13 YEARS with Peace-UP by THOR

 

            First and foremost I must say to all those who are in such a place as to wonder if this writing; I am about to do will incriminate any person or group it will not. Those portrayed in it are all factual people or groups yet; I will muddy the water enough for those involved not to be in any peril from the establishment. I will say this I will not deviate from the truth. I am telling this not to vanquish or bereft those who have done injury or attacked my person or ego, those who have shall meet there own justice or redemption as the case may be. That I have seen already. The stories I present during this time in my life are the reflection of that truth at times, and at others the jury is still out. I shall let the pieces fall as they may. Am I still pissed? Well would you be? A great leader and mentor in my life was a man who made this quote. “Anger is an emotion that if redirected and focused can be a great ally. You ask me that spiritual leader from India, Ghandi was one pissed off little man.

 

            I had been working at McGrath’s Seafood house and living out of my Chevy Blazer for a couple of months and had saved up enough money to get a home. I had stopped by at Big T’s a friend of mine from years earlier to pick up some chronic and he had this stuff called Salvia.  A bunch of us guys are all sitting around puffing and Big T goes, “Hey Thor do you want to try this stuff Salvia, its real intense”

            I’m like; “Okay” Big T has been a friend of mine for a while at this point so I feel pretty relaxed in his house. I should have known he might be up to something when I saw how carefully he put the small pile of little dark green plant leaves upon the bong hit he loaded for me. The guys had decided with a little conversation that would be the best way for me to ingest this new drug.

Big T. handed me the large glass bong while saying, “Here I loaded a good one” I took the whole bong hit and Salvia in one blast like a good champ, clearing the camber. About then this little voice inside of me that had eaten its fair share of acid and other hallucinogens tells me I haven’t had a normal bong hit. I continue to hold. The little voice became a big voice real quick. Somewhere in the distance I herd my breath leave my body. I was in what be considered a full blow acid peak, with in 30 seconds. If you have ever had some good acid from the old school chemists, some of the LSD from Sweden, or any other powerful hallucinogen you know the first thing you have to do is accept it. The second is following the way of it. The way of my experience told me to go outside for it had a powerful medicine component that told my spirit that it must in a place of nature not in a dwelling. I stood up and made my way around the couch and went to the back door. Every eye in the room was intently watching my every move. I stopped at the door turned towards Big T and inquired; for speaking while under the influence of heavy drugs I had mastered pretty well, so the fact that the voice that sounded in my ears gave me thought of a small desk sitting in the deep woods with a skinny man sitting behind it shouting orders through a megaphone some where in the recesses of my body to be certain of the location would require to much discipline and would generally be highly distracting, most of all he seamed intent on keeping his slicked back hair in place while shouting orders, “How long will this last?” My deep voice spilled out into the room, gathered in a pool by the couches, and leaked out the door behind me into a yard. Some how I caught big T’s voice after it bounced of the table, wall, wall, and ceiling right over my head until my ears caught up with my drowning eyes and says, “A few Minutes” Remember, I wanted to go outside, so waiting for the answer to the question I had asked left me in a mental purgatory of untold extremes. I stepped outside and the grass said, “Hello” by waving at me in unison with the sing song of the gentle summer breeze. I felt an awareness of the earth and the things that lay just beyond the veil. Whispers vainly attempted to communicate unseen wisdom and beckon my spirit forth to encounter visions, words, and yearnings, of a world not seen by mortal eyes. As quickly as it started it stopped like the end of a roller coaster ride that has just hit the brakes, yet the feeling of the turbulent ride persisted in my center. I stood wanting the whispers to continue, wanting to hear what was said or at least to understand the message I was given. It wasn’t until years later that I gathered somewhat of an understanding.

 I was standing at the smoke area at the Forest work camp which is surrounded by forest on all sides, and I noticed Steps a native Indian staring into the darkness. I walked over and quietly sat down beside him. I had heard strange wisdom from his mouth before, and so inclined to ask him why he looked at the wood in such a searching yearning fashion. He turned to me and replied in a Question, “Do you know why the things in the woods look out?”

