My novel CONFESSIONS OF AN HONEST MAN is a book about psychological regeneration. The book’s major theme lies in the shattering of hero Aaron’s personality after he has achieved great success. The courage it takes to rebuild one’s life after such experiences is the meat of the book.I admit that this is an autobiographical novel. It travels from 1967 Haight Ashbury to the Afghan battlegrounds during the Soviet Invasion. This excerpt is part of nearly a hundred pages that take place in Afghanistan. Chapter Forty TwoWar Inside and OutSeptember 1982: Konar Province, Afghanistan There is one vulture, sitting on a thermal as if it is a mattress of hot air. It is at eye level with Aaron, as he painfully negotiates switchbacks in his rented burnt-orange Land Cruiser. The bird circles towards him and lowers its head so that it can regard him with one eye. It seems a bored eye, floating at seven thousand feet between two mountains, watching a man in a vehicle. Aaron feels as if he is a tick crawling up the side of some gigantic creature with wrinkled brown hide. He has no idea whether or not he has crossed the border from Pakistan to Afghanistan. He is following the map, given to him by a man in Peshawar, that takes him around the border posts. There is just the trail, the mountain on which he drives, the mountain across the valley. Blue sky above, brown and grey everywhere else. He is glad for the company of the vulture. “So….how’s business?” He asks. The vulture tilts its left wing and soars away from the cliff, then slides back to its previous position. “You know, it’s all about location, location…… there doesn’t seem to be anything here. Of course, you might know something I don’t. Maybe there’s a good rush hour. I should think Afghanistan would be an excellent place to be in the vulture business.” He stops the car’s motor and wedges himself out the door on the mountain side of the trail. It is hot. He pulls his voluminous shirt out of his rope-tied pants and flaps it around, to cool himself. He is dressed in local clothes: they suit him, comfortable, inconspicuous. His hat, called a pakol, is shaped like a pancake on top with a cloth ridge that runs around its bottom, to grip his head and not blow away. A wind gusts up from below and the vulture suddenly rises twenty or thirty feet. Aaron pisses onto the rocks and then gently eases himself out toward the precipice. Way below, a polished-steel ribbon cuts its way around the mountain bulges: some river, a tributary of the Konar Darya. The vulture adjusts its height and comes within feet of Aaron’s outstretched hand. “I’m lost, “ Aaron tells the animal. “Do you know where I can find the village of Kamchi?” The scavenger’s head is smooth and iridescent blue. It blinks once, bends its wing and circles away. “This is the perfect symbolic situation for what my life has become,” Aaron states. The vulture turns back in his direction. There is some elemental attraction between the two living creatures in the midst of vast desolation. “You mind if I talk to you? I won’t anthropomorphize. You’re a vulture, I know. You’re only interested in finding something dead to munch. You see anything down there?” He pushes some gravel off the edge with his toe. It tumbles, gathers momentum, dislodges minor debris as it falls. “Rabbits? Mice? Dead Afghans? Dead Russians?” Aaron is talking because he doesn’t want to be scared. In the back of the Land Cruiser and lashed to the roof rack are forty green wooden boxes of ammunition and twenty five brown cardboard boxes of medical supplies. He is supposed to deliver them to a man named Murid in the village of Kamchi. In return, he will take sixty pounds of opium back to Peshawar, from where he will smuggle the drugs into the United States, packed into the tubing of Pakistani-made bicycles. He has it all figured out. Twelve hours ago it seemed a reasonable plan. He reaches into his pocket and takes out an object the size of a large Hershey bar wrapped in wax paper. Opium, otherwise known as Kandahar Kandy. He unwraps one end of the bar and pulls at its taffy-like surface until he has prized loose a ball the size of a small marble. He pops it into his mouth and lets it sit under his tongue. To Aaron the bitter red-black earthen taste of opium is like honey. He lets it dissolve in the heat of his mouth, feels its warm numbin
We are full time RV dwellers, and we love it. We live in a safe, well maintained Kountry Kampground north of San Francisco. Rent is cheap. A small community of “monthlies”, as we’re called, live year round in our big coaches, trailers and fifth wheels. There’s an unwritten social contract here. We leave one another alone. We want space, peace, we want to keep a low profile.When we arrived in March of 2005 we didn’t know how to conduct our lives in a campground. We hadn’t learned how to choose a strategic site for our RV. We took what was available, a site that was at the center of the northern campground. We had people coming and going on both sides, as well as fore and aft. We had a continual round of new neighbors.At first this was somewhat unnerving. Soon enough we discovered that if we wanted to schmooze, we could say hello, and if we didn’t, we could keep to ourselves and be left alone.The only problem that wouldn’t go away was the strange couple living in a tiny trailer in the row immediately behind us.When I say tiny, I’m