Worlds Within Worlds Thomas Adam Hill
 
                            INTRODUCTION
                                INVOCATION
 
Images broken, refracted off broken glass of sinews pink and pulsating, feeling, the rising agitated and heated white foam of thoughts once again, ah the spasm of bodies entwined in intimate pleasure, good indeed, but only for a moment... ah go beyond go beyond, as the seizure subsides and the heart rate and breathing slow... to sleep dreaming state of innocuous pink chasms falling into soft caves, caverns smooth and moist cushioning the fall, falling into a deeper sleep, a sleep of timelessness, nothingness, complete and utter peace. Devoid of anything from the senses, profound emptiness and void, gone beyond all stimuli, beyond the slow rise and fall of breathing... into the unknown, not felt Other Realm Beyond Wonderment... Gone, Gone, into the state beyond womb state and death, through transforming and occupying various physical or bodily states becoming different creatures, transforming but continuing The Great Grand Nothingness that has always existed through all changes. The insistence of impermanance ever present, but mesmerizing tranquility, realm of non being, realm of quiet, peace and calm so profound you and the self are gone, transported,  transmigrated, absorbed into it. Now sound beyond all sound shatters the ears, sights so magnificent as to destroy all sight, all senses exploding and imploding into the profundity... when one can get beyond the self and all its trappings and constructs, when one realizes that all information from the senses is false, illusory, temporal, fleeting, beyond all codes habits and behaviors, one reaches the ultimate confluence of space of Worlds Within Worlds... expanding, contracting, pulsating in cosmic multitudiness and melifluous colors... some fabulous glorious Dance of the Universe... White and shades of white, saffron and pink, yellow & red & orange, Blues and violets, Lilacs and Turquoise, greens and reds & blues, purples... fading into Black.
 
Having Gone Beyond, World Within Worlds... the peeling away of the onion skin of Reality.  
 
A mandala  of all colors, of all existence, of all sensation, of all being & non being, Worlds Within Worlds merging form new Worlds, the fabric of Life merging and weaving together, the Tapestry always weaving and transforming into other existences, the permanance of change, the ever present, onmipresent, nature of change creating new worlds... a new colorful city formed and appearing instantly & people too, so diverse, distant & intimate all at once... all knowledge, all information available and accessible, the shuffling of cards in a deck... is it all controlled randomness! Going Beyond! Go Beyond! Into the Fire! Into the Clouds!
 
Into the Worlds morphing into other Worlds, other existences where all that seems to be is not, through the veil of the Illusion of Reality, the Illusions of Realities, Worlds Within Worlds ever exploding... Flower upon flower emerging in front of us, right before our eyes, right before our face, Flower upon flower emerging,  petals of the Rose becoming petals of the Lotus becoming petals of the Gardenia and so on through all Flowers, All blossom before your eyes as you smile... but not just seeing this, not just looking at them, but flowing into them, becoming a part of them, becoming one with them, flowing over and around and into your being as you smile, the Musics of all cultures resounds in a Universal Unison Unique and All Encompassing Chansons and Choirs and the blast of trumpets -  a Note that disembodies and disassembles you, takes you up into its pressure, a mighty sound of all instruments - trumpet, guitar, breaking of clay pots and shouts - horns & strings & wind & percussion instruments, Lutes & Lyres & gourded instruments, all archaic and modern, the sound the reverberation of all of the sound that has every been made in the universe... exploding blood of ear drums, sound pressure disintegrating us - you, me, all of us, into this all of sound, and beyond all sound... The Smells, ungastly stenches and the sweetest of feminine smells and honeysuckles wafting us up into the All Beyond World Within Worlds... Delicious Nectar, ambrosian dreams and streams of delight, creamy cool liquids and solids, or Buffalo tough tears of meat or Dolphin Fin, Plants, animals, water thirst, all Worlds Within Worlds. Breathe...Pause...breathe in deeply all negativity, now breathe out all negativity... The Taste of Water, The big fish eating the small fish syndrome of reality, even those relocating to a distant Andromeda Strain... beyond the sweet succulent taste, beyond all this, beyond all the Worlds Within Worlds... TOUCH, THE TOUCH - ah the sweetest of the senses, engenders libidinous desires, sweet liaisons of youth - tender kisses, electric shuddering caresses, tingling touches fingers to flesh, flesh to flesh, soft sheen and silky sweetness of mouths, lips touching and merging, bodies clinched together... Male & Female, Male & Male, Female & Female, Physical Love and the Physical Expression of Love... grinding of sensual passion so good so wonderful, almost divine - best Symbolized By The Kiss - the sweet pulpy moist flesh, the vertical lines to contract and relax of lips touching oh so gently, the moment before the great giving and going and letting go into the throes of passion - The Worlds Within Worlds of bodies mingling, molecules of juices and moistures and essences and smells, sounds of moans and flesh on flesh suctioning and pounding... and the openness in the eyes that pure pleasure brings of Love of a sort, the taste of one another on the tongue, and the sweet smells of bodies mingling lingering in air & olfactory nerves, falling into the chasms of multitudiness and multicolored orgasms that unbeknownst became the spasm of the universe, the universe throbbing with fleshy space & light, didn't know what we were getting into, & unleashing a great swell & pulsating dna essence of Stars and Space & Planets of all Worlds Within Worlds. Worlds Within Worlds. Entering Worlds Within Worlds in order to arrive Beyond World Within Worlds. Yes, to go Beyond. Go through Worlds Within Worlds in order to go Beyond... where all & nothingness exist and there is no reward only arrival at this plane, space, realm outside all space and time... the final ultimate phenomenal STATE of MIND & BODY & SOUL ECTASY. That is what exists beyond WORLDS WITHIN WORLDS. (That is what waits Beyond WORLDS WITHIN WORLDS. Go and seek this gentle reader, thanks for stopping by, and may you find what you are looking for.  
 
                               
Chapter One        At the HIGH or ROCK AT THE HIGH
(or Rocking The High Museum, or Hard Rock At The High Museum)
 
 
 
A low rumbling in the distance slowly growing louder and louder,
sliding friction of space being displaced, suddenly Jupiter rolling
spinning rumbling through space passes before his eyes...
 
A low rumbling in the distance slowly growing louder and louder,
the sound of two tons of steel and rubber sliding across gravel,
dust blowing up of the long straight row blowing up over the two trees
on the edge of the grassy field, a light brown Ford pickup truck appears
in front of the dust cloud, passes before his eyes...
 
Standing at the urinal, Swan stared at the wall  in front of him.
The two black men in the bathroom were talking to him.
“My best friend’s cousin is here, and she is a great singer.
 She would love it if she could get up and sing a song with you.”
 
Swan was interested. He zipped up his black jeans and stepped to the modern bank of automatic sinks. Things like this happened to him all the time and often he would go with the flow, let it happen, be open to what’s going on right here, right now. Spontaneously he replied.
 
“Sure, that would be great. She can sing with us.
I’ll come over to your table and meet her.”
 
“Great.” Answered one of the men wearing the tuxedoes.
 
“I’m Swan, what’s your name?”
 
Robert. And this is James. Her name is Camille.”
 
“Okay, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
 
 
With this, Swan walked out of the bathroom and across the big granite squares of the floor. The atrium of the High Museum is curved 180 degrees to meet the right angle of the other two sides.  Simple modern granite benches are spaced out around the curved part. Behind them is a white iron railing, thick enamel paint feeling at once smooth and solid to the touch, and a bit cold too. Below the handrail, small pieces of white iron cross each other and form small squares or a grid pattern. A series of ramps have these railings, each going up a floor to a new gallery, the first ramp going in one direction and the other in the opposite direction, ascending up four floors alongside the curving glass wall that is the outside of the building, and open so you can see outside and inside all the way up and down. The atrium is open four stories up and the ceiling, the roof is all glass panels with white metal framework allowing the sky blue sky or otherwise to flood the interior space with light. The space brings the outside in and the inside out, even the night. From the outside some critics say The High looks like a toilet, too white and cold. Swan always liked its Modern International style.
 
Swan had worked in the Museum of Modern Art in New York and other museums and he was fascinated with painting and visual art and artists.
A smooth flow of Picasso’s and Matisse’s and Rembrandt’s and Goya’s
and Rubin’s and Duchamp’s and Dali’s and Van Gogh’s rolled through
his mind as he made his way through the tables with white cloths  
over to the curved section against the railing where his band was setting up their equipment.
 
David or King David as he would later be called, was setting up his drums.
In subsequent years, Flynn (Sean/Swan) would get to know King David quite
well, but for now all he knew was that he was quiet but generally in a good mood, was rock steady in his playing, not much flash, but a good strong beat
you could count on, that cut through and was like a magnet for a groove.
 
His bass player was a young guy with long straight shiny blonde hair,
the TATTOOED LOVE GOD, the CHROME PLATED CUTIE of the group,
not so much because of his talent, but because of his determination and perseverance to be in the band. He became a younger brother to Flynn.
Strange had never played any music other than hard rock and heavy metal,
but his eagerness and insistence and thirst to learn this familiar but alien rootsy style of music was irresistible. His relationship to Flynn would begin almost as son to father, then transmigrate  to younger and older brother, which remained the basis of their relationship for a long time. Finally there was a short period of Swan and Strange as equal peers followed by anger and loathing as the kid (Strange) found Swan to be flawed, certainly in his personal life. So great was his initial admiration for Swan, that he could never reconcile and accept that Swan too was very human and imperfect just like everyone else. Eventually he would spread his wings and fly, like Icarus from Dedalus and the earth, secretly wanting to front a band himself as his talents and understanding grew in the years they were together. But that was much later. For now he was a thrilled young musician happy to be playing in public.
 
On keyboards, piano and organ, was Johnny Zen, also a DJ and music writer for magazines and newspapers, and a long time friend of Flynn’s. In fact Flynn suggested he try playing keyboards less than a year before. His skills
were not great, but his irreverent but intelligent punk attitude was, and he could always keep Flynn’s ego in check.
 
