“March to the Sea" by THOR

The pure magnitude and danger of what I requested, the meeting of the ruling Mafia families, was the equivalent of walking into no mans land in between two great armies. I had called for a meeting, of not just two, but all the ruling Mafia families to gather on July Seventh, 2007 on the beach at the North Jedi in Florence, Oregon. The walk to the coast along Rhododendron Drive took two hours with a full pack. In it I had: a change of clothes with extra socks, food consisting of an apple, a bag of chips, and a cheeseburger which never made it to the shore. I eat when I’m anxious. Thirteen copies of Peace-UP Family were rolled around a victory cigar and tucked next to the book “The Essential Ghandi”. On top of all this lay my green bed roll with my name “Thor” written so any person approaching from behind could see who was who was walking along Rhododendron Drive, which followed along the near by Siuslaw river finally empting into the Pacific ocean.

Along the road the banks of sand and moss lifted a few feet and were crested with stunted pines reaching over the way forming a macabre twisted canopy which all kinds of flying foul had made their home. As I trudged under these tangled trees along my solitary sojourn an occasional car would pass. The occupants would sometimes smile and wave, but most looked upon me with curious quizzical eyes wondering; where and what in the world I was doing the lone solitary soldier marching this serene scenic route to the sea. I turned a corner and climbed a hill. Below me and to my left lay the river running and skipping through the wind which ruffled it’s wavy hair causing small tufts of foam on the sharper peaks to lay down like white shadows against the dark olive of the water. Gulls swooped and soared like the swallows above L.C.C.; never landing, and winging with child like abandon through the corridors of the sky. The road was a black tarmac tearing a straight strict line for a half a mile before me. The trees to my right were wild and swept inland like some great comb had tediously and tactfully lay upon them teasing every branch and limb. Still I continued my march to the sea. I came upon a disheveled looking windsurfer morosely tying his board to the top of his vehicle. I said “It’s a hard wind to tack in”. He nodded back, his defeat showing in his squinting eyes as he deftly tied the knots that would keep his board safe from the winds that had surely bested him all day. I continued to place foot after foot and step after step alone and untiring in my march; shifting my pack here and there determined to make my goal. Up another hill and behind the trees again as the road set by engineers’ years ago followed the contours of the land.

Finally, a sign ahead, gave notice of my final leg pointing me to the left. I set off lighter in step straight west and on a gentle grade leading me into the North Jedi state park. The smell of the sea air hung in my nostrils’ giving scent to the pines that had been my only bouquet for miles. The road layout shifted quickly, running down hill twisting and turning away from me like a black snake in tall brown and green crab grass. From my vantage I could finally hear the distant booming roar of the surf like the back round din around a major airport. I shut my eyes’ letting the distant pounding of countless waves wash over me like an auditory blanket of sound. I began crisscrossing my way down the hill diligently watching for cars on the numerous blind corners until I reached the bottom of the steep slope. The road wrapped around a small alcove where a group of people and a dog were frolicking and enjoying themselves in the small offshoot inlet. I walked down the road a ways passing some covert cunning weed smokers in there car and spy a small gathering of people talking and laughing around a picnic table. I stopped and asked them how much further till I reach the Jedi if I stay on this road? They replied “About a mile.” As I turned to go, a man called out to me and said “It’s a lot faster to go around the lagoon” while pointing over his shoulder.

I continued by the group intent on not losing my momentum and passed through a path in the grass. There in front of me lay a calm water lagoon. A rock wall set by the Army Core of Engineers’ bordered it on the left keeping the river in its turbulence at bay. On the right sweeping around in a crescent was a sandy beach which was hedged by tall sharp beach grass. The wind blew gently here from the North causing small ripples across the surface of the water. The sand had a few foot prints which were erratically followed the meandering tracks of two dogs, one large and one miniature. The smaller of the tracks often were interrupted. I would assume, the owner picked up the smaller of the two dogs and tended to it’s delicate needs. Small strange sand critters resembling alien see-through grasshoppers jumped and hopped at every step I took. My passing must have seemed a great earthquake to the tiny fellows, for they jumped as each of my feet fell, creating a bizarre dancing duet in the wet sand. The sound of the surf was becoming rhythmic the closer I got to the actual shoreline.