talking about an RV model called “The Casita”. It is nothing more than a sleeping bag with walls. It’s interior is about the size of a Japanese capsule hotel room. A person can just about sit upright without banging the head. It has a little sink and a hot plate.There were two people and a full grown Dalmatian dog living in this wheeled packing crate. It was hard to imagine how they could survive under these conditions, yet they were there, coming and going. Unfortunately, the dog didn’t get to come and go. He stayed locked in this dreadfully tiny space. He howled his loneliness and claustrophobic misery in a way that turned our lives into hell. This was our first month at the campground.These were our neighbors .Fox and I we went helplessly berserk over this dog. We tried to hatch schemes to liberate him from his plight.There was something dreadfully “off” about the couple who owned the dog. If I make the statement, “I couldn’t look at them”, I want you to take me literally.I…could…not….look…at…..them.Every time I tried, my eyes seemed to meet a force field that deflected vision. My sight could get to within a foot or so of Ms.X or Mr. Y and then my eyeballs would physically bounce a few feet farther along, repelled by a barrier occupying the space at which I was attempting to look. This was one of the strangest things I have ever experienced.I asked one of my neighbors to look at the couple next time the opportunity arose. I asked for a brief description of the people who were living within eight yards of our coach. The dog was no problem. I could see the dog when he was let out on a chain. I couldn’t see the people. I could hear them, I could make out their voices if not their words, I knew when their pickup truck pulled into and out of the parking space. Fox and I said hello a few times and were completely ignored. That’s weird, to greet a person who responds by behaving as if you don’t exist.The next day my other neighbor came over and said, “I’ll be damned if I can figure out what they look like. I can’t really see them. Maybe they just move so fast I can’t draw a bead.”The human eye moves extremely quickly. It wanders, far more than we consciously know. Eye movement is the fastest muscular action in the human body. These lightning quick movements are called saccades. I read a science fiction novel recently in which alien creatures knew how to scan human eye saccades and move only during those micro-seconds when human beings were looking away. This created a ‘just-at-the- edge-of- -vision’ effect, and gave the aliens a tactical advantage in outmaneuvering their enemies.Whatever the cause, I could not look at, I could not see these people. They must have wanted so badly to be invisible that they had created a psychological force field. This mysterious couple evaded eye contact, they moved in such a manner as to attract minimum attention. They did not engage in conversation. They had taken the adjective “furtive” to a new level. Somehow, they had established an invisibility matrix, they had tuned in to the collective saccade. Fox couldn’t see them. My neighbors saw them more than we did, but not much. My neighbors could detect a few details of clothing or hair color. He couldn’t describe their height, weight, features, ethnicity. Nothing.Only the dog provided a common ground of agreement that they were there at all. Otherwise, they would have been “the people who weren’t there.”When they were home, the dog came out on a chain. He looked at us sadly, wagged his tail and sat quietly, licking his paws. If one of us said, “Hi buddy,” he would come to the limit of his chain, hoping for friendly contact.When the Xys left for the day, which was most days, the dog got stuck inside the little house on wheels. He keened piteously. We were going insane.Other neighbors began to feel the hurt that lived so pitifully in our midst. There was no question that this was animal abuse. Solving the
I’ve written a lot of poems. About ten years ago I was playing drums at a gig in San Geronimo and I was going to read a few poems during the break. I had three black eight by ten notebooks at the back of the stage. When I went to get them, they were gone. A young lady told me that a shabby looking man had taken them. I never got them back, though I’ve pursued the shabby man from Calcutta to Timbuktu. I’ve never seen any of them published elsewhere. I’ve lost whole manuscripts of novels and many hundreds of poems. When computers came along I began backing up everything in triplicate, quadruplicate and beyond. I have so much material that I still can’t find a lot of stuff. I’m not a very good administrator. These are some of my less-frequently published poems, things from the upper shelves that I hold back because I fear that they’re either incomprehensible or so subjective as to have no relevance to anyone but myself. Some of them are really good.WholesThere is no part of youthat is not a whole.There is no hole in youthat is not part of you,whole and alive.There is no whole without holes,no healing without woundsno making withoutunmakingthat which is a whole,to begin again,to be born again, whole.What crying is this, in the hole, in the hurt,yearning to be whole?Leave yourself alone,quiet, make everything workfor you, everything, the base and the noble,the useless and the crucial,whole is what is, resting in the centerof the hole.
