must stop. We must move into an era of diplomacy, real diplomacy, and not the bully tactics of a Mike Pompeo or the dictates of the military Industrial Complex.

In my well-earned cynicism, I don't believe any of these issues raised above will be addressed, but simply continued with a “kind face.” When the celebrations finally stop, and the Trump-dust settles, we must work together to push our politicians to work for us and stop working for their corporate donors.

We took our eyes off the ball during the Obama era, this should not happen again under Biden.