I replied, “No.” Steps turned to me. I could see clearly in the moonlight the lines on his face, his long gray, black, and silver hair fell in a wild yet gentle cascade around his face. His countenance bore a quiet reserve and his eyes two dark glassy points like polished onyx seemed to shine back as he replied, “They look out because they have too.”

I bought a 5^th wheel in a trailer park on 41^st street for 800$ from wheel chair James and moved in about July 2^nd 2000’. He lived with a girl named Malynda who everybody called Moe. I was still working a McGrath’s Seafood House, and able to pay all my bills with one paycheck. I began clearing out the remnants of my storage which still held my property that I had managed to save before Linda Hamilton had arrested me. On my last trip to the storage unit; I had to stop and get gas. I began turning into the BP gas station when the driver of a Jeep Cherokee yelled, “Oh no!” just before he slammed into my driver side door. The impact was extremely violent pushing my driver side door in past my steering wheel slamming me into the center console completely tearing it loose, my shoulder slammed into the passenger seat ripping the bolts out on the near side. Before my blazer came to a stop a few feet away; I had unbuckled my seat belt and was already getting out of the passenger door. I went to the hospital two days later. I had to come down first; I had been up for three days at the time of the accident. When I got home from the hospital my Blazer was gone. I questioned a few of my neighbors, and was told that it had been towed away by the insurance agency. I was happy that I removed the stereo a day before. The insurance company quickly issued me a check for 1500$ for my Chevy Blazer.

I called a friend of mine Rod Brigle who the Free Souls called the “Guardian Angel” about purchasing a 1979 Cb750K that he had in his garage. The bike belonged to his father the pastor of a local church who had passed ten years before. “Kay” as I referred to her, all bikers name their bikes its part of the ritual, had 7000 original miles and had not been rode since Rod’s father had parked it ten years before. I had an ongoing insurance claim and was awarded 1000$ a month. All these things lay the template for the next few months; for, I had too much time and too much ready cash, and everybody wanted it.

I began spending all my free time in bars following the rock and roll bands around, riding my bike all over town and doing a lot of drugs. If you wonder which drugs I have always had a long and standing relationship with the marijuana plant, I added to this with methamphetamine called “dope” or “crank”, the ever present alcohol, and even found a ½ vial of LSD that reminded me of my days in college and considering this is a hippie town it’s hard to get good LSD; topping it off I was given a button of peyote which truly left its mark in my soul how. Amid this assemblage of intoxicants I found a new level of experiences that I had not before attained due the addition of meth. I will explain. The natives call it spirit walks and they can be attained through the ingestion of drugs or by other ceremonies which carry heavy spiritual rites that are well respected by those who partake in them. A term used to describe someone on a spirit walk is that they have crossed a veil. These veils have many crossing points to many different places, some not to be trifled with. One of the ways natives and other cultures use is fasting, after three days without water the body begins to die slowly this offers a way across the veil; likewise if you stay up for extended periods of time you cross the veil at a different point; furthermore, adding drugs into this equation compiles the distance across any given veil point. Crossing the veil is not just about the drugs or altered state of the mind but can be achieved through traumatic experiences as well children are very susceptible as well the mentally ill. Many of these people have spent their entire life seeing the world from a view point that most of us would not understand. Somewhere between the months of July and August; I crossed a veil I had not crossed before, or a least as I view it I was awakened in a very powerful spiritual way. The strongest drug known to man is LSD 1000 micro grains will put anybody in a full blown acid trip. What does that mean? Well if you haven’t tripped its hard to explain. I’m not saying go trip, fry, drop, dose, or ingest the first hallucinogen that comes along especially if you’re under the age of 16. Really kids I know I tripped at 16, yet I tell you it was too early for my mind. I believe the results I got back then were a TOO BIG for an ego that had its need to self abuse to get the emotional recognition that he craved most of his life. I had found living without Shaggy and Scooby totally sucked and left me with a void that I summed up in a single line of poetry which I pinned to the wall of my trailer. It read, “Until I again find purpose without you not a line of poetry shall I do.” something along those lines.