 I crested a small hill which thread its way through the tall grass and crossed the parking lot which I had crossed seven years before. I passed the final bluff and looked over the fields of sand and small dunes that spread between me and the sea. Some great storm raging had washed and strewn salt white bleached logs of every shape and size upon the tan sand; as if some mad voodoo doctor was throwing bones in a fortune telling ritual. I stopped putting my hoddie on under my leather for it suddenly was very chilly. The North wind was blowing its’ cold breath in a steady stream, intent on moving the sand one granule at a time, covering the tracks of those who had passed and resetting the hills and dunes in its’ fervor. I plodded to the waters edge dipping my fingers into the receding surf and then licking off the sticky salty sea water in sort of a ritual. I took my laurels and climbed atop of a stump that resembled a large gnarled fist of giant that was buried beneath up to his wrist. Small birds ran and scampered back and forth on the beach cheeping and peeping always a step in front of the waves like small children playing tag with the surf. I pulled out my victory cigar, lighting it and pulled hard allowing the rich tobacco flavor to circle around in my mouth like a dark sultry lover. The sun was setting, dipping down to sleep below the fleecy clouds which were its’ heavenly blankets of cotton and lace. The orange light seemed to start a thousand fires on the crests of every wave. When the sun sets on the horizon you can almost see it move down degree by degree. Within a few minutes it was gone, yet the red hue of the sky still remarked and told of its passing. My cigar was just a stub in my hand, long forgotten during the celestial display that had unfolded before me.

I had set out at the beginning of the day determined to make it to the North Jedi in Florence. I had started my soldiers’ march to the sea intending to find others of my brethren at the end of my journey. What I found was serenity, majestic glory and over whelming peace. Maybe that was all I was looking for.

Thor

    

Twins AKA Monsters of Chaos, Making of Serial Killer 2

Agent Morris  and Agent  Simmons overview.  Alert to all branches.

FBI task forces on serial killers

"There over 200-300 serial Killers working in the whole United States" on that first day where the numbers kicked into my head form the task force leader and the guide book constantly updated with profile intros, types of serial killers, motives, the whole eerie look into the killers psychopathic mind. 

As an Agent my partner and I were tracking know mad men who at one time had been locked up. No one could ever prove it but the population of the whole prisons homosexuals, had been a mystery of cruel deaths so thought done by mad men from inside gangs and cartels, the reality of what we found in Baltimore changed everything. The camera, the trophy pictures. The house that was smashed beyond belief in one room, the poor mangled body of a young dealer, male on the floor under a group of brand new  white sheets covered in feces, blood, cocaine and semen, and the young girl traumatized by what she saw on the video for only a few seconds with the man who found the camera.  Some heads can handle horror in raw but others it is the existence of this horror that ends any existence they may ever have, other than screaming off and on the young lady was mostly comatose from what she saw. I don't know how the man who told me why he was in the house. I couldn't bust the guy he was just a college kid in the wrong place with an addiction who found the camera and then the body and called it in.

I talked to him for a  short bit about what he saw, but it was the same thing I saw.

We called them Twins for they were twins and were caught as juveniles after killing their own mother and the old man in the house she was watching after at the age of 14. The twins then began a systematic removal of all the drug dealers in the Downtown area around Mt. Vernon.

DNA a whole new realm, and this was the first time we had a video, sometimes we found a body in the river ravaged by sexual  violent death, the new white sheets whapping the person usually a Drug dealer and the trolling in gay neighborhoods gave them their first hunting ground. They had been released at 18 ad this was the first time that the truth came out. I had a video and the crime scene, and was waiting on the DNA. I was guessing that they had been responsible for up to 13 deaths in the local area that fit the M. O.

Agent Simmons bust through the door, her face a dark olive color to her hair and eyes yet a light color over shadowing red from running and something a gleam of something in her eye. I loved working with a doctor of psychology as my partner, she may be a little green but the Chopper fixed that. I had seen things of horror but the "Chopper" changed that, they were still going through the bones, the old man's Drivers license was taken a few years before so all his victims were in the walls in plastic, in the flooring, cut dismembered looks of extreme terror frozen on their faces if the whole face was there. The bodies were all over the back yard in the cellar, and bones, piles of bones, some with strange markings breaks, scrapes, like teeth just barely but the strange slices marks were so bizarre, until the lab came back. An electric knife used to carve Turkeys in the 50-80's was scraping the bone. Cannibalism for so long the old  man was all white and pinkish. The lab suggested he had not been eating regular food for the most part of his diet for some time but all that was just the medical report.

"DNA' She screamed in a eureka with death right behind it, a shadow of horror lay in her words.