Source: Wholes: Poems And Images
Do you love to read? I do. My love of reading led me to writing like an arrow shot from a taut bow. Now what do I need? I need READERS. I don’t churn out books like a machine. I consider everything carefully, every word. I play the drums and I think my writing is influenced by this innate sense of rhythm. That’s what makes it work. CONFESSIONS OF AN HONEST MAN is about a young drummer who must fight for his music, fight his fiendish mother who thinks that having a musician in the family will bring shame to her. Only doctors, lawyers, maybe a dentist if things go wrong, those are the only respectable professions for a nice Jewish boy. Aaron Kantro is not really a nice Jewish boy. He’s a crazy dreamer, sometimes a drug addict, he’s….well, he’s human and he’s interesting. All the Kantro family are interesting people. You’re about to read about oldest sister Mari-lee’s honeymoon. She’s marrying for money, of course, because she’s as heartless as her mother and climbing is the only thing worth doing. Let’s see how that works for her, shall we?The book is online as an e-book, it’s at Amazon and Smashwords.com and costs less than three dollars. Treat yourself and support my efforts.
It was in the late seventies. I turned right onto Third Street in San Rafael and my inner vision exploded with a scene. I was seeing a huge monastic building like a Tibetan lamasery. Think of The Potala. Here was this enormous structure flying in the air, floating away from the ground trailing roots and boulders. It seemed to be headed towards a moon that was chartreuse and hovered above the monastery in a kind of leering way, sinister. Then a voice began speaking. Never mind what it was saying. It was talking inside my head. Like dictation. It was describing things like Destiny; the way Destiny is determined by the thoughts of the one who thinks. Yes yes, very metaphysical.
I drove home listening to this voice describing a system of discipline, a system that corresponded to what I know of Tibetan Tantric practice. I know very little about Tibetan Tantric practice. I have a clue, that’s all.
A book grew from this vision and this voice. At the time I was flush from my recent award from Playboy Magazine and my agent gave the manuscript to an editor and when I was in New York we discussed the book. The agent, Scott Meredith, moved the book around from publisher to publisher for a year. There were no takers.
Lucky me. It would have been a tragedy to have published that book in 1980. I take decades to write my books. They are like big oak trees. They need time to develop.
The Gods Of The Gift has changed so much over the years that it has become a real grown-up book. It’s a book for grown-ups. It’ a book that will be most enjoyed by people who’ve spent some time reading esoteric stuff like Rudolph Steiner, Madame Blavatsky, Annie Besant. The old school mystics. Gurdjieff, Ouspensky. Most of those books are dense, turgid and old fashioned. The Gods Of The Gift should be fun, even though it’s loaded with subtle information and the science part of it is completely crazy.
You don’t have to be an Adept of The Secret Doctrine to get enjoyment from this book. It follows many Fantasy and Sci Fi conventions. There’s the Pinocchio Theme. A race of Androids yearns to be human. But these androids, or as I call them, Robiots, know they’re not human. They call themselves New Sentients. They were originally made to perform work but somewhere along the way a few of them started tinkering with their own nervous systems and found that emotion was possible and even desirable. That’s one of my classic Sci Fi themes. I’ve got astrophysics galore, Black Holes, all that stuff. The book is as much influenced by Kurosawa films as it is by metaphysical lore. There are sword fights, kidnappings, cosmic gangsters and quasi-immortals called Planet-People. These are avatars from the Starwind Communion. When their civilization was doomed they decided to emigrate by squishing all the individuals from each planet into one body. So one hundred eight worlds became one hundred eight Planet-People. One of them, Calakadon, was a rogue and a murderer. He is the book’s main bad guy. He’s murdering the other one hundred seven of his kindred and stealing their Puzzle Pieces. These objects are precious beyond knowing. They will some day be assembled into The Puzzle Of The Endless Gates. Here is another Buddhist concept, in case you’ve never heard that mantra: Gate Gate Beyond The Gate Another Gate—-Bodhisattva.
Shooting star trails with a Canon 20D wasn’t working. I got the images below using that camera and it took a lot of tweaking with Photoshop plug-ins to get them to look halfway decent. Today, however, with full-frame cameras or APS-C models like the Canon 70D I’m using it’s an entirely different story. There is not only a vast improvement in the amount of noise present in my files, but the camera has a robust buffer that will load a ton of shots onto your card without breaks of three or four minutes. That was my problem with shot #2. I took 14 frames of ten minutes each. Somewhere in that process the camera slowed down and loaded files onto the card, which broke up the continuity of the star trails. What I had were trails-with-gaps. Using the freeware called Startrails I was able to clean up the gaps a bit and obtain a more pleasing image.