The guitar player was one Andre Gide (Andre Cosmos Ronny HiRise Chronic) he would become) He was a wild unpredictable manic-depressive
type, and it did not help his psychological state that he was a mix of cajun and indian and black and italian, had grown up in New York on Long Island and had come south to Atlanta, having played with Lou Reed and Humble Pie and John Lee Hooker, Freddy King and Muddy Waters. Muddy Waters called him “Little Rooster”. He intuitively understood all the areas of music that Flynn
loved and where his songs came from whether it as R&B, early rock & roll,
British Rock, Country, Reggae, Delta or Psychedelic Blues. Andre and Flynn
would have a long and fruitful and erratic musical relationship. People called them the cosmic twins. Andre was thin and handsome with thick black curly hair and always wore black engineers boots and either a motorcycle jacket
or top hat or expensive coat. He cut a good image on stage. His playing just like his personality ranged from some of the most inspired beyond Hendrix
ethereal sounds, like heavenly bliss was channeled through him, to sometimes
almost an inability to play, like a bipolar psychosis Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde thing. Cosmos had a complete sense of all music that had been done before him and constantly pushed trying to take it further. Tripped up, confused by all the music in him.
 
At one poolside gig he would play a transcendent heavenly inspired impromptu improvised happy birthday for someone, and at the next job galvanize four people into a rage, sensing and poking and prodding their racism or attitudes, he always got to the truth, and the truth, Flynn discovered, was something people don’t always want to know or hear about, let alone be told by some sociopathic mixed breed renegade like Andre Cosmos. But intelligent beautiful women always understood Cosmo and accepted him, even when they knew he was unbalanced, unstable, and insane.
 
The following place, Cosmos would be fumbling with his amp, his guitar, vary effects like no one had ever done before, and sometimes his playing was awesome, and sometimes out of key, cumbersome, like he couldn’t play at all. As his mental condition and his alcohol and drug addiction grew through the years so did the huge mood swings of his playing and his personality. Swinging from the rafters, above the rim, a real CELESTIAL TRUTH SEEKER, and either you loved it or hated it; there was no middle, lukewarm opinion ground. People either liked him and accepted him or hated his guts.
Cosmos was messing with his amp as Flynn walked across the granite floor of the atrium of the High Museum.
 
“Hey Flynn, you got any strings, I just broke one.”
 
Flynn stood staring off into space for a minute. He wore black jeans and a black tee shirt and a brown Tommy Hilfiger coat someone had given him.
His brown hair curled around his neck. He had a bold roman nose and large lips, and his blue eyes stared at the light coming through the curved four-story wall of windows.
 
“I’ll see.” He leaned over, opened a case and asking what string Andre needed, produced a .046 gauge low E string and handed it to him.
 
It was time to start playing. For the most part that always played songs Flynn had written, but they always  mixed familiar Blues and Soul and R&B and Rock n Roll standards in with the original songs, just to keep people dancing and having a good time. Flynn never wanted people to reverentially sit scrutinizing and stoically listening to his songs as though they were some great art containing some mystical truth, but rather mystical and mythical stories and expressions washed or floating, flowing in a river of popular music, rock & roll, R&B, Blues - familiar and with a groove meant to make you move.
 
So they began to play, and as usual, as people got a sense of what they were doing, the crowd started to loosen up and dance and drink and have a good time.
 
After a few songs the Director of the Museum took to the microphone, made some announcements, and concluded thanking the staff for another stellar year, the best yet, and wished them all a merry christmas and a happy new year.
 
While the director was making his speech, Flynn looked around, marveled at the fact that all the blacks sat at tables on the left side, while the whites sat at tables to the right of the stage. He walked to the table where the men he met in the bathroom sat, spied Camille and immediately knew which woman they had been talking about.
 
She was beautiful, with even toned light brown skin, a few faint freckles around her cheeks, warm amber eyes and amber lips. She had long black wavy hair and a flowing red and black dress that accentuated her lithe body.  
 
“Hey, you must be Camille.  Come on, it would be great if you would sing with us.”  It took no convincing. She was ready.
 
By the time they got back to the stage, the director was wrapping up his comments and gave the microphone back to them. Seamlessly they began playing. They started with Mustang Sally and Chain of Fools
and as they launched into their original songs, Flynn walked over to Monique and said you’re awesome, help us out on the choruses, just sing, don’t worry about the words. She sang like some heavenly choir some great speckled bird of the universe as the light of the stars and the moon shone on everyone in the place and everyone danced, entranced and enthralled together. The drinking helped, but it was Camille's voice that transformed the night into a transcendental experience.
 
Flynn would notice this would happen from time to time, when spontaneously someone would join the group, singing or playing harp or guitar or play drums or piano or flute or saxophone, something of the moment, by the moment, for the moment, that would have a transcendental feel, something that tapped the universal eternal, the magnificence beyond belief when everything flows together in a beautiful living way like colors in a rainbow sometimes do.
It would be immediate when it happened, it would lock down the groove that everyone participated in.
 
But it didn’t always work, many times people would join them, and it would tap something horrible, a nightmare of friction, a closed black glass box of the universe where discordant sounds and mean spirit came back brittle and menacing from the enclosed box, causing anger and dissention and bitterness in the band and in the crowd too, sometimes like a Tsunami pulling everything out and flowing back inward over seawall and shore pulling everything together in a bilious cacophony of bodies and cars and furniture and buildings, The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse on steaming beasts spectrally stampeding on all and decapitating any and all good feelings left standing. But this was the luck of the draw. You win some and you lose some, Flynn would think, but you have to play to win, otherwise you are not even there.
 
But this night at The High, they connected and communed with the ALL,
they tapped into the fuzzy warm colored flow of the ecstasy fluid laden liquidity of the universe, bringing all together with happiness and love.
 
Muddy Waters Mannish Boy, Bo Diddley Who Do You Love, John Lee Hooker Big Legs Tight Skirt, Robert Johnson Hot tamales & the Red Hots,
The Girl that Radiates that Charm and Everywhere I Go Arthur Alexander, Hello Josephine Fats Domino Nadiene and Route 66 Chuck Berry, Proud Mary Dylan songs, these are the type of songs they played, but usually they played original songs, songs steeped in the same traditions of 50’s & 60’s Blues, Rock and R&B but with a modern current sensibility, ancient archetypes in 21st Century Life, songs of Love and Struggle and Love gone bad.
 
The people were transported, whipped into a frenzy of dance and drink and good food and friends and the open night atmosphere of the hall. The band ate well, drank plenty and got paid...and the paintings in the galleries lost a little of their dust as the jams echoed and ricocheted around. Camille’s voice was exquisite and soared above the band and flowed down the galleries' halls like a blanket of warm tones.
 
 
Dozens of roses were the centerpiece of each table, and when they were through playing for the night, Swan picked up a few, put them on top of the cases piled on the cart and pushed them to the elevator, down to the basement and out the servant’s entrance. Swan long ago realized musicians were always last, on the bottom of the food chain. In and out servants’ entrances, delivery docks and doors, back doors of clubs, after the customers and patrons and club owners and managers and bartenders and waitresses and cooks and kitchen help and dishwashers and barbacks and hostesses, came the musicians, in and out the back door never staying anywhere too long.
The music was a necessary commodity to keep the hall or club in business.
The admission price, cover charge, liquor and food sales, that’s what really mattered. The bottom line - “How much did we make?”
Swan knew it was true of all the arts. First people have to survive,
have to have food to eat, shelter, and clothes. When all of this is done, satisfied, then people think of pleasure, the spirit, the soul, something to satisfy the soul. First people lived to feed and sustain the body, then to feed or satisfy the soul or the mind. This is what religion provides, and the arts too.
 
Most musicians play for the love of it, to have a good time, to drink and take drugs, whatever people would give you...
 
“Take what they give ya,” Swan would tell many musicians.
 
It also seems to be the case that people want musicians to live on the edge, it validates their existence when a musician will take their offerings of drinks, pills, street drugs, mix it up, see where it takes you- go into the unknown to the source, and see what you find and let us know. They push you to excess.
“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” William Blake.
Ambassadors into the unknown. Like astronauts. So off they went to an after party staying up all night talking and playing and drinking, connecting with people, with the universe. Music is the sinewy tissue that connects us with everything else.
 
You are what you are so you might as well accept it and learn to like it. Whatever you did before you were an aware, thinking person, is a part of what you are, before your awakening. Some people question if we ever really know what we are doing, so you might as well accept it and get on with it, it’s part of the intricate fabric of our unique experiences and life unlike any other.
We all have talents. Some discover their innate abilities and some do not.
Our own unique DNA string stamp. Tolerance of others, tolerance of what they think and how they live. As long as you don’t limit my freedom, cie la vie. Life is short and get on with it.
 
If anyone ever would ask, he would gladly begin explaining what he was all about, starting with his basic simple man, simple life philosophy, which invariably, if not always, becomes a complex web of contradictions that sometimes made sense, and that no one is one dimensional, although many try to be. But no one ever asked him. People wanted him to be one of them. So he just left it as that, loving and accepting and understanding what they were all about.
 
"... Thinking, I do not need societal success to do what I do. It doesn’t matter to me. Some want the mansion on the hill. I want to do my art, that is my life blood. It is coming like torrents now, I have freed my mind, freed my life of worldly desires and possessions..."
 
 
  
                                 PLATO’S BLUES
 
PLATO HAD   A SHINY CADILLAC
GOT 4 SPEEDS   & THE GIRLS IN THE BACK
HE WENT AROUND TOWN  PICKIN UP BOYS & FINE GIRLS
PLATO YOU KNOW  YOU SHOULDN’T A DONE THAT
PLATO  SOMEDAY  THEY GONNA LOCK YOU AWAY
 
PLATO  IN THE SYMPOSIUM
TALKS ABOUT IDEAL LOVE
THE LOVE OF ONE  LEADS TO THE LOVE OF MANY
& THAT’S SUPPOSED TO MAKE ME NOT WANT ANY
PLATO   PLEASE HELP ME OUT
I DON’T KNOW    WHAT YOU’RE TALKIN ABOUT
 
PLATO  PLATO'S BLUES
PLATO  PLAY THOSE BLUES
 
 
 
 
 
                                                        CHAPTER 2
 
WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR
RICHARD THE LIONHEARTED
or THE BICYCLE RIDE OF RICHARD THE LIONHEARTED
"The road of excess leads
to the palace of wisdom."  William Blake
 
 
“POOF!”   “BAM!”
His brown work boots hit the ground sending up a cloud of red dust. Panning up from the boots in the dust, he wore white socks. His legs were bandy and freckles red from days spent in the sun. He wore cut off Levi's and a plain T shirt. He had a ruddy red complexion with freckles, shoulder length curly auburn red hair... and big blue eyes. That's what got most of the women, his kind spacey need some mothering attitude, and his blue eyes. The cloud of red Georgia dust was starting to settle. His first thought is he couldn't believe he landed on his feet. He looked up at tree from which he had fallen. Then he looked around at all the people with the amazed bewildered expressions on their faces. He burst out laughing. To them it seemed that he had just appeared, falling from the sky.
 