She lay the report in front of me. I expected 2 folders and that is what I got; One of all the DNA of over 100 victims counting they were still ripping the building apart. The next folder had the DNA of the "Chopper" and matches. 613 matches hit some all over the country, and a direct link to my last crime, "The Twins" true monsters on the loose and having spread carnage in Baltimore they left.

There was one other thing that pulled at me, the kids and the old man had the same blood type. I had figured the kids was a victim, and we had given him back to his family.

My mind began to real as I picked up the still of the Twins holding the body of their last victim, this young man who looked like a very demon had taken him in horrific lust and violence, and in his Chest was carved "Carnival"  with both the twins in either side taking a picture, and also a date.  June 14, 2015 40th anniversary. I began to take shape all the murders now tied to three serial killers, madmen, and a small boy taken by a woman with papers, back to his loving family who said they were leaving tow to put this terrible incident behind them.

I typed my last conclusion, perspectives. I was too afraid of what I was finding.

1. Connection in DNA between "The Twins" and the "Copper" direct matching a string of murders in 9 states that other task forces were working on, Florida, Kentucky, New York, Washington State, Texas, Alabama, Tennessee, California, and Oregon.

2. Possible conclusion. We have a family who have brought up as serial killers.

Agent Morris April 20 2015

 

The Boy.

                My ma was new, she liked to have parties with her sisters, she said she was ma now, that Da was gone but she really my sister. She say I got a lot of sisters. They come get me because they woman folk in nice small town, "Respected, here we are" she would say.

Parties were different , they would go to the big city and get a motel room, was very important, and the men came in from places the ladies brought them then used them in party like Pa showed me. Then they play cut. I liked cut, and they let me play. The man would be naked and the goal was 9. We copped off his fingers and his party thing but it took a while that is why is it a game. We all stand around the bed and when we ready sis she yells go, and we got things for cutting like knives or short swords and meat cleavers. It was so fun I could barley reach but I tried, and it was so fun Da never lests it get real messy, and we whipped it on each other when we were done, laughing the girls always licking each other. Not for me till I was man. Then they would teach me like Da. One my sisters always won the prize, one who he partied with and it was hers and still full of sweet love as she swallowed the limp fragment of manhood. W played splash then, before we took the plastic down. We would go camping next and a have a feast in the woods with just the sisters and me and the van in tents and they told the stories of Carnival like Da. I liked my new home.   

 

Horror is knowledge of what is really happening, now as we speak, horror.

THOR

Wild Horses to Drag Me Away

It began snowing as the shuttle entered the Portland area. The festive feeling of the oncoming Christmas was starting to envelope all under this white blanket that gently began to cover the black streets, gray sidewalks, and the dark olive green pines. Though I had left everything behind I had begun to love and invest in; the journey home was a reprieve from the battle and pain that raged inside of me. I looked forward to seeing my family, to seeing familiar surroundings, and to seeing my dad. Soon I would be judged on my merits and skills not on the color of my skin or as a scapegoat for every imagined fear that the underground or establishment felt to thwart my every move with. Home was always safe.

            I remember James and the energy around him; it was almost tangible in total juxtaposition to his garb a blue bandana worn loosely over long hair a black shirt and an old beaten P-coat. We would become close on the short leg of our journey together. He told me after we had exchanged a few stories that his Shaman had sent him on a journey and to meet someone, who in reference was I; he inclined. Our bus left out of Portland and headed west into the country and the snow storm. Our first bus driver was your urban driver without the consummate driving skills to brave the snow as we stopped in the Cascades after a few hills and waited on the side of the road for a plow to come clear the way. Eventually the plow arrived and our extended rest stop was over. We continued on at a moderate pace until we hit our next bus driver change over.

A small squat yet lean man with silvering hair became our next driver. His method of driving was amazing to behold. I had a bag of weed, so I was up at night when all the others on the bus had long since fallen asleep. As we hit the high Rockies the bus driver got into his grove. The snow storm had stopped and the sky was the kind of clear where you feel you can reach out and touch the stars. The jet black was interposed with the purple and white topped mountains that lay in embroider on the entire horizon. Every where ice and snow caught the star and moonlight creating a surreal landscape out of a fairy land. The asphalt of the highway had a hard frozen layer of snow which we were zooming across. I thought a while for what word would best describe the bus’s movement and zooming is really it. The driver had a system of controlled bursts of petal to the metal, and I would think he knew his route hill by hill for his method of climbing each one required that the road was straight on the other side. He sort of built momentum for the next hill and gathered together a rhythm which left us almost flying above the ice. I will explain. The hills were laid out like waves on the sea each following in a succession and as each hill was attacked by the bus the driver would smash down on the gas. The bus’s tires would spin while the bus drove forward like a great locomotive attacking a steep grade, and as the bus began to crest the hill he lay off the gas letting the tires grip the frozen icy road for the few seconds it took the bus to top the hill and begin its downward journey. Then again the driver gassed the engine and the bus surged forward down the hill gathering speed until the very frame shook and the frozen icy scenery flew by. Over each hill the bus with all its sleeping passengers sped through the night.