I digress and back to the subject at hand; for, knowledge of the change that occurred to me in this time period was like a baptism into the pool of the six sense. At first it was very confusing. I had a hard time believing what my mind was saying. I would have to ask myself, “Are those just Meth monsters? Or “What the hell does that mean.” This unique change that occurred within me was something I had been prepared for sometime, “How?” you say. “All pieces of the puzzle” I reply. In short too much fun and drugs may lead to all sorts of hair brained episodes many of which teetered on the edge of law or just plain crossed it in full intention of willful malice and forethought, others in the culture have found a ever present reality distorted by a world of passion, magic, thrills  and temptation’s. I will say this; I had made the decision one time in my life in the space of two seconds about whether I wanted to live outlaw. That decision had already proved to be the best; at some point in my life I decided to try thinking positive and to, “Be a giver not a taker” Is what I wrote on the side of my 5^th wheel trailer.

 

 The concept Peace-UP was just a little idea at that point, more a list of beliefs based around a system of social ethics. I recall when I first handed a few copies out while doing one of my many stints at lane county jail the deputy at the time pulled me into the office on 3 South; this don’t happen much back in 98, unless meds or trouble. He asked me about the goal of what I was writing. He was looking to see if I was running some form of Gang collective. I can see what he meant considering I called it “Tribe” back then. A few people remember that “Rated X” on of my buster jail homies; I bet my little vato JT would remember the blanket that he painted one day. It had a bunch of florescent mushrooms in a field of flowing blue grass, and Tribe written in old English lettering. Looked real nice watching the sun wash through it. I ripped it off the wall. I straight tripped that day, in the trailer too long with all lot of glass, couple grams, torches and a vial acid. To bad as I recall it was a real nice day when I came back to reality. JT came over later when I had come down a little enough to realize this shit was just in my mind, I was thinking real wrong, and JT was my homie. Not enough time for me to remember that I had left written reminders of his presumed treachery. So when I went to get him high one of those written reminders was stuck to the wall of the kitchen cubicle where I had been posted for an extended time spun to the gills as one would say. He stopped and looked at it then at me, for we had already been laughing and joking. I could see the wheels turning in his head. Mine turned faster and I quickly said, “Paranoid thinking” and shrugged my shoulders in way of dismissing the phantom of madness that had gripped me just a few hours before as I ripped the note off the wall flipping it into the garbage. He still had that quizzical look on his face until I handed him the pipe. He took it still sort of looking at me and then he too shrugged his shoulders and proceeded to get high.

I was rather popular person and found myself dating several of the hot girls in town. Not as a brother would say “top shelf booty”, but ladies of the west coast persuasion, which have a special way about them. Mostly it was I had been trained pretty well early in the life by East coast ladies and of course Grandma, so treating a lady like a lady was pretty well ingrained with me. I remember stopping by this guy’s trailer, and he said his wife was out working. I had asked, “What type of work does she do?” in way of making conversation.

 He replied with a touch of pride in his voice stemming from the fact that he could control his wife in such away. “She’s out sucking dick for cash.”

  I got up and left. I had been also been brought up to not insult a man in his home when I was company, so calling him a piece of shit was not appropriate whether he was one or not. I do remember the way I felt when he told me for my blood pounded in my ears and eyes narrowed for the attack that normally would have come, and then a wait for just a few seconds while I made up my mind whether smashing the man had it’s merits or down falls that fantasy was all I allowed my self.

You can see even being half black in a state where free blacks were forbidden to live when the state charter was written, heralding the highest KKK members of any state that I would be able to date white ladies of high caliber. Not that I was well received by all, yet there is something to be said about honor which often transcends beyond race.