But it was the Road Atlanta Race Track, and he was usually there on Race Weekend. Falling out of the tree with cut off Levis and brown work boots on, falling feet first into the red Georgia dust, the scattered crowd of people just looking at him amazed, like he just appeared, falling out of the sky.
 
His father hand painting cars with a brush - Riding across country as a child - like the Joads in Grapes of Wrath but this in the 60’s, plastic water bottles strapped to the car - and his father pissing in a bottle as he drove refusing to stop to merely relieve himself - determined driven tenacious English Mad Dogs & Englishmen Spirit...
 
...Covered in Georgia Red Clay, after turning over a friend’s brand new jeep while driving it wildly in the woods
 
One day while DJing a  radio show, he met a curly headed blonde with blue eyes. She drove all the way from Oregon with Paisley tights and cowgirl boots & a short little skirt, she talked real high & shrill like Minnie Mouse like Minnie the Moocher.  They bought a Farm in North Georgia & settled down, well not exactly, because she was as wild as he was.
 
One day a friend of William's showed up in a brand new Suzuki Sidekick, new and improved with wider wheelbase and lower center of gravity. Tonya had inherited some money and one thing she bought was this jeep type car, and she wanted her old drinking buddy Chris to go off road riding in it. They drove away laughing and enjoying their new adventure.
 
Four hours later they called Swan. Bill wanted to know if Swan would come pick them up. They had been driving crazily through the woods when he hit
a culvert and flipped  the car, but had emerged shaken but unscathed, save for the deep red coloring from head to foot from the Georgia red clay. The car had flipped and had landed with the back corner of on the concrete culvert, they hung there upside down in their seat belts, when they released the belts they tumbled into the spillway which was just water and georgia red clay, red mud to be exact. Tonya had sprained her neck, not in the wreck, but when she fell out of the seat belt into the mud.
 
When Swan got there, they flipped the car over, siphoned the oil out of the carburetor, and managed to start it up. Gray smelly smoke billowed up from the car for an hour, as all the oil that was in the wrong places burned away. Eventually Richard drove off in the mud covered vehicle. There were a couple of bad scrapes on the "hood" and "roof", but surprisingly not bad for a car that had been flipped.
 
One night they were sitting around, Richard, Jonny and Swan, drinking bourbon around the wood stove. It was New Year's Eve, about 5pm. They got to thinking about what it would be like to be in New Orleans for New Year's.
Next thing  you know they were in the pickup truck headed to New Orleans,
and they made the French Quarter by midnight. When out and slept on the Delta in a field... they woke in the morning to a cajun coming up the dirt road,
he came by and said hello and said he was going to check his wild boar traps
he had set in the woods up ahead... that night they went to Tipitina's and The Maple Leaf Bar... they heard Zachary Richard and Rockin Doupsie, later in an all night bar, all bars in New Orleans just close when they want to... listening to stories about Jerry Lee Lewis and Chuck Berry.
 
Another night the three of them were at a party where the Paralyzers were playing. In fact the party  was in a warehouse which lay right by the railroad tracks. Richard and Johnny M and Swan stumbled outside and saw a slow approaching freight train... hey that train is going to New Orleans, let's go... within 2 minutes Richard and Swan had climbed onto the top of the freight cars... and were looking down watching Johnny M trying to climb aboard... Johnny M's right arm had been crippled by cerebral palsy when he was 2 years old... he held the ladder by his left hand and was swinging back and forth under the freight car... the massive wheels of the train clamored and crushed their way into the track as the train rolled on... and Johnny M swinging in under the wheels and back out again, as the train rounded a curve Johnny M let go at just the right time and fell back into an old pile of wood. Swan and Chris (Richard) now sober, having watched Johnny M's life swinging in the balance, decided to get off and go find him... They walked back down the tracks, but no Johnny M. Later that night, about 4am, they found him walking down Ponce de Leon, heading to the Majestic for something to eat.
 
Another time they drove down to the Gator Bowl in Jacksonville just to see The Rolling Stones play. They drove up, bought tickets from a scalper for less than face value, walked in to the stadium just as the Rolling Stones stepped on stage.
 
That's the way his life was, wacked out, maxed out, and it all worked out so perfectly.
 
Swan had been living in New York City, writing and playing music, when he got a call from Johnny M, saying he had to house sit for some friends and wanted to know if he wanted to come down and live with him for a few months. Swan felt he was beating his head against a wall in New York, and knew he needed to try something different, so he decided to go down to Atlanta. Though they did not know it, they had a mutual friend in Richard. Once in Atlanta, it was like brothers reunited. Johnny M and Richard and Swan would go out drinking and carousing night after night. They would show up at a midnight mass at a Trappist monastery dead drunk. Then they would go driving around in the woods where they found someone had dumped a load of pumpkins. So they wrote around in the night smashing pumpkins. Some nights they would leave Johnny M to do the radio show and slip out to the Chattahoochee River and go canoeing in Richard's old aluminum Gruman canoe. They soon bought an old dilapidated house together, and were off and running. Swan built a one room studio out in back of the house and they were off and running. Richard became the drummer and Johnny M the keyboard player in Swan's first band in the South... THE BEGGARS, or Dirty Little Beggars, actually named by Richard.  
 
While not a direct descendent of William the Conqueror (or Richard The Lionhearted) he might as well have been. Richard Boyd Cottington possessed auburn hair, shocking blue eyes, and freckle laden skin. He forever dressed casually, Levi blue jeans in winter, and cut off levi blue jeans in summer, white socks, brown red wing work boots in winter, and in summer sometimes white converse high tops, a variety of colors in his T shirts, and occasionally a blue denim long sleeve shirt or blue jean jacket. Occasionally he would wear brown leather pants and an off white button up cotton shirt. He chose to drop his clothes off at a laundry in a cotton sack, and gladly paid them to wash his clothes for him. Everything had great significance to him, and when he adopted a piece of clothing or a new vehicle or pickup truck, it became an integral part of his life. He was what you might call a conservative anarchist, in that he was resistant to change, but when change did come it was with leaps and bounds.
He always engaged in sporatic and massive experimentations with anything life had to offer. A land surveyor by trade, he preferred to keep his money in hard tangible things, rubies, stones, land, rather than intangible investments like buying stocks in the market. Do it all. Eat it all. That was his motto.
 
He had a voracious appetite for Life, insatiable. The world was his and our oyster, and he believed we should experience as much of it as we could. Live Life to the fullest. It is there for us. It is our world. His philosophy of what to eat was simple. EAT IT ALL. If you restrict yourself to this or that diet, you're probably missing out on something that has importance.
 
But he did not always feel this way. As a young man, a teenager, growing up in what was called "The Golden Ghetto" of Sandy Springs, a neighborhood while not rich was certainly not the hood, but a bedroom community which afforded its children plenty of idle time to make mischief or pursue anything they wanted. His Mother and Father had come from England, an airplane engineer hired by McDonald Douglas Aircraft, Boeing, and during Richard's childhood, by Lockheed Aircraft. Quite a gifted engineer, his father Bill, would spend his spare time rebuilding and restoring old cars for people.... Rolls Royces,  Bentley's, prestigious English cars mostly, though such a technician nothing was beyond his scope. Bill Sr. designed parts for airplanes, but refused to fly, claiming they were too unsafe. "Too many rivets," he said. In his latter years Bill SR. became a consultant to the Georgia Game & Fish Commission, a position from which he advised hatcheries and the commission on the habits of fish. He remained in this rather enviable position until his death in 1990.
 
But when young William was a teenager, while other were playing sports, listening to rock music, running with girls, and drinking and experimenting with taking drugs, Bill SR. forced William (Richard) to return home every day. He was required daily to disassemble engines and carburetors and brake cylinders and valve trains and camshafts and crankshafts and rocker arms and even the myriad intricate gears and parts of transmissions, methodically, piece by piece and while this labor would later become the strength of his character, at the time young William hated it.
 
At night he would sit on his basement bed with a shotgun and plan just how he would blow his brains out, contemplating the various splatter patterns of his blood on the wall. Instead one day he stopped listening to his father and he began to partake in the activities that engage most young people. And he did this with a vengeance. After the oppressive child labor years with his father, nothing would be denied to him again.
 
He would HAVE IT ALL. DO IT ALL. Not ready for girls yet, it started with drinking and drugs and enjoying music. In a few years it would extend to women, and they all loved him. He was exciting, an adventure for sure, didn't care for money but wanted to live life to the fullest. After tiring of women who clung to him for entertainment only, and who couldn't understand that life is sometimes just about lying about and laying about and listening to your heart beat for two weeks straight, or watching TV, he always kept his TV on 24/7.
 
For two months straight, William decided to kick out the jams. With Swan and Johnny M, he had bought an old house in the northwest section of the city, just a mile from Peachtree Street.
 
THE BICYCLE RIDE OF RICHARD THE LIONHEARTED
 
One night he decided to go for a ride on his mountain bike. While consuming a fifth of bourbon, he strapped a case of beer on the rack of his bike. He got out from his drawer the three hits of acid he had been saving for such an occasion.
Washing the blotter paper down with a beer, he set off riding  into the night. Running parallel to the Peachtree Ridge in Atlanta and less than a mile away is another ridge running down Howell Mill Road and Marietta Street straight into downtown. In times past these had been Indian trails and you could go long distances across the Piedmont plateau on fairly level terrain, thereby avoiding all the hills that you would otherwise encounter.
 