After a while the hills became lower and the flats longer. It was then that I saw them, the wild horses. We were on a long straight stretch and a wide plain lay to the right of the bus stretching far and ending in small hills. A great black stallion headed the herd across the snow covered plain. I could hear their hooves pounding the frozen ground like distant thunder; I felt their energy like a powerful beating drum deep inside my being. They came twenty strong or more from the plain and matched speed with the bus. Their breath shot forth from their muzzles blasts of steam from the internal mustang furnaces which propelled them thought the glassy frozen night. I cupped my hands over my face against the window to see them better. The great black’s mane flew in his wind, his great muscles rippled and flexed, and his hooves caused clouds of snow to erupt from the plain. Behind him drove forward the herd, golden brown, white, painted and palominos in full gallop shoulder to shoulder across the table of snow they flew, freedom of the night, bounding muscle, and thundering hooves tearing a path through the frozen turf, and as fast as they arrived the were gone. I continued watching out the window with a deep respect and reverence for the night, for the cold frozen landscape, and the wild horses that ruled it.

Our bus was full and it was set up for long rides so we had our own privy. We also had our own Heroin junkie who would make his way to the toilet every hour or two to get high. He would go into a heavy nod after his return. He obviously had not bathed for some time considering the strong body odor that emanated from him. He was a young white male brown hair thin and pale, heroin sheik with a sweat stained yellow button up shirt, gray slacks and a beige coat. James and I had chance to speak of his activities forming a sort of prejudgment mixed with pity. Until something change all that. A Hispanic lady was traveling at the back of the bus with her two children and after her daughter had gone to use the restroom she made her way to the front of the bus. The intercom turned on and the whole bus shushed for the up coming announcement. The driver said, “If anyone has diabetes, you dropped your needles in the restroom and a little three year old girl found them on the floor.” The bus maintained the silence of a library after the Librarian lets loose a deafening ‘SHHH”. I knew what it was. I got up and went to inspect the restroom and as I surmised what lay on the floor was the Junkies works with a loaded syringe full of black tar heroin. I picked them up and made my way back to my seat to confer with James. After a few minuets we decided that the Junkie had to go or turn over his product. It was then James starting asking, “I wonder what heroin is like?” I turned and looked at him with disbelief in my eyes. He did not fully grip the extremity of the situation and lent himself into musings of getting high. That is not where my mind went at all; I lay my concerns for the safety of those around me. Shortly after this the Junkie made his way to the seat across the isle from us. As he sat down I noticed the heavy object that lay in his jacket pocket which pulled on his coat, and his hand as it slid into the pocket to hold the item which lay within. This man was armed. He knew what we had been talking about. I looked at him and let my gaze penetrate him for a long second and said, “You fucked up dude.”

James interjected and said with a menacing tone, “Either get off the bus or we’ll take that from you”

I saw the muscles on the man’s arm tighten and his face became more sallow mixed with a great fear. He said through clenched teeth, “I will fight for this.” This was not a threat but a harsh reality that could prove very dangerous and quickly get out of control.

I looked deep into his eyes forcing him to keep his attention on me not James. I asked one question that still echoes in my ears, “If that little girl died from what you carelessly left on the floor could you live with that child’s soul on your conscious?”

The young man looked at me with a look of surprise on his face and then the question touched something within him. A frown crossed his eyes and he replied in a subdued and morose voice that belayed his true trapped spirit.  “No” he said “No, I could not.”  “I’ll get off the bus at the next rest stop.”

 When we reached the next rest station I spoke with the driver, and told him someone would be getting of at the next stop. I got off the bus and threw the works on the ground stomping and smashing them with my black combat boots into the snow and then put them in the trash. I remember the young man beset by fear across the parking lot. The fear was jail and a forced with-drawl from the heroin that he had become so dependant on. I asked him as his bag was taken off the bus and asked, “What are you going to do?” I was really curious because the next stop was in the middle of no-where. He looked at me and said, “I’m going to find a program, and get clean” turned and walked off into the snow. I have always wondered what happened to him.