It was the day’s of the Hollywood Taxi on Main Street a rock n roll bar my old stomping ground and previous place of employment as a bouncer had been turned into The Brick, then a hip hop club. It was one night standing outside the Taxi watching this black guy who was stupid enough to start talking shit in front of a biker bar get knocked out by Rick Ryder (RIP) when I became friends with Ron Maple. He had a house down on E street. We became partners in some ventures. It was about that time that the nickname Thor became the only name people would remember for some time. I was hanging out there one day when this cat I became acquainted with in OSCI. I recall him quite well for had had some real skills when it came to working the heavy bag asked me a question, “Don’t you think calling yourself Thor will get a lot of unwanted attention?”

I replied, “That is the general idea. It’s hard to fight who you are though. I might as well get it out in the open.” This caused him to give a quizzical look to me and shrug his shoulders while he replied, “It’s your funeral.” I was still under the impression I was mulloto in peoples eyes; it wasn’t until many years later I would realize that in Oregon I am Black.

I had grown up in the streets around N.W. Washington D.C. where I had seen enough raw violence often with no point other than ego or pride. A person who tried game on somebody on the East coast knew full well that they could be gambling their own life. We play for keeps on the East coast. This in contrast to the West coast where it was all about game, one of which I had not been schooled in. I knew business, loyalty, and respect and had gained a reputation as someone who was quick to knock an a-hole out and stomp them into the ground.  This reputation gained me respect and trust of heavy hitters. It was this trust factor that earned me a friend and trainer by the name of Natasha.

I first saw Natasha walking through the trailer park, and thought to myself that one is serious trouble, no way in hell am I going to mess with her. She showed at my trailer one night, and asked me whether she could stay with me, not tell anyone that she had been at my house, and not to answer the door. I asked her was she putting me in harms way. She replied no. She pulled out an eight ball and we smoked until morning when she left. The next time I saw her she again came to my trailer. Natasha was in bad sorts and asked if she could smoke some of my weed. I said yes. When she had burned through the pile I lay on the plate which was a fair amount of kind, I asked, “Why are you here?” No answer. I continued to ask the same question over and over about every twenty minuets. After two hours she finally turned to me and let her air out, which represented the stress and fear she had balled up in her. She looked at me with eyes that told a story of a heavy load and said, “I just want a friend Thor”.

I gazed back at her searching for a lie in her face. I found none. I replied, “Natasha if that’s what you really want; I can do that.” We became very close; I guess it’s because finding a real friend in the game is real hard to do. I have been true along those lines, where I came from on the East coast my friends could always be counted on, and like wise I in return. I do my best to give advice to friends that will be best for them disinclining myself and my wants. In that way my position in the game was unique in the West Coast game of hustle which basically means lie, cheat, and steal.

The next lesson came in the form of what you can take from somebody using some ones addiction against them. The person who would be the unfortunate recipients of this lesson were my neighbors Pam (RIP) and her husband Jim. It all started with a standard drug deal for a twenty sack of dope “meth” which she paid for in cash. Natasha and I were both close friends with the household consisting of Pam, Jim, and Moses (RIP), so I made the bag heavy knowing it would be shared three ways. The next time a day later Pam came over Natasha conducted a trade for trinkets which Pam had brought. The true item which Natasha had her eyes on was Pam’s wedding ring which was of no monetary value, yet carried a heavy personal value above any other possession she owned as one could imagine. Natasha let Pam know that she would trade for that; the seed had been planted. The next day Pam came over again and brought a handful of trinkets from her medicine alter. Natasha explained she was very sorry but we needed cash, but she might trade for the ring. It took about eight hours for Pam to return willing to trade her ring for a twenty sack. I learned the lesson well and because it was my dope; I made the trade and put the ring on my necklace, and walked away cocky as could be. Janet was there that night; I remember feeling both their eyes burning into the back of my head. Natasha was beyond pissed and we had a row later over the item which I gave to her just to stop the fight.