As he circled the water works complex housing the reservoirs of Atlanta's drinking water, he began to feel the effects of the blotter acid kicking in. He continued riding down Howell Mill to Marietta Street, riding through the nimbus vapors of a rainbow, rainbow above and below and in him, he was borne along, he kept moving, but he didn't have to make any conscious effort to pedal, or to steer. He was moving along in a transmolified migratorialacious vexatious vortex tangent translucent and tranquil as the geese drifting through the calligraphied colors Saffron & Siena & Power & Blitzen... His jaws hurt from AMAZEMENT. He landed in an alleyway off of Marietta Street and decided to have a beer.
There were two black dudes hanging out there and he offered them a beer. They took them and asked if he wanted to hit the pipe.
 
They loaded the crystalline rocks on the make shift pipe and he inhaled the dream laden smoke. After a while he continued down Marietta Street where the stars were close as he rode the bicycle, close like jewels, like retinas, like skulls crystal clear... all up around him in the night sky and air. He sailed along. Freight trains running beside him shook the air and the pavement  like an earthquake.
 
He was transfixed & enraptured by the staccato abstract world, detached from reality, little photographs cut up and randomly thrown together. He came up to the city and its tall buildings.
 
One of the first landmark modern buildings of Atlanta was the Regency Hyatt Hotel. Designed by John Portman, it was the first of many buildings by him that would shape the character of the downtown area. Namely, no stores facing the street, instead cavernous interior spaces with areas for stores and restaurants and a common food court area for upscale fast foods. This was to become the model of malls all across America, and would solidify Portman's place in the anals (spelled correctly) of architecture as a buttlick away from abominable and abdominal voyeurification.
 
But the Regency Hyatt was a classy place. Polished brass luggage dollys
and concierges with red hats and scrambled eggs and red coats with gold piping, and doormen scurrying about attending to the limousines and fine cars pulling up to the entrance.
 
With a manical gleeful smile, William rode across the curving cobblestones and through the entrance, so bold and mystical no one noticed. Inside the huge vaulting space, tier upon tier of balconies with ivy and plants hanging lushly down, one two inch steel cable suspending a huge domelike black wrought iron cage with parrots and tucans in the middle of an elliptical  restaurant bar and lounge... the gothic glass Jules Vernesque elevators slid up and down outside the concrete supports like test tubes on some fantastic science experiment
gone awry. Up top was the Polaris Lounge, George Jetson gaudy futuristic restaurant that spun around to give a 360 degree view of Atlanta. Inside the great open lobby,  they had to put up nets to catch the jumpers.Too many people were going up to the upper floors and jumping off the interior balconies and splatting up the floor of the lobby.
 
William (Richard) rode his bicycle up and down cascading exposed stairways, through long plexiglass tubes, cylindrical walkways that spanned over the streets and  linked building to building .
 
Finally one of the attendants dressed in red and gold from head to toe approached him.
 
"Having fun sir?"
 
And William laughed and the attendant laughed and the laughter echoed more and more prominently, rattling the parrots and tucans in a deafening chant wail.
William was swept away in a daze, a dream, a blackout.
 
It was 8 o'clock Monday morning, peak traffic time. He looked past the old iron trestles of the railway bridge. All the cars on the 75/85 Downtown Connector,
all 14 lanes of cars going north and south were stopped. Three policemen were coming toward him. They were slowly stepping from railroad tie to railroad tie, coming up the two tracks on the bridge where he was. They approached him gently, with great sensitivity. "Everything's  going to be alright. Everything's gonna be okay." They approached him and gently took him by the arms and slowly led him down the tracks and off of the bridge.
 
In the jail, the other guys were all asking each other what are you in for. When they got to William sitting silently by himself, they all crowded around him and their curiosity just had to know. What did you do? William hesitated. "Well, they said I was trying to commit suicide."
 
There was dried blood on his cheek and in the blue stocking cap, his face was pale from the night's activities.
 
The other guys all kinda slowly moved away from him. OOOOUU! Some kind of nut case. Better stay away from that.
 
But soon as they continued to discuss each other's case, they came back around to William.
 
"They said you tried to commit suicide? Well what happened?"
 
"Well all I know is I was on this railroad bridge over the highway and I had my mountain bike and I had 4 beers left from the case on the back of my bike. They said I was doing all kinds of crazy things and they stopped traffic cause they thought I was gonna jump. They were looking at me kinda funny as they came to get me. There were being real nice."
 
And then William proceeded to tell them about the three hits of acid he had taken and the crack he had smoked in the alleyway and the skulls he had seen covering the black night sky, and riding around in the lobby of the Regency Hyatt, and how he was really having a great time, but he remembered he had a blank space where he couldn't remember what happened.
 
After he finished they all sat there, thinking about his story, pondering and cogitating and deliberating on the particulars of his case.
 
"Now wait a minute," one inmate concluded. You had your bike with you and you had 4 beers left?" The inmate asked as they all took renewed interest and tried to sort out his case.
 
"Yeah!" William replied.
 
"Wait a minute," The inmate paused. "He had... 4... beers... left."
He said it slow and with emphasis. The whole cell fell into silent analysis.
 
"Nah! No way he was trying to commit suicide, he had 4 beers left!"
 
"Yeah...Yeah....Yeah!" came the sporadic chorus of agreement.
 
The verdict was in, and the jury unanimously agreed. He was okay. And they all sighed with relief and became good friends sitting on the bench in the cell laughing and talking and generally having a good time, accepting and moving closer and at ease around William now.
 
When they took William to court for his hearing later that day, he saw a lawyer go up and whisper to the judge. The judge immediately looked out at the courtroom and said, "William Boyd, case dismissed." As he left the courtroom, free to go, he couldn't help thinking the lawyer must have whispered something about the 4 beers.
 
That's the way things happened with William. He just lived life to the fullest, never really hurting any one.
 
 
 
 
  
    
 
    
 
                                                      Chapter 3
      
               The Mummified Remains of King Rameses II
 
The museum of antiquities of Emory University in Atlanta had slowly and steadily become quite a holding tank of Egyptian and Mesopotamian artifacts. Tucked away in a small university museum were many important acquisitions that received international acclaim and attention. Not the least of these was the mummified remains of King Rameses II, one of the most notable Pharaohs of Egypt. It had been acquired haphazardly when a small shop of oddities was liquidated in Chicago, and no one really knew at that time that it was King Rameses II. The curators at the museum began to suspect it was an important find, so embellished were the remains, and soon it was verified by specialists the world over. Egypt, primarily spearheaded by Dr. Shon Doeshot, had aggressively launched a campaign to return goods and artifacts that had been plundered by both native Egyptians and foreign archeologists. They insisted that the riches of Egypt be returned to the place of their origin. The world of museums and collectors and individuals were divided on this matter, Germany for example which possesses the famous long necked  bust of Nephrtiti in Heidelberg, refuses to give the statute back to Egypt. Max Weinberg, the director of the Emory Museum, who had a flair for advertising and the media, and a certain flashy egotistical desire to be famous himself, reasoned it would be more press to give the mummified remains of Rameses II back to Egypt.  He argued, not only would it seem like such a caring offering, but also it would be a big media event as well and bring great attention to the museum. After all, he argued, it was not Tutankhamen's gold laden sarcaphocous or the bust of Isis or even the wall painting depicting Isis and Thorus, nothing so colorful and eye catching, but rather an old moldy and blackened gauze wrapped body, much like that of a barracuda‘s body preserved by salt water and washed up on shore.
 
So the decision was made and a big media event was planned for the exchange to be made. Dr. Doeshot was in attendance with a huge entourage from Egypt. Anyone who was any one in Atlanta society was scheduled for the ceremony and banquet. The world renowned Ted Turnbottle the pioneer of cable television, Will Woodcock, heir to the soft drink fortunes, Arthur Empty and Bernie Dickenmund, developers of the home improvement chain that monopolized America, As well as John Portapotty, chief architect of the Atlanta skyline.
 
Anna Himmel, whose family had single handedly donated most of the museums collection was the unofficial master of ceremonies. She was as many people claimed, the most beautiful woman in Atlanta, a rare statuesque blonde with shocking blue eyes, and a lovely ingratiating smile, large breasted and a body as curvaceous as alpine roads (roads in the alps). Men of substance all gyrated around her, like planets orbiting their sun.
 
The banquet was held in a huge white parachute type tent, complete with living sculptures on pedestals lining the red carpet entryway, a laser light show. Faux pedestals surrounded the room; round tables with white cloths encircled the room. Local artists had been commissioned to do centerpieces for each table. The artist for the Portapotty table chose to do a cityscape out of chocolate covered bananas and other chocolate covered fruit. Many said it looked a lot like pieces of shit, a comment the artist was making on the rather tacky building designs of Portapotty. Reviled by many, Portapotty has little respect in the annals of architecture.
 
Everyone was gathered and millions of dollars were donated to the museum that night. In the center of the space was a huge raised stage. The Tinsley Timmons Orchestra, with his large white grand piano in the center of the stage, played swing numbers from the big band era of the 20s and 30s and 40s.
 
As a late night wild wind down to the party, Sean Flynn’s Tangerine Circus (Troup) was booked to play. Sean was used to this. Many of the patrons were scheduled to leave early, already focusing on their agendas for the next day, leaving those who were living the night for now, drinkin a little more than usual now, just to get a little looser now, leaving them to have a great time and really get into the music.
 