The buses next stop was a change over, and we were required to gather our luggage and wait in the terminal. James and I were pretty close by then and still wound up sitting next to each other. I saw some of our new passengers in the terminal among the hustle and bustle of the Gray hound holiday schedule. A family unit was joining our bus a mother and her adolescent daughter and young son. I noticed the way this young girl was acting was to mature for her age. We all got on the next bus and the family sat in the row in front of us. The boy and his mother on the left side of the bus and the teenage girl on the right side, and after a while a young man sits down in front of me boxing the teenage girl against the window. My red flags went up and I said to my self, “This guys either a pervert or he is just going to teach the girl what is appropriate in way of teasing and playful flirting.” I pointed at the two of them and looked at James while I shrugged my shoulders. He responded in kind with his own gesture of non-committal. It was late and we soon all fell asleep for we had been waiting in the terminal for some time. I have a sort of alarm system that wakes me when something is wrong. I know to keep quiet when this alarm goes off, quiet, still, and just to listen. Only two people were awake on the bus, the man in front of me and the teenage girl.  In this case I was awoke in time to hear this, “No, stop, please,” in barely a whisper. In one motion I reached over the seat with my left hand and grabbed the man by his hair while my other hand with knife enclosed circled around and jacked the man against his seat with the knife pressing so hard on his throat he was barely able to speak. I yelled with a deep attack voice, “How fucking old are you?”

 A strangled “nineteen” issued forth from his mouth. The bus was suddenly very awake.

I continued with my assertion of the facts, for I had asked the girl how old she was earlier and he was present. “That girl is fifteen years old, and you’re a full grown man.” The mother assumed a tardy control over her daughter and moved her across the isle. The bus driver stopped the bus and made a radio call to center dispatch who in turn called the police; they would be at Salt Lake City awaiting the buses arrival. Two men positioned them selves at the side of the young mans seat. A rider behind me began to creep by me, real slow and real low. I stopped him and got him to go back to his seat. He explained he had a daughter of his own. I knew I had just saved both of them from trouble; the young idiot from a beating and the other from going to jail for assault. He reached over the seat and held my hand with both his hands and controlled his violent urges. We entered the next bus depot and police were waiting including the Sergeant. I gave over my knife and sheath to James who passed it on to another rider. As we exited the bus the bus driver stopped and shook my hand, and then said, “I was wondering if I was going to use my new toy” and he showed us his tazer, “I was ready to taz him with 20,000 volts.” We both gave a chuckle.

The police offered the proper amount of questions, and then one asked about the knife. I said, “Knife? What knife?” Apparently the lady did not want to press charges which would have been a difficulty because she lived in St. Louis and it would require testimony from her daughter and me. The police said the guy had previous charges for touching a minor and was on parole. The dude’s mother was at the station waiting for her son, and I remember some lady verbally accosting her and saying, “What type of boy are you raising?”

After finishing my Q and A I got back on the bus. The whole bus erupted into applause. I was surprised, and I nodded my head as I walked back to my seat. Just before the bus left the Sergeant got on and introduced himself to me, and shook my hand. I said, “There something you don’t see everyday; a cop shaking a bikers hand.” The bus geared up and we on our way to St. Louis. The guy, who had my knife, brought it back to me with a glinting smile on his face, and shook my hand, James, just looked on with respect. We would part ways in St. Louis but until then we would sing songs and have a rather good time. I remember the teenage girl stepped into the world of a child again and played with abandon with her little brother.    

The bus was only half full as we entered the eastern states. The trees all began to change and the hills rolled low and long. The back of the bus filled up with brothers which is slang for Afro-American young men, some of whom were trafficking weed to the city. I made a trade for a ¼ ounce of brown weed for my last bud of cronic, and was set with weed until I got home. The whole demeanor of the back of the bus changed with the influx of the brothers. The conversations turned more to stories of adventures and the dozens were thrown at unsuspecting passers by on the highway or side of the road. I want to add a note. If you’re on a long distance bus ride with weed don’t eat every time the bus stops or you might wind up with a stinky sour stomach with no where to go. Black people have this very direct indirect way of talking about the elephant in the room by such statements as, “Somebody needs to take a shit” or “Somebody stinking up the back of the bus” and around until the only person who hasn’t said anything is the one with the funk. A simple and effective indirect direct message which is given with definite direction as such is the way of a community with a powerful willfulness.