The first lost girl was brought to me by a dope cook. I could tell right off how far she was into the game by looking at Baby Roo’s (BR) hands and the scars from shooting up. I found out she was going to die soon from cancer, and she had turned herself into a weapon of chaos. Some mornings he would leave my house saying, “I need a big load and a butt fuck” This young lady, twenty three, would give me a crash course in the twisted world of the lost girls, and the suffering they carry. The suffering I recognized and allowed her to receive a gift. I would often tell the lost girls they had one wish in this case I made it for her. I felt she was too young to die. She needed another chance. One day I came home and found blood sprays on my furniture and ceiling from her rigs. Her X-boyfriend who I expressly forbid to be in my home was there. I went off and kicked a metal box fan in till it resembled a smashed beer can all the while yelling, “What the hells” and “God damn when I say something; I fucking mean it” She left the house in terror and went to a phone to make a long distance phone call. The phone call was to the Third street crew in New York City to her uncle “Sauvé” the war lord for the Hells Angels. I was told of the conversation when she returned in a quiet subdued manner. She had asked one question, “Who is this mother fucker?” I was told his response. He replied to her, “You would be no safer, were you with God himself”

Death is a strange thing almost like a powerful friend or a super power. The “fuck it” attitude leaves room for a level of supposed bravery that rivals most forms of “Shiftgreagor” a term of power, courage, and love wrapped in a set of big balls sort of like the Latin machismo, yet extending to both sexes, so when BR found out the cancer was gone. It was as if she had lost all her strength, and she spiraled down in her dope use adding in large amounts of black tar heroin which caused her to have severe seizure breaking her teeth into little nubs. All this was mixed with a heavy duty vibrator as she holed herself up in a shed outside my trailer. I only caught her coming out of it once. She had hidden all that pain, suffering, and fear just a few feet from me. I wonder still why she chose their. She proceeded to push her use to new levels mocking the death that had left her. Baby Roo was admitted to the hospital with an infection in her heart. She left AMA with a tube in her heart; later she told me she had some of the heaviest rushes of her life injecting drugs straight into the tube that led to her heart. I guess some force pushed her back towards the hospital just in time to die.

People talk about after death experiences. Baby Roo was dead for 57 seconds. She told me that God stopped her there and sent her back with a message. It was that she was to help my daughter. I found that perplexing at the time for I thought it meant Dede Janets’s daughter. I knowing that it was Joe “Tripod” Black the 1^st who had told me that something was wrong; I assumed that was what the message meant. I still don’t have the answer for that one, but then again the message wasn’t for me. O’ yeah the light thing and weightlessness and peace were there she said sort of; I guess if Gods talking, you’re listening.   

I had been up for a couple of days and was returning from Ron Maples house. I had met this U of O student who had taken a liking to me a few days before at the Hollywood Taxi. If I recall somebody was giving him trouble and he wanted to hire me as protection. I declined the job, yet said he could hang with me for the evening. He was a strange fellow for the Springfield neighborhood; he kind of reminded me of “Punk rockers” from my high school Montgomery Blair back in the 80’s; for, he wore tie up combat boots and shorts with an old school cameos coat. To top it off he was six feet two and out weighed me by a hundred pounds easy with blond and green hair. He was a strange cat for Springfield. Well, he came knocking on my trailer door with a tape recorder in his hand. He said he wanted to ask me some questions. I replied Okay but, I’m a sleep. He proceeded to ask me questions of great depth and meaning. I would talk for a while then drift off to sleep mid sentence and wake back up and continue on where I left off. Most of my answers were done in this fashion. He was speaking to my finer body, unconscious mind, my spirit, or all of the above. He played it back to me after I woke up for a little. Heavy, too bad I was too asleep to remember it.   