Here they go. Krump pump pump pumpha pump, crude rude and gut bucket noise and blare came out merging into a blues romp, johnny zen’s keyboard plinkin and plankin around the rock steady beat of king david’s drums, the motivation walkin bass makin ya wanna move...flynn’s voice deep and loud shoutin out the song...
 
among the performance artists and visual artists who had hung around eating and drinking, flynn noticed the tall blonde woman again, her blue eyes would look at him deeply and then glance away...but he never could have imagined the extent to which they would become involved...in fact, he gave it no thought at all...
 
drinkin a little more than usual now just to get a little looser now dancin just a little wilder now sweatin and the magic now of the moment when all is free, free from chains and bonds and docks that moor us to our daily existence free in the night like dreams coming from nowhere and out of control...that’s what they were all about...but this night was special...
 
they had publicized the night as King Rameses II birthday party, but as yet no one had sung happy birthday to him...so the tangerine jam slammed into a rockin version of happy birthday...as they wound down the song, anton cosmos, lookin like a modern day egyptian with his thick black curly hair
dark eyes and chiseled olive skin, wearing a sports jacket and black engineer boots, did what he had never done before...he floated ripped into a solo of jimi hendrix star spangled banner that morphed into a caterwauling wail of dreamy inspired jazzy notes riffin and ridin the melody of happy birthday while soarin into passages of egyptian modal expressions of flight, african, middle eastern and abstract & atonal colors of sound filling the room earth tones of desert and sand and the nile blue moon stretching sky of pyramids in ice and tombs of kings earthquaking forth and the tomb of a king unearthed and sand blasting the eyes of camel riders approaching, the wind sand blasting their eyes, all wrapped in the melody of happy birthday...
 
a wild cry went up when cosmos had finished...that was the moment...it was obvious to all it would never happen again...as all moments are, but usually we are just to busy to notice...andre cosmos could do things like that...he could make the moment come alive...and this is what this band thrives on...to connect people and band and music to the moment...the now...
 
on drunken nights such as these the war of attrition would set in...and johnny zen while carrying equipment would fall and develop such a painful sciatic nerve condition that he would be forced by physical pain to quit the band...he was one of the first to go by pain, but there would be many others...by all varieties of pain.
 
 
CHAPTER 4 (FIRST INTERMISSION)
PAGING DOCTOR DRAIN
DR BRAIN DRAIN
ZEN AND THE BRAIN
 
Skip Hollowhead  was the HEIR TO THE WEATHER STATION FORTUNE,
AND GUZZLING FIFTHS OF VODKA, HE WAS NOW A BRAIN SURGEON, KNOWN TO ALL AS DR BRAIN DRAIN...HE TALKS TO NURSE PINKY.
"KEEP EM AWAKE NURSE, KEEP EM AWAKE,  GO AHEAD SHOW THOSE TITS, NIPPLES AND ALL, GOTTA SEE HOW HE RESPONDS."
THEY HAVE CUT THE TOP OF THE PATIENT'S  SKULL OFF LIKE A COCONUT,  AND DR DRAIN IS NOW PROBING DIFFERENT AREAS OF THE BRAIN WITH A SCAPLE.
"DO YOU FEEL THAT WATSON?" HE SHOUTS FROM TIME TO TIME, WATSON'S EYES ARE PLASTERED WIDE OPEN, STARING STRAIGHT AHEAD, CATATONICALLY, OCCASIONALLY MUTTERING. DOCTOR DRAIN OCCASIONALLY TAKES HIS HANDS AND JIGGLES THE WHOLE EXPOSED BRAIN WITH HIS FINGERS.
 "I JUST LOVE TO DO THAT, LIKE FIRM JELLO, UNCOOKED SAUSAGE," HE SAYS SQUIRMING DELIGHTEDLY INSIDE. HE HAS A BOX FULL OF HOUSEHOLD OBJECTS BESIDE THE OPERATING TABLE... HE LAYS A BOOM BOX ON TOP OF THE GRAY MATTER PILE OF THE BRAIN, PLAYS A CD WITH BIG BOOMING BASS, A CURRENT HIP HOP SONG, AND DANCES AROUND THE ROOM, COMES BACK AND POURS SOME DRAINO ON THE BRAIN AND WATCHES IT REACT AND BUBBLE UP IN AN ACID LIKE FOAM.  HE LAUGHS LIKE THE ROADRUNNER, AND WRINGS HIS HANDS, HIS WHITE LAB COAT COVERED IN BLOOD LIKE A BUTCHERS APRON.
"AH, RESEARCH." FROM ACROSS THE ROOM HE FIRES A 44 MAGNUM, THE BULLET PENETRATING THE BRAIN AND RICHOCHETING OFF A STAINLESS STEEL XRAY BOX ON THE WALL, MISS PINKY HOLLERING OOOOU!" AS THE BULLET JUST MISSES, GRAZING THE FABRIC OF HER DRESS ON HER CURVACEOUS ASS. "NURSE PINKY, I MUST SAY YOU ARE LOOKING GOOD TODAY, AND DOING A GREAT JOB I MIGHT ADD." MISS PINKY SMILES BACK AT HIM AND BATS HER BIG BABY BLUE EYES AS SHE CONTINUES BENDING OVER, EXPOSING HER SUMPTUOUS BREASTS DIRECTLY IN THE EYES OF THE PATIENT, AND PATIENT HE IS, AS THE DOCTOR CONTINUES PERFORMING HIS ACT, HIS SURGERY. WELL TIME'S UP, WE HAD THIS SCHEDULED FOR A 45 MINUTE SESSION, LET'S JUST POP THE LID BACK ON THERE AND CALL IT A DAY, DON'T FORGET THE SUPER GLUE, I'VE GOT TO GET TO THE GOLF COURSE NURSE PINKY, HE SAYS PUTTING HIS HAND UNDERNEATH HER DRESS FROM THE BACKSIDE... MY, MY YOU ARE WONDERFUL... TOOTLES!"  WITH THIS HE SWISHES AND SWAYS IN RHYTHM TO THE RAP TUNE, SNATCHES UP ANOTHER FIFTH OF VODKA FROM THE MEDICAL INSTRUMENTS TABLE AND GUZZLES IT DOWN, AND SWINGING HIS ARMS WILDLY UP IN THE AIR, SASHSHAYS OUT THE SWINGING OPERATING ROOM DOORS.    
 
 
 
CHAPTER 4
 
ANDRE COSMOS
 
 
With his black curly hair, his eyes closed and his puffy embalmed face, Andre looked like Ramses as he lay in his casket in a small chapel on the West Side of Atlanta. Gheetah, his sister, had arranged everything. Her episcopal minister, a white woman was in charge of the ceremony, and presided over the funeral with great experience. Family members and friends had come from all up and down the East Coast. In informal forums designed into the ceremony, people would stand up and tell stories, memories of Andre, and a loving portrait of the man arose for all who were there to enjoy. Flynn had been asked to say some words and to play some songs, and help with this he had brought 2 musicians, Elmo Tyson, an older man he did gigs with who knew thousands of songs and Cunya, a young Brazilian drummer and percussionist who had recorded a CD with Andre and Flynn. Sonya, who had become close friends with Andre, came with the musicians to show her respects and to lend emotional help to Flynn and Elmo and Cunya.
Flynn told brief stories of Andre as a musician, and sang Lou Reed’s Sweet Jane to symbolize Andre’s New York years, saying how Andre always wanted to play the long version of the song, which had a very lengthy guitar intro, and then played a song called Misery, one of Andre’s:
Misery! Why do you always bother me?
Misery! Why do you always bother me?
Ain’t got no car, ain’t got no money too,
and my clothes, are lookin kinda shaky too,
Misery!  Why do you always follow me?
Flynn also sang The Midnight Special, an old leadbelly blues song he had been playing recently, and while Flynn and Andre never played this song together, they played many blues songs from Robert Johnson, to Sonhouse,
to Muddy Waters, Hendrix, Cream and the Rolling Stones. Flynn felt this  song represented the blues which Andre understood  and played so well.
 
The Midnight Special
A Song about the train that passed near the prison
and prisoners use to imagine escaping on it.
 
Well you get up in the morning
You hear the prison bell ring
and you stumble to the table
it’s the same old thing
aint no food up on the table
aint no pork up in the pan
but you better not complain now
you get in trouble with the man
 
well the midnight special
shine your light on me
well the midnight special
shine your ever loving light on me...
 
It was 1977 when Andre Cosmos  stepped off the Greyhound bus at the terminal in downtown Atlanta. He looked around. Same southern looking people he remembered when he was seven, the last time he had been down south. Then Andre was a kid, this time he wore a long dark blue tailored waistcoat with large buttons. He sported a 6 inch afro like a halo around his
head (face). White frilly shirt, flared bell bottom pants and boots with a 2 inch heel. He had a walking cane in one hand and a guitar case in the other. That was his luggage. He stood on the corner, waiting on his aunt and uncle who were supposed to pick him up. He used to come stay with them when he was a young child, and with his grandmother, but that had been years ago.
 
For ten years he had been in New York, cut his teeth, learned the hard knocks on the street, learned his craft in various bands in the New York area, including a stint as Lou Reed’s  (of the Velvet Underground) guitar player.
He would round out his guitar style now in the south, playing in traveling R&B revues, study and master the art of blues guitar, lead new wave bands
and add the flash and flare to rock bands in and around Athens and Atlanta.
He became a regular guitar player for John Lee Hooker, and Freddy King whenever they came to town, and even played with Muddy Waters, who gave him one of his nicknames, “The Little Rooster” or Rooster for short.
 
His uncle Ed had been waiting with Clara his wife in the car when the bus from New York arrived, but they watched as everyone got off the bus, but they didn’t see anyone who looked like little Andre. Ed walked to the bus and peered in, the driver told him everyone had got off. He waited a while as people drifted off. Finally the only person still around who had exited the bus was the guy with the walking cane and the afro. Ed approached him and asked in disbelief, “Andre, is that you?” “Oh Uncle Ed, I didn’t know if that was you or not.” “Well I guess THAT IS you.” said his uncle, and they both laughed.
 
That’s the way Andre’s life in Atlanta began. He was always out of time
and an oddity. Out of orbit, like from another planet. He had an innate instinctual ability to play all kinds of music in the south. It was in his blood.
His father had been a truck driver for The Allman Brothers and Lynyrd Skynyrd, and for Booker T and the MGs, and would always bring rock and country and r&b records home to New York for Andre to hear. to listen to.
It was in his blood. Part cajun, part black,  Andre immediately understood it and could play it, it was that simple for him. In the late seventies, new wave punk and art bands took flight and Andre became well know in these circles.
 