The bus last major stop before Washington D.C. was in Pittsburg Pennsylvania. I got off the bus and snuck off to smoke a bowl around the corner by the dumpster. Filth and trash littered the ground everywhere and the air had changed to a smog filled haze that I could taste in the back of my mouth. A security guard came out and scanned the area with her coal black eyes behind her gray uniform which covered her heavy squat afro-American form. Her hair was picked into a small round bush with a security hat on top. I had not seen a woman like her for several years for in Oregon in Eugene and Springfield black people were not seen on the street other than on rare occasions and the only other time I was in the presence of a any form of afro-American culture was in Oregon State Correctional Institute a prison. I walked into the bathroom and was assaulted by a vicious, wicked funk that about made my eyes water. There in the middle of the floor was a huge brown log of human shit. I was back on the East coast.

We loaded back up on a full bus all the seats had been filled by new passengers. The last leg of the journey was a fourteen hour drive which I managed to sleep most of the way. I woke as the bus began to enter the Washington D.C. area and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes stretching the best one can while sitting in a bus seat. My thoughts turned to reminisces of home, my friends, things I had not done or thought about for over five years. The bus came into town early the sun was just beginning to come up shining its light on Christmas morning. We unloaded at the Silver Spring station on the corner of Fenton Street and Sligo Avenue and I made my way to the bathroom to relieve my sour stomach and to smoke my last bowl while waiting for my Dad. Dad has a special kind of timing which can be applied to church, a social gathering, or an appointment involving me, and this timing will have him walking through the door a few minuets into the activity that has begun without him. What this cumulated to in this instance is hearing my Dad asking at the counter where I am while I’m in the bathroom just finishing sucking in a big hit. So quick as I can while holding my breath I get my pants up, wash my hands, let out my breath and then shove a mint into my smoking maw  while quick lighting and  extinguishing a cigarette in hopes he doesn’t smell the fresh weed stench coming off of me. I open the door and quickly say, “Here I am” and leave the very obvious smoking bathroom behind me to expel its breath into the lobby of the small Greyhound station.

I walked up to my father and gave him a hug and we headed for his car. It was a big “landlord” sedan that floated down the road like my moms four door Bonneville. We talked a little about my trip in a way of making conversation. I looked out the window watching the neighborhood slide by covered in ice and snow from a previous storm a week before my arrival. Dad pointed out the new center for homeless people where a soup line ran. We were close to the new house and I would get my first look since the renovation and addition. Dad told me a story of him hanging Christmas lights in the form of a tree by accident with the help of Evan on the side of the house. We entered the house from the back where the family room was and Dad said, “Go ahead and just wait for breakfast everybody would be up in a little while. I’m going up to take a nap until then”

I sat down on the couch in the basement and turned the television I had watched for many years on and sat staring at the screen. I thought about what I had just gone through, what I was going to do, and what it meant to be home. I had been flying by the seat of my pants for some time allowing the winds of some unseen force to send me along like a sail boat tacking against some wind from a torrid storm which fully intended to test my seamanship. I had a quiet moment, just for myself, a second frozen in time. I smiled to myself daring something to change the brightness that surrounded this moment. I was home and it was Christmas.  

THOR

#NoDak Medical Dispensary Eugene Oregon Coburg road.

The title is long, and hard to GOOGLE, it I find adding Green Prairie and Coburg Road.

  I walked in and it looked like a waiting room for a doctor, Patients, not profit here. It is top shelf top shelf, for me; you see I have SIEZURES and shake and can't think through the pain often, even to be able to write as I am now, huge Cbn's  Cbc's (so in the oils I am new to the medical side.)

I was walked into the back and met the owner ad he went right into asking me what was wrong with me, and like meeting a doctor he talked about the different strains.  I was honored as a patient.       

#PTSD #VETS #Medicine

I am going on because for the last 2 months since several traumas, one after another kicking my PTSD into high gear. It is bad enough to be handicapped but to have all  that happen. I won't go into details, but I am a hurting pup from a seizure wreak on my Son's Day that beat me like mad men, ribs healing, MVA bus,  Attack again, more damage. Huge seizures more damage.

PTSD off the hook I know I need to clear my mind. #NoDakGreenPraireDispensary  "SHOULD SAY SO DANK!"   