My partner, Fox, is an Animal Communicator. She’s the real deal, she’s not a poseur playing at “Pet Psychic” and taking people’s money. Her ability is quite inexplicable unless you embrace some beliefs that tax the empirical world view. I have several of these but I don’t advertise the fact.
About three years ago Fox was called to the home of a toy and teacup poodle breeder. It was a long ride but she was getting some strange intuitions that she could not ignore.
As soon as she arrived she knew the place was a puppy mill. Most of the dogs were hidden behind closed doors but she could feel the suffering. She could smell it, hear it and she could sense it like low hanging clouds suffusing the house and grounds. The assault on her emotions was overwhelming. There was such distress, such cruelty, such greed and cynicism!
Fox consulted the owner regarding two dogs. Why were they so aggressive?
ARE YOU KIDDING ME? she wanted to scream. STOP TREATING THESE BEAUTIFUL ANIMALS LIKE COMMODITIES!
She kept quiet. She was scared. She knew that she was among criminals and she had to tread cautiously.
The puppy mill was catering to a market of wealthy Chinese buyers.
This new class of upscale Chinese are fueling a worldwide vogue for tiny dogs. A documented four-pound poodle can fetch five thousand dollars in Shanghai,Canton, Hong Kong and Beijing.
Fox carefully asked the owner to change the way she treated her dogs. The owner was not receptive to Fox’s advice. She was making huge amounts of money. One of the techniques she used to keep puppies small was to confine them to tiny spaces. They were drugged on tranquilizers to retard their growth. They had nowhere to move, no exercise, so they didn’t develop any mass. The lighter the dog, the more expensive. The unwitting yet culpable participants in this racket, the customers in the orient, were paying thousands of dollars for a puppy that would be sick and crazy.
Too bad. All sales final. You saw the photo of the puppy you were purchasing.
You saw the AKC documents. You sent your money and we sent you a tiny poodle.
While the breeder was taking a phone call, Fox entered a small room and looked down at a little brown puppy. He was confined to an aquarium, not much bigger than a shoebox. He had an IV needle stuck into his leg. He looked into Fox’s eyes. She heard the words as clear as a bell: Help me! Get me out of here!
Without thinking, she opened the top, removed the IV and scooped the puppy inside her coat. The little guy stayed quiet. He just kept looking into Fox’s eyes.
In a few minutes Fox left the house with the closed bedrooms and high fenced backyard full of suffering animals. She drove to a nearby mall and called the police. The result of her action was that arrests were made, the puppy mill was shut down and forty seven puppies found new and far better owners.
Fox made the ninety minute drive home with this shivering puppy inside her coat. His hair was very long. He looked like a little Ewok in need of a barber.
That puppy became our Little Bear. He is now a seven pound dog of disproportionate strength. He is also absurdly intelligent, perceptive, stubborn and willful. He has quirks. He has bad memories. He suffers from PTSD. He can go crazy when grooming implements appear. Anything like gleaming steel, needles or tubes can trigger a momentary aggression.
Bear is, however, happy, healthy, spoiled and loved beyond all reason.
The Message Of The Dogs
Somewhere there is a dog barking.
When I hold my breath and listen
carefully, I can just hear it,
high pitched, squeaking, urgent.
My dogs hear it,
they understand the message,
they bark it onward,
to the dog next door, who barks
to the dog down the street
who barks to the dog in the next
street, who barks to the dogs
in the next town, who bark it
to the dogs in the big city,
who bark it across the state.
All these dogs barking,
started by a frantic Chihuahua
lonely for her people,
fearing they’ll never return.
The dogs across the state carry it on,
they bark across the rivers,
tell the dogs of the whole continent.
In the Pacific, a dog being walked
down a polished deck
and soon all the dogs on the ship are barking.
No one knows what set them off,
barking to annoy everyone, waken peaceful sleepers,
startle amorous lovers,
distract the crew from their work.
Dogs must bark, for this is an urgent matter,
a Chihuahua’s terror. Soon
all the dogs on all the ships, all the trains, all the planes are barking.
Here at home, my dogs continue,
none of my training can stop them,
the bark is more important than human need
for peace and quiet.