The Blue Rat, a gallery and performance space became the center of this new wave movement in Atlanta (the focal point for artists), and it was here he met
Rebecca, a young woman from Texas who played flute in the Atlanta Symphony, but who also wanted to play bass in a band. As Andre  taught her how to play bass, they fell in love and soon had two children, Maxine and Malcolm. Everything was fine and their band The Florentines were playing in New Orleans Los Angeles and New York until her parents moved to Atlanta. From white Texas stock, her parents could not believe how they lived in a little dirty apartment in downtown Atlanta, and insisted they move to the suburbs. The fact that their daughter had married a black man did not sit well with them and they were vocal about it, however, that did grudgingly accept the grandchildren as their own. Things soon fell apart between Andre and Rebecca,  she fell under the spell of her parents and believed the children needed more than what they could provide for them as musicians. After she had an affair with heroin and the drummer in their band, Andre quickly ended up living with friends in a loft down on Pryor Street.
 
Geetah his sister, a true go getter and excellent business woman, thin light skinned and beautiful, always stayed in touch with her brother and loved him. He would help her move and sleep in her bathtub. “Andre those clothes are looking kinda tired”. And she would buy him new shoes and clothes. He always had some kind of vehicle, a van, a car, a motorcycle, of course he wouldn’t have a license or insurance, but he always had a way to get around.
 
After the Ramses/Museum gig, Flynn was taking Andre home and they stopped in a convenience store. A tall light skinned black woman approached them. Keisha had red hair and  gold teeth, and was quite beautiful in a street sort of way. She seemed nice enough, and seemed to like Andre. But Andre still only thought of his wife and kids. Flynn on the other hand felt  that Andre needed to move on, be with someone else, get laid. “She seems alright.” “Really?” Andre asked quizzically. “Yeah, why don’t you take her home with you?” Flynn said. “Oh I don’t know.”  “Whatever, I’ll see catch you later.”
 
It would be two weeks before Flynn would see Andre again. This was the start of what would get the better of Andre. This was the start of what would take over and consume all of his waking hours. This was when he started smoking Crack.
 
Continue thru the Paula era etc.    
 
 
                                                    
                                                 FIVE
                                      EXOTICA PERSONIFIED
                                       UNDENIABLE LOVE
 
SWAN was married to a dazzling beauty he had met during the years he lived in New York City. She was all that is exotic... with olive complexion and curving mystical and sensual eyes. Her ancestry, her bloodline from Mongolian invader in Hungary, Jewish wealthy merchant Gypsy blood and Italian from her Father, and a latin azores moroccan egyptian and nefertiti  stature from her Mother. She was quick witted, funny and smart as Hell. Lucifera herself.
 
Though they would spend years apart, Swan would always love Christina.There was  a certain mystical bond deep inside them that could never be explained but nevertheless always existed. No matter how much anger or hatred they expressed to each other over the years, the love was always stronger, undeniable.
 
They met at a poetry reading at MOMA, The Museum of Modern Art in New York.
Yuki Hartman, a young upcoming Asian poet was reading some of his poetry. Swan noticed a woman sitting in a chair across the room. She had on a flowing white cotton blouse, and yellow skirt. Her olive skin was striking, her slightly curly light brown hair came to her shoulders and was cut in bangs in the front. This accented the beautiful curve of her eyes, the whites so large, the brown irises so mysterious, lively and passionate. In all she looked very Egyptian, like she had stepped out of some hyroglyphic laden wall painting in a temple from 1000 BC. Swan was with a friend Dave Cohen, a piano player. As they were walking around checking some paintings after the poetry reading, she came gliding by, and Swan was immediately swept up and consumed by her being, her atmosphere, her persona, and her vibe. Swan broke away from Dave and immediately started talking to her. They rendezvoused with Dave at the bar in the lobby. Dave immediately started asking her when was the last time she had an orgasm, and Swan sat back silently as he listened to the adroit way in which this woman handled herself, amused and poking fun at this fool before her.
When she was ready to leave, Swan said he would walk with her. They went outside into the warm New York night. She said she felt like walking home and he asked if he could walk with her, and they walked from 54th Street to 15th Street, he was walking along beside her the entire time like a jumping yelping happy dog, talking and asking her questions in a breathless glide and stride downtown, showing her his identification, his Georgia license with his name on it to legitimize who he was. The stars in the sky high above the buildings were flowing by and the air was thick and urban and the wide concrete sidewalks were for them only that night, though generally teeming with humanity during the day. Here they were walking and talking and flirting and bonding as they flowed through the Manhattan night.
 
When they reached her building he insisted on taking the elevator upstairs to her door, where she insisted it was enjoyable meeting him but that he would have to go now. Swan said okay, but asked for her phone number. She gave it to him, and he said okay, just a minute, let me come in for a second, he went to the phone and verified this was the right number she had given him. Okay great, thanks he said smiling as she smiled and laughed. Swan left. Went down the elevator and out into the Manhattan night, thinking good god, I have to walk all the way  to 80th Street on the West Side. He worked in a publishing company and made very little money, and he sure didn't have any more money that night.
It was a long walk home.
 
A few days later, while sitting at work with holes in his shoes and an empty belly, one of the Italian girls in the office pool told him he had a phone call. He answered, and it was Christina. His life would improve dramatically with her. Somehow she elevated his game. Her sophistication brought out the best in him.
 
(continue on)      
                                                  
 
 
                                                   SIX
                                             ZOOBIES (ZEBRAS) or
                     ALBINO HERMAPHRODITE MONKEY GIRL
 
Often The SUNS would become the house band for a club, almost always
they were in a rotation any place they played, either once a week, or once
a month, or once every two months. Occasionally they were given a club to run.
Zoobies was an establishment on the north side of Atlanta. The building itself
was a split level edifice. From the front, the street, it was an upscale Italian
Restaurant, known for its excellent dishes and fine wines. But a wide staircase led down to a second level. The kitchen was on this level and also a very nice rectangular oak bar.
People could come in from the street and go down the stairs to the bar or enter from the private back alleyway. Also on the bottom level was a long corridor which opened onto a wider area.
 There were booths on the right and a couple of tables on the left of the corridor. Behind this was a latticed partition and another room filled with tables, a dance floor, and a stage, and was equipped with its own bar. The owners hired The SUNS to run this back room, set up a table, charge admission, and bring whatever entertainment they wanted in addition to their playing if they wanted. Zoobies would provide the place, and a bartender.
 
So The Suns played here for months, set up a table, charged admission, and got other bands to play with them on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday Nights.
 
The management insisted on a couple of other things. Start the music around 11pm when the upstairs restaurant closed, and don't bother the patrons who frequented the main bar, the booths, or the tables leading to the room.
 
Night after night, Swan watched the long black limousines pull up around back,
and the men and women get out of them and come in and hang out after midnight and sometimes all night in the booths and tables leading to The Back Room.
Swan noticed they drank and ate extraordinary dinners, and that the men were well dressed, and the women were beautiful. He realized it was a mafia escort service, a safe haven for the runners and hit men and big wigs and thugs to go with there call girls and girlfriends. A very strange situation, but Swan never said a word about it.
 
The music business and the underworld are indeed bedfellows. And while Swan did not always approved of what was going on, he would never kiss and tell.
 
 
 
Angel, the bass player in the band, who had long straight blonde hair and no shortage of girlfriends, ditched Alison one night in favor of Michelle who was in town. That night Off The Rails ( The Rubber Rails), a band who had former members of The Suns in it, was playing with them. On a break, Alicia, feeling giddy and uncomfortable having been left high and dry by Angel for another woman right in front of her, fell back on her good relationship with Swan.
 
They always joked around and this was no exception. Thee were more like Brother and Sister and even though they joked around crudely, they never had a sexual relationship. Swan used to joke around and call her a sex kitten and Slut on stage and she always laughed and enjoyed the attention. She would tell him stories about living in a house with guys when she was young and having taken a lot of acid, was lying on the floor in the middle of the living room late at night, trying to go to sleep.
 
In her hallucinating dream state, she started masturbating, having sex with herself. This went on for a while and she was completely lost in her self gratification. When she reached fulfillment, she groaned and rolled over and looked up dreamily and contentedly. Her hand was soaking wet. She opened her eyes. Three of the guys were just sitting on the sofa, watching her. She would tell Swan stories like this all the time. So it was not odd or unusual in their relationship for Alison (Alicia) to run up to Swan and jump up on him, throwing her arms around his neck and wrapping her legs around his waist. This is what she did that night at Zoobies.
 
At that moment, a hand appeared on Swan's arm.
"Uh, excuse me, if anybody's going to do that with him, it's going to be me."
Alison and Swan both looked at the woman and awkwardly laughed, assuming it was a joke. Swan looked at the creature. She was a tall exquisite creature, blonde hair, big penetrating blue eyes. She wore little black high heeled boots, black tights with little studs flowing up  the sides of her calves and thighs, and a black cotton coat. He had never seen someone with such a pale white glow to her skin and her hand as it lay on Alison's arm. Her neck and face had the same whiteness, a glowing brightness, a lunar luminosity that he would learn was born from the land of the Midnight Sun. Swedish, Scandinavian through and through, with a mix of Indian Blood through her Mother.
 
Her big beautiful and penetrating clear blue eyes mesmerized Swan, and for a moment, everything ceased to exist except her. He awoke from the flash dream and looked at Alison, and they both laughed, she untangled her legs from his waist and Swan lowered her to the floor. It was Sonya.
 
Swan knew Sonya was involved with Jay Gangreen, so he just laughed it off as a joke, and talked to her for a minute, chalking it up to the fun of the night and the coming together of interesting people which always happens when musicians play. That's what music does. It brings out the way people really feel inside, loosens inhibitions, it brings people together and opens them up. It's the sonic cosmic goo that glues us all together. It's the flowing river of sound that we are all floating in.
 
Swan never forgot this meeting, this introduction. But it would be months before Swan's phone would ring one afternoon, and it would be Sonya on the other end of the line.
 