I live off SSI my rent is 620$, 189 Food stamps.  I am so broke. I spend my time doing what I love since my Handicapped set in 4 years ago after Graduating Lane Community College, and then before Four years College, Addiction, coming from the streets, "Homeless" still hate that term bring as many others with me that I could , since I taught myself to walk, since I ran 5,000 miles, since I created over 2,500 #ChefJohnthGhettoGourmet , since I kept the grounds for Hope Community Church, winning a Van for the Pre-school with an essay to Sun Automotive for PASTOR BILL WHITE and being it's "Outside Marketing Consultant and Recruiter, and all the volunteering, the benefit for the boy, Chris whose family needed funds to get him to his Brain surgery 3k.  

I am a patient, what they have done financially, medically, MEDICALLY! (I called and just said "Stacey thank you, they stopped, they stopped… thank God" , just a cup of water as I went too far and have a Massive seizure on the floor singing to Stacey.

Yes, Imagine..  I am awake during my seizures, violent destructive seizures, not having them, is making it so I could be me, they were tearing me apart, literally bit by bit.  NOT! having them is an end to suffering, and a inspiration to live, to SHINE! I can write, talk, walk, run, with dignity.

"But those who trust in the LORD will find new strength. They will soar high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint."

Really sums it up, the end of suffering is a Noble endeavor.

 Chef John aka THOR  

 

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.

Monarch Butterfly Swarm, THOR's RIDE!

         My first long distance bike ride to Sky Line drive on top the Appalachians  , I opened the container, dental floss and opened the bag inside were 1/3/4 hit good acid and a big Mushroom top of Psilocybin and we each took half. Wayne on his Water Buffalo and I on my little CX500 and we headed out from Iamsville Maryland. We headed to the highway, that's what it was a highway with killer grass hoppers you could see coming from the field, I was so high I couldn't figure which ones were going to hit me while watching the important things like I was on a bike going 70 mph eating up road. I could see Wayne and watched his lights to catch the braking. I was riding in a tunnel, and the dam grasshoppers kept finding the point right between my 3/4 helmet and the windshield "Bamb" another one got me,. I had leg pieces and other parts stuck on my forehead with a red spot from where the bugger had been hitting me like little field Kamikazes intend on knocking me out. I did blink a lot the slow motion impact as seen from the tripping mind while I watched as they swept over the shield and then exploded on my forehead "Thwack" and little pieces flew out from my face as the main body often ended in my lap. I watched my gold necklace and reflection in the tank shinny black. I thought. A phone call and I answered it, all instincts said go, but I went back in to answer the phone, it the day a man knows he will be a father.  

  We pulled over for a sec when it was getting a little too wild running with Semis all around, passing on then seeing the exit, I thought and braking on the shoulder in gravel. Wayne came sliding up behind me. Gravel, we took a right and went under the highway to a cool road. The peak was coming and we puffed and then road down this small gravel road a cross point to smaller routes to skyline. Wayne built satellites, and rocked the Ashbury district with his college friends working on his masters in 69-74. My mentor; I followed the colors of green that are in the heart of Virginia the wonderful Maples, Oaks, Tulip Popular, Mulberry so many more cast shadows and these our bikes walked over engines in rhythm of power, all was sparking, and as the road came along a creak the shimmering water begs us to look we were moving at just 20 mph, a bike walk, and turned onto a bridge over the creek to our left, and stopped.

            They were every were, and we just stopped in the moment letting the engines idle, thousands, tens of thousands of Monarch Butterflies were all around us. They shimmered and fluttered all around our bikes, landing on the bikes handlebars on our arms, my black leather and then taking off again, as far as you could see a swarm a great swarm of Monarchs. Everywhere they stopped to drink at the stream in this little hidden Valley in Virginia in this little place they rested their wings stationary on the trees full waiting for the others, the only thing you could see for as far a the creak went on the ground on the trees in the air forming a tunnel along the creek 30 feet high. We watched in amazement even more intense from the veils we had crossed all shimmed in an display of ethereal existence rarely seen by man. We stayed in that place, in that time, and let it invade our very essence before we moved quietly on in honor of what we just witnessed. There are moment in time, moments that tell you something about the world, where you future may lay or what you are to tell others, and often the only way to see them with such majesty is on a bike.

Happy V day
Dedicated to the vision of Dead 5 Heartbeats
THOR

Langston Hughes 113 Birthday

It was Afro-American History month and St. Michael's was putting on a Show and I had been chosen to be Langston Hughes and read a poem. I approached the stand, and my mind went back to the moment when I became respected by the black students….