Soon the bark has reached Alaska. The sled dogs,
always barking, change their urgent cry of “let’s run let’s run”
to the tune of “ someone please
comfort cousin Chihuahua.”
Russia’s eleven time zones come alive with barking.
Vladivostok to Petersburg,
Irkutsk to Moscow, Russia’s dogs pass it on,
north to the White Sea,
south to the Black Sea.
Soon, Poland’s dogs are barking,
Germany’s dogs are barking,
France’s dogs sniff and lift their heads, piss
on a chair
delicately, decide whether to eat or bark
and yes, they bark. No translation is needed.
Barking is universal, dog emotions are powerful.
Even the wild dogs with their different language
stand up and bay,
the foxes and jackals yip
wolves and coyotes sing.
The bark reaches Easter Island, Tahiti, and
Rangaroa, bark bark, bark bark, roars and squeals and yips
join together, across the earth, dogs are barking
and people are crying “quiet!”, “shut up!”, “shhhhhh”, “No barkies!”
They blow on whistles, snap
clickers, squirt water, shake cans of rocks but the world’s dogs bark.
The whole dog universe
sounds a call that flies with the winds, rises into the clouds to travel
far distances, for one of their kind is distressed and dogs are the most loyal
It is a dog’s duty to bark until the message has circled the world
and the Chihuahua’s people feel a subliminal urge, a stab of worry,
an urge to hurry
home, home, quick unlock the door, the puppy’s gone crazy
the neighbors are furious (dammit why don’t you teach that dog
some manners). They thought she was trained but they leave her
alone, long and often, they think it doesn’t bother her
they don’t know their dog’s terror has gone around the world and
she was invoking the dog power
to bring her people home, and they returned, early,
canceled plans out of vague worry
knowing nothing of the way
the hue and cry of ten billion dogs
was barked across all the time zones of the earth to help
a tiny Chihuahua bring home the people she loves.
Variety is nutrition to an artist. I like to write different kinds of poems, explore different kinds of feelings. I know that my mystic, Rumi-esque poems are appreciated by my audience. I love those poems and the moments they represent. But they aren’t the whole story. No one has ever seen this next poem. I was once infatuated with a woman and my feelings were not reciprocated. In fact, she was a little bit cruel and I suppose my younger and more neurotic self found that cruelty stimulating. It launched an obsession. I didn’t stalk her, didn’t DO anything reprehensible. It was a painful time. I always feel as though if a particular experience of suffering gives birth to even a single good work of art, then it was worth it. Soon I will move this over to the Poetry Page and I suggest that if you like my “variety”, keep your eyes peeled because I’ll be pushing the edges and revealing stuff that has never been published, the dark secret side and, sometimes, the perverse word-hound plays just to play.
Is Love What
Monologue Of An Obsession
July 1, 1995
This feeling lurks
in the stomach
behind the groin
this feeling hides
where least desired
when most feared
into the head
around the heart
takes you, shakes you
by the throat
stalks and talks in shadows
eludes evades ambushes
this feeling hurts
tender as a wound
quietly, behind the door
abhors lonely vacuums
terrible cheating heating the brain
it floods with light
dazzling colors darkest night
this feeling shaves its head
drains, fills lungs with sound
screams, give me just one dream
or let me stop feeling this way.
It cries for peace
offers and withholds release.
This feeling is what it is.
No end, more to make,
more to spend.
This feeling is what feeling is.
I have been knocking at this gate
my whole life,
knocking, knocking, so long
that my knuckles have worn
a hole through the wood,
and sometimes, if I stand
just right, I can see bits of light
coming from the other side.
I am afraid to put my eye
to the hole I have made by my knocking.
It is like looking
directly into the sun.
So I step back and keep knocking
making the entrance a little larger
with each knock,
with each prayer for understanding,
with each thirst
for what lies beyond the gate,
beyond this world.
I must wait respectfully
for the gatekeeper
to answer my summons,
though the temptation to batter
through the hole I have made is strong.
I would risk blindness,
in the world beyond the gate,
if I did not already hear
the footsteps of the gatekeeper.
imagined us into existence.
That something was
very loving, very wild,
very explosively given to
extravagance and elegance,
profusion and color,
yet so gentle that It knew
exactly how much to breathe
into the fire of life
without burning us all to cinders.
Imagined into existence,
we are here, duty bound
to imagine ourselves back to
whose nature must take imagination
as the earth takes wind
for the circulation of its ideas.
I will imagine myself back into
the bosom of that Something
that made me
as a wind-wisp,
as a pink cloud from the most glory-stained