That night, as the ran through song after song, Johnny Zen, still with the band at this point, having swilled a bottle of Heaven Hill, could be seen banging on the keyboard with his fists and elbows, and later just abandoning his instrument altogether, to search for the bottle they had taken from him, and hidden behind the drum kit. Ah, it was another wild night.  
                                      
 
 
 
                                          SEVEN  
                                  (The Phone Call)
 
Little did he know how this phone call would change his life. He picked up the phone.  
 
“Hello, this is Sonya. I was wondering what you were doing?”
 
He immediately sat down and threw his head back. There was an unexplained tingling sensation running through his entire body, and he became light headed, like champagne bubbles rising in his bloodstream, and spacey.
 
“Nothing really,” He managed to say, so overwhelmed that she was calling. He couldn’t believe it.
 
“How about you, what are you doing?” He stammered.
 
“Well, I have some free time, and thought maybe we could meet at that little park on Collier Road, just off Peachtree.”
 
“Well okay, when?”
 
“Around 3 o’clock, will that work?” She asked.
 
“Sure. I’ll see you there.” He readily agreed. He hung up the phone and sat there surprised for a while. He couldn’t believe that such a woman had called him.
 
As he drove up, he saw her in her car.
 
She laughed demurely and said hello and got out. They walked together and sat down on the small granite walls. A plaque was there commemorating The Battle of Peachtree Creek. One of the bloodiest battles of The Civil War. Bodies from both sides were everywhere and the creek flowed red with blood.
 
Swan read the plaque, but didn’t mention it, as they sat talking.
 
“Let’s take a walk,” she said definitively but also imploringly as a question.
 
“Sure.”
 
As they walked, Swan watched her as she sometimes strode ahead.
She was tall, about 5’9”. The thin white pants she wore were tight to her body and accented here shapely long legs. She wore a loosely fitting black sweater under a black knee length cotton coat, not expensive but fitting her very well. Her large blue eyes outlined with mascara were very expressive, very girlish and yet very knowing at the same time. Her blonde shoulder length hair was layered in the English rocker style, and cut with bangs over her forehead which emphasized her eyes even more.
 
As they talked, he realized she had a vast knowledge of rock music, saying she had always been around artists, musicians and painters in Miami. Having managed bands in the past, she now worked for Pepper, one of the largest music publishers, specializing in sheet music and books for music instruction.
 
They walked under the bridge and out on the huge smooth granite rocks of the creek bed and sat down. They were now very secluded by the woods and with the creek being relatively low, they stepped from stone to stone and sat down on one of the huge stones worn smooth by the water when it was gushing during heavy rains.
 
As they sat down, he noticed her rear and her thighs jiggled firmly.
“What an exquisite creature!” He thought.
 
They talked about music and she told him how much she liked his songs, said she thought they were very good songs and he was a good songwriter. She told him how much she admired art and artists in general.
 
Swan knew he was on the right path now. He told her how much he respected her husband’s playing, saying he had a sixth sense of playing bass, a real natural. Swan loved playing with him, Raymond Richie knew exactly what to play for his songs, and only wished they still played together.
 
“I thought you guys were great together.“ She answered. “Yes Richard is a great bass player. In Miami, Johnny Depp loved to come see him play and would just sit there and watch him, that glom thing.”
 
“I believe it.” He’s as good as any I’ve seen. I remember the first time I talked with him, what impressed me the most was he said,
‘Yeah a lot of people think playing the old shit is easy, but there’s really a lot more to it that people think.’”
“But I remember,” Swan continued, “when we would go to record, he’d be so trashed he could hardly play. I remember I’d have to pick up his pick for him, and he would nod off, kinda pass out between takes.”
 
At this Sonya giggled briefly, and shook her head smiling, “Yep, that’s Ray.”
 
“But what about you?” Swan asked. “You must play. You know so much about music.”
 
“No, painting is my thing. I was always around painters before musicians. I love color. But I put that on hold to raise Katlin, our daughter. But now she’s graduating from Agnes Scott College, so I started painting again. (So I think I’ll start painting again.”
 
“OH, that’s amazing, I’ve always seen myself as a frustrated painter. I use words like a painter, very visual images. I try to paint with words, that’s what I do. I wish I could actually paint.”
 
 
There was a bond, a chemistry between them. It was very strong
from that moment onward. There would be no turning back. There was something they gave to each other that no one else could give. Complete and total understanding of what they were about intellectually, of what their deep inner souls were. They understood each other completely. Once you have felt that, there is no turning back, you will never be the same again, never look at the world the same again. A bond so deep, a love so encompassing, an unspoken empathy and compassion and understanding so great that now you realize the truth, unravel the mystery of what life is all about. If you are lucky you will sense feel experience this in life.
 
As it started to get dark, Sonya said she had to go. So they walked back to their vehicles and said goodbye.
 
The next time they met, Sonya came over to Swan’s basement dwelling. They were sitting on the futon bed in his bedroom and talking. Swan had the distinct feeling that as a person, he was growing and growing. He had never met someone that he got along with so well. They were just perfect together.
 
Swan took a deep breath and said:
“I’m okay you know.”
“I know, that’s fine. I just like to hear you think.” She said.
That too blew his mind.
“Whew, I don’t know. These feelings I have for you are so intense. I’ve never felt this way before. Oh gosh. This could never work. You’re with Rich and I’m with Christina, too many people could be hurt.”
 
“It’s okay; we can just be friends.”
 
In one of the silences between all the things they talked about as they sat cross-legged yoga style on the futon, Swan leaned his head against Sonya’s shoulder.
 
Swan was swept away across the sand of his soul like a feather into the waves of the ocean of her being.
 
Her smell was unmistakable. That clean anemic smell.
 
He smiled and shook his head and laughed. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him.
 
He did not know it, but he felt it, it would take a deadly disguise to ease this feeling of complete oneness and connectedness with Sonya. There was no stopping this.
 
Their relationship blossomed into a strange and beautiful ritual. Almost daily they would meet, they would say their hellos and sweet greetings and make love first. Then unwind talking for hours and being together and drinking white wine. While not unhealthy, Swan was thin, eating pasta once a day as he tried to make a living as a musician, and Sonya would bring food, cheeses and salami and green grapes. She would bring flowers too.
 
Sonya would laugh. Swan had lived so Spartan and shaker like for so long, that these seemed like lavish banquets to him.
 
As their relationship grew, Sonya befriended Christina, Swan’s wife, and they too enjoyed being together, talking and Christina enjoying the flowers Sonya brought. They also had another thing in common. They both loved cocaine. And Sonya would always have a little bag of white powder in her black boots, fairy dust Swan would later call it, and Sonya would share the white lines with Christina and everyone was happy.
 
Soon this grew into big parties. Sonya was the nucleus, the catalyst. It all revolved around her and everyone loved her. Especially Swan. There had never been anyone in his life like Sonya, someone who understood him so thoroughly, someone he admired and respected and understood and adored and loved so completely. There would never be anyone like her in his life again. It was the pinnacle, the peak, the high mark of his life.
 
The years past and their relationship deepened, ripened with a warm amber glow.
 
As their relationship grew, so too did the parties. They were the unofficial Queen and King of an alternate and parallel universe,
the unreal and imaginary universe where we all get what we want, where all our dreams are satisfied and we all live happily ever after.  Sonya was a magnet of Life and Love, she brought the best out of everyone, made them believe all things were possible. When the Spiritual World, the emotional ethereal world guides the world of our flesh and blood lives here on earth, things are better, we live in greater harmony with nature and the universe, and our lives seem to be better and the world seems to be a better place.
 
One person enriched by the parties in particular was Alice. She was a short cute woman, very smart and out there, with a petite attractive body and an adorable round little girl face. She and Swan were great friends, he and she both had a great desire to have a child, and though they were mainly great friends, like brother and sister really, Swan had thought and expressed to Alice secretly, before Sonya had come into the picture, that they should have a child together. But it was not to be.
 
Years later Alicia would have a child. Two years after Sonya’s death, Alice would have a child with Raymonde (Richard), and two years after that she would be homeless and living on the streets, she would go crazy and be found on a bridge in Tampa, having lost it all completely, and two years after that she would be happily married to James, here step brother who she had had an enduring love for since childhood. But that was another story.
 
One afternoon she came by to see Swan. As was her custom whenever she was between relationships, she depended on Swan to console her and lick her wounds, which as a friend who loved her dearly, he always did. But this afternoon, she stopped by to find Sonya and Swan in his bedroom talking. Surprised by this, Alicia told Swan later how surprised she was, but as was the case with everyone, she admitted she pleasantly understood how the two of them were together, and even though the situation was odd, they were so natural together that it was never really awkward for anyone. It was never spoken, but everyone knew they had a deep relationship. It was obvious. But it was such a sincere and undeniable deep soul attachment between Sonya and Swan that everyone accepted it. Whenever they were together around other people or in public, Sonya and Swan never overstepped certain bounds, they always showed an air of great friendship, always discreet and courteous and thoughtful and concerned how others felt, including their own spouses. It was simply that this relationship was fate, and too wonderful too necessary and too rewarding to themselves, and it spread to others around them.
They both needed this relationship, this friendship, this love, they never meant to hurt anyone, even though they both knew it did hurt those closest to them mainly Christina, Swan’s wife, and Raymondo, Sonya’s husband.
 
But they too enjoyed this parties, the wild nights of drinking and drugs and the crazy intellectual artistic conversations that occurred. It was as if it was a new world created by all of them, from everything they all were, each person contributing great things about themselves to their ever growing circle of friends.
There was an air, an aura of complete tolerance, that uplifted everyone and made them better people.
 
On one such night when they were passing around paper and everyone writing a poem together, each contributing a related line no matter how unrelated and non sequitor it was to the preceding line, they were by the very act of doing related in time and place, free flowing stream of consciousness writings would be created which all would remember not the actual details of what was written but the fact that it was done and cherish those times they spent together, and Swan cherished these writings and saved them.
 
The musicians among them would get together and play all night, hanging out together until the hazy nimbus azure of a new day, when sun and moon and stars are all visible in the sky together, and then the golden glow of the sun bathes trees and houses and streets. From the all night of partying and expressing themselves people would fall asleep all around the house - and find their way to their cars and home.
 
It was a joyous time in all their lives. A separate reality where all things really are possible and their lives and the world was good. Where truly it was ALL GOOD.
 