Moe lived with wheel chair James and was my buddy. I had met this girl named Mandy at her trailer and had a pretty heavy crush on her. Moe came and asked me if Mandy and I wanted to go to the coast with her and James. This was a great idea

So I thought. In all truth I became one of the greatest pivotal points of my life. Just before we left Moe asked is it cool if we bring one more person, Brad. I looked at her in a quizzical way and replied I guess if the guy doesn’t mind being a fifth wheel. I had bought a good size bag of dope, some acid, and the ever present chronic along for the ride.  The acid started kicking in half way to Florence and we puffed two pipes in unison. Mandy had sat in the back between Brad and me. Moe wanted to stop a devils elbow the last place she had been with her family before they broke apart. I took Brad to the side and let him know with no uncertain terms where he stood, and Mandy was with me. As soon as we arrived at the North Jedi in Florence Mandy and Brad bailed out of the car and took off for the Jedi. I began to seethe with anger. It was raining ever so lightly on the Jedi that night and not many souls were on the sand the ones who were, circled a large fire. I broke my rage before I set out to the Jedi’s edge to find Mandy and Brad; for, half my mind projected thoughts of kicking Brad repeatedly down the rocks and into the bay inlet until the cold water sweep him away. I leapt into the air over the fire letting loose a roar and headed into the sand. If you have never been to Florence Oregon and seen the vast sand dunes and the beach you should; for, they start just above the North side of Florence and reach their great fields and hills all the way down to Coos Bay some 100 plus miles away. I raged at the sky repeating the words from a God Smack song, “I’m doing the best I ever did. I’m doing the best I can.” What was going through my mind was a question. I am discounting my feelings of frustration and being jilted by yet another woman. The question was this, “Lord do you want me to start this work that will bring an end to the suffering I have seen?” The context of this work would be what is now known as Peace-UP. I raged back and forth upon the hills and stretches of the sand over drift logs and ended up on the surfs edge very alone, so I thought. If you have read the poem, “Footsteps” you know what I mean. I received my answer. There as if a great hand had come from the sky and written with a single finger was my name, John. There on the beach, by the crashing waves, I dropped to my knees, and threw my hands wide letting my shout heave forth from my mouth and let my voice caress the heavens. When God speaks, when the Holy Ghost descends upon a mere mortal everything changes. Life took a turn of meaning, a revelation of purpose, a leap of faith out into the void of unknown…yet I knew I was not alone and never would be again. I went to the Jedi and ran some of the energy and elation out of my system almost making it to the end where the waves rolled and battered in white froth over the black jagged rocks. Even one who was walking in the bliss and shroud of a miracle knows he is still mortal.  

            As we rode back in the car I remember being filled with a joy that resounded in me like the surf that had pounded the beach and rocks. Everything had changed, the music, the high, the future. I had suddenly found direction, and a purpose that was indescribable in words. Ghandi remarked that the power of the spirit cannot be measured by word or intent, but only by the actions of those within the struggle against suffering, subjection, and resistance of evil.

            We reached our property at the trailer park on forty first and I decided to school Mandy and Brad, for they again ran inside the trailer playing the game I thought he had started. I told Moe to go inside and get Mandy before I blew my top right there. She looked in my eyes and saw the restraint and resolve. Moe went to open the door and looked back over her shoulder paused and said, “She asked him to go, not me” She went back inside and retrieved a fearful Mandy. I stood looking at her for a long moment. Adding in the information that I had just herd put my mind into a place of direction. Her long brown hair lay on her shoulders heralding a gentle tan; I realized how young she was. This understanding helped me apply the next words from my mouth with foresight and control. “Mandy, you played a very dangerous game with me.” I allowed a moment of silence while Mandy looked at Moe who quietly nodded her head. Mandy demeanor changed upon hearing this and seeing Moe’s reaction. The happy light hearted joy and playfulness she had displayed all night was replaced by stolid reverence like a child who finds himself in the principle’s office after an escapade that got out of control. “You should have told me right from the start how you felt and what your intentions were.” “If it had been any other day you would have got that boy hurt bad.” “But…” I left it at that. She tried to say sorry just like that kid in the principles office who knew their parents would be called, and just like the kid she saw the futility, and just dropped her head.

I began walking the short ways back to my trailer, yet stopped to again revel in the experience that I had undergone. My eyes reached up to the starry sky; I breathed deep the August air letting my elation and cool night again fill my body, my confused heart, and took my first step in suffering, my first step in joy, and began the quest of Peace-UP.