 Yes, it was 1980 but, the racial ethnic separation still lay hard in the classroom even in a Catholic school in Silver Spring Maryland. I being ever separated by my mannerism from the blacks and the color had me at a glance from the whites, it is what it is. Not hate just different, kids don't know too much hate, or so I thought. Hate, rage is real. It comes out in certain arenas and I often was that arena, and violence always came with the hate.

I took another few steps and reached the podium across the stage. Stage fight is an understatement for this young man, stage fright from my heart and into my soul, and Dad was out there somewhere among all those sea of eye glasses  bobbing up and down in the dark filling the whole room. A laugh almost escaped me, in the jittery moment of fear…

We were playing catch foot ball in front of the school, just me and Anabel, Joe, Michael and Ron taking turns, out in the what was called an Indian summer back then, hot September air. The black girls where in front skipping rope, Janis, Shantel, more playing Double Dutch with plastic coated laundry line. It is amazing to watch, just leave it at that. Joe thought it was funny to throw the ball near the girls and I had to catch it. The first time Shantle turned around and warned me, "If that ball hits me or comes over here again you better look out." The girls went back to jumping rope and singing cadence. The boys Ron and Joe wanted to get me yelled at or whatever and mess with the black girls being boys, I add a little white for Ron from his pa, but that is a story for later. Again the ball just missed Shantle.

I had already said it wasn't me and yelled at the guys to stop…

My choice to read Langston Hughes famous poem “I Dream a World.”

I stepped forward, "I Dream a world. a poem by Langston Hughes escaped my lips"…

I got the ball and an argument started, and I yelled back. The first lash was white fire. across my arm and side. I threw the ball at her hitting her shoulder it was a weak throw I was still startled. The whipping started, lash after lash came at me for a seconds then I attempted a charge to close the last few feet and tackle Shantle or get the line. I never made it. White fire screamed from every blow and they came twice as fast and I dropped to one knee, yet she kept hitting my back, by this time the girls where rushing her to stop I finally ran from her reach other the other girls grabbed her. I looked back and it took three girls to hold her. Her face was twisted with rage, pure rage, for something beyond her young life, something I did not understand.

“A world I dream where black or white, whatever race you be, will share the bounties of the earth and every man is free,” Hughes wrote in the poem. 

I lay in my friends arms minutes later, they had opened my shirt and looked inside. I could barley move. The lashing left welts raising on my skin almost a half inch wide and I was crisscrossed everywhere on my back front, arms, legs. I had been whipped.

I continued on an automaton on the stage the words spilling from my mouth in slow motion

"Where love will bless the Earth"…

I was the leader of the black boys who came to talk to me. Explaining she was sorry and she can't get expelled.  She would get beat by her father. 

"We will Know Sweet freedoms way" I continued on.

We sat in sister Mary Raymond's office, the hard wood chairs, desk, there were 6 of us. Shantel, the Leader of the Black boys next to Shantel, Ron next to me, and the School yard teacher. There was rumor of a fight at recess. I sat still as I could the sweat stung in the wounds, and the pain was making me hazy. Principle Sister Mary Raymond was no joke and very smart, and could smell a lie like it was alive like a fly in the air buzzing about her just watching it, as the student squirmed.

"No nothing happened." but my voice waned at the end. She looked at me again, my shirt was buttoned down long sleeves, I had all the wounds covered from out ward inspection. She looked at me and asked again.

This was not a question of did it happen, she knew something had happened and it was with the clothes line, and the student, me sitting in front of her had been whipped in a fight. The fact was there was no way she could know this, but she was Sister Mary Raymond. She sat for a bit and seemed to see something I did not. I think she was the only one who did while she looked us over.

"Okay you can go." she said after some time/ I was barely keeping myself up right and my breathing and sweating had quickened.

"We shall share bounties of the Earth, and every man is free, wretchedness will hang it's head"

We were in the hall outsides and the and the leader of the black boys shook my hand, "Shantle!" he called. She turned back around and stood in front of me.

"Tell him." he said, "You tell this man now!"

She turned and something touched her, beyond the anger and fear, she saw me the savior of her day, a man who she had whipped, something she had seen before.

She started, a tear broke lose her frame shook, "I'm Sorry" was caught in a choked up cry. he went to tell her to say it better, but I lay my hand on his arm and looked at him and shook my head. There were tears in my eyes and soon his. Respect is earned at time of suffering, and honor shows forth even to those young. I hid my welt from my parents until they went away several days later. You can still see them in a certain light, If you look for lines all over, faint lines.

                                      

and joy like a pearl  attends the needs of all Mankind " and I walked off the stage in complete relief.

Amen 

THOR