(CHAPTER 8 & 9 & 10 COULD BE INCLUDED IN THIS CHAPTER)  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
                        CHAPTER 8
                     YEN FOR THE MEN    or  JOHNNY ZEN (REVAMP)
 
NOTES: for revamp of character... He will be very Eastern in his orientation,
  bringing eastern thought into play... visually, tall, thin, shoulder length hair...
in the Red Oasis Hotel... with transvestite... thin white duke... dressed and looking sort of a cross between Christina Ag and Bowie, long blonde ratted hair and make up on his eyes, wearing garter belt and fish nets stockings and a short skirt... leaves the room  and goes to an another... comes back and they have sex, ... Harrisburg Hattie... London, Banares, Bangkok, Vegas, Male and Female... He was the glue between all people, the chi, the energy, the tao, dharma... (Don't know if this is a good idea or not, maybe this is another character)
 
Johnny Zen was always at these parties. He too was a certain glue that connected all these people. When he as young Cerebral Palsey had left him with a limp, atrophied hand, but his intelligence and writing skills were immense. He was a film editor and writer, quick witted, sometimes so quick witted that his imagination would blend with reality or the facts and he would quickly verbalize and in the process color the facts so that he was saying things that were not true, especially when he had been drinking, which was frequently the case. Often his view of  “the mountain” was quite a different perspective than anyone else’s. For one he as gay, and had a deep friendship with Cuhoolahan Goatman, King Richard, Raymonde Fleurdemal, as well as Swan. Johnny Yen was mainly house bound due to his different condition that did not permit him to do great physical things, but he was great friends with many strong physical specimen types. This was part of the special bond he had with Sonya. They were attracted to the same type of men. Sonya and Johnny were surreal girlfriends in an alternate universe where all was good and fine and accepted. Her fairy dust and flowers lured Johnny under her spell, and they were like two loving sisters rolling through the world of god-like men and pink and black and turquoise visual dreams and paintings and precision of giddy drug fueled words and language. One night as they talked, Sonya carved a beautiful hermaphrodite into the surface of the old school desk Johnny Zen had in his place.
 
There were exceptions in their tastes and preferences. Sonya accepted Cosimo (Cosmos), even after she realized he was unstable and crazy. He did not let him get under her skin. She was amused at him. She convinced some friends to give him a job, and when she heard he was riding around on their 4 wheelers and motorcycles instead of working on the lake house, she laughed and laughed. As Christina always said, well you just have to remember that Cosmos is mentally ill, and Sonya accepted this and loved him any way.
 
But not so with Johnny Yen. He had little tolerance for the spaced
out ranting genius of Cosimo Cosmos. He was just a little too crazy for him. Johnny was an orderly person who planned things out, for example he would have postcards all written, addressed  and stamped before he would go places, and as soon as he arrived at his destination, he would put them in the mail to pick up the postmark of that locale. All of Cosmos’s off the wall, swinging from the rafters, unplanted and unhinged and highly volatile personality of Cosmos was not something he liked. Furthermore and understandably, it did not help the relationship when Cosmos would get in Johnny’s face and say you shouldn’t be playing keyboards in Swan’s band, you don’t have the talent and you’re just preying (trading) off of your friendship with Swan. Just another example of Cosmos’s insightful but sociopathic ravings.
Johnny Yen cared for solid relationships built over the years, Cuhoolian Goathead, Budda Marx, King Richard, Raymonde Raybees LeMal were like his stronger older brothers. Those where his type of friends, not only did he genuinely like them as friends, but he was also attracted to them. All of them were aware of this, and accepted this trait or sexual preference of his, and he never let it get in the way of their friendships.
 
At one of these parties, Wilhelm (Cohoolian) and Richard had taken LSD and gave a hit to Cosmos too. As the sun rose, Swan woke to find them in the yard leaning against one of the vans parked there. Cuhoolahan and Richard were gazing up at the sky with their long curly red hair falling around their shoulders and their blue eyes skyward, like saints, like the Saint Sebastian painting by El Greco(verify) without the agony. Occasionally they would turn, still wrapped in their enraptured beautific state of mind, to Cosmos, and say, “Just relax man.” Cosmos was ranting claiming they were excluding him because of his race. Swan watched as Cosmos mentally disintegrated in the driveway, regressing to a child state.
 
“Do you think this matters? Do you think right now matters?”
 
“Just calm down.”
 
“Everything’s cool if you will allow it to be.”
 
Everyone knows that the last thing to say to a person experiencing high anxiety is to tell them to relax, but we do it anyway.
 
With this Cosmos took out his wallet and through his IDs and money in the air. He walked up the gravel driveway and wasn’t seen by anyone for a month.
 
Swan never saw Cosmos with a wallet again. He had renounced having one. Shed that burden of possession too. He was to become a true holy man, a monk. Religious Jehovah Witness frothings were one of the fugue states Cosmos often visited.
 
As Cosmos’s Mother pointed out to Swan, Cosmos’s instablity was the result of a chemical manic depression. He was okay when he took Lithium. It cut out the highs and lows. But he could not do it in any systematic way. In was inescapable in his personality. He could not do anything with consistency in his life.
 
 
 
                                       NINE  (CHAPTER)
                                      SECOND INTERMISSION
 
NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR
 
(I WRITE ABOUT MY LIFE AND MY FRIENDS AND ALL THE PEOPLE I LOVE.)
 
These people all took it to the hoop with their lives and their loves. And they should not be faulted for that.
 
Life itself has a way of dealing with that. Seems the life force within us is only so great. Excess living takes its toll on us. It extracts a larger amount of our finite life force. Some are just destined to use it up faster than others.
 
Accidents do happen, and are unavoidable, but the span of our lives and our loves are somewhat governed and predicted and predicated by our actions. Maybe, maybe not. This is not a scientific fact but it does seem to be true.
 
Although there is some question whether we really do have free will, control of our actions, or is that too governed by some other force, chemical, molecular or otherwise? But one thing is certain, when the life force is empty, having a life on earth as we know it with a heart that pumps blood and a mind possibly the center of all feelings and emotions too and a body, ceases to exist. Perhaps life continues, but is obviously quite a different state. As yet there is no definitive answer on this, only speculation. Some people insist on way different theories, heaven and hell, reincarnation, all kinds of life after death. Others believe there is nothing after death, the big zilch, nada, nothing, the big sleep, no sense in having any gas left in the tank, no tread left on the tires, use it all up, cause there’s no tomorrow, and no doubt about it, worldly possessions?, ya can’t take it with ya.
 
 
NOTES
Beginning of the book   tag or byline
 
“TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION”
                                            Anton Chekov
 
also & again
I write about what I know, my life, my friends and the people and places I love. The names have been changed to protect the guilty.
 
Now the book is flowing. I’m not trying to turn it into any thing else, some fictionalized account - just telling the story as it occurred, maybe a few embellishments here and there but basically as it happened. Gonna be easy to write now.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
                                              TEN  (CHAPTER)
                                             NOWNESS & MUSIC or
           MUSIC, NOW!  THE NOW! or NOW  or The Raw Energy of the Jam
 
 
 
 
At some of these parties when they played music they settled into  deep STAX VOLT, CHESS, MUSCLE SHOALS grooves, Raybees on Bass and Swan on rhythm guitar - this is the way they should sound thought Swan - this had all the elements of old roots deep primal sound tapped into the marrow of our existence...Sitting around in chairs & drinking & playing...to Swan this was some of the finest music he ever participated in making. The calculated and rehearsed songs well faceted in the recording studios just was not their finest hour he thought - this raw energy of the jam when everyone was listening and playing off of what they heard instead of executing predetermined parts, that was the real essence of music.
 
That’s why Swan rarely liked Concerts and planned sets of songs most groups would play. There was nothing immediate, nothing of the present moment in the piece, there was no NOW, but the stale rehash of what had been done long ago...
 
It’s the same reason why food you love doesn’t taste good if you always prepare it the same way. It must be living, organic, corresponding with nature which is ever changing. It must have some of the NOW in it or it won’t seem right. The Ricardos were one band that could do this, play the same licks and same songs night after night but with an intense energy of the present, a vitality, a Life given to each performance, a wide open playing style which rang true night after night, not just appealing to the memory the nostalgia of time when you first heard the song, but something that spoke to you right then. THAT IS TRUE MUSIC.
 
Glenn Gould when he played BACH, as well crafted and mapped out as his playing of Bach is, still contains a magic that connects moments to other moments - not the cells in time but rather born of the connecting bits, the converging and firing transference and explosions of the synapses.
 
Dylan and many blues musicians bring the NOW into what they are playing by ever changing the way a song is presented, the phrasing, the instrumentation, the musicians - that is one way of tapping the NOW. Few can do it by slavish repetition.
 
Swan knew that playing a song one time with a good musician could penetrate deeper into the sinews the essence and marrow of music than playing the song a hundred times with hard working but plodding mundane musicians. As one musician called it, that sound that someone is dragging the bottom be it guitar, drums, bass or vocal. That was to be avoided. If one’s personality is very restrained and inward, his or her music will be. He or she will try to dominate the sound rather than allow the sound to come out of feeling and understanding and insight into the particular nature of the song and the moment of hearing it.
 
  
 
 
                                  ELEVEN
THE ALBINO HERMAPHRODITE MONKEY GIRL
LUNAR LUMINOSITY OF SKIN
AND LAPIS EYES CRYSTALIZED
BY LONG GAZINGS AT LIFE’S BRIGHT BEAUTY
EYES WIDE AS SKIES, PAINTING PANORAMAS
VISTAS OF PSYCHEDELIC HUMANSCAPES,
AND A MIND AND LIPS THAT SAID LAUGHING LIGHTLY “LOOK UP! LOOK UP AT THE SKY!”
 
Sonya’s paintings reflected enormous vitality and Life’s colors, a mixture of semi tropical colors and a Swedish Abstractionism. For example Hubba Marx and Johnny Yen went to Tucson where Hubba sold the crystals that he brought from Brazil...and Sonya embarked on a series of abstract paintings of cacti southwestern in character but blending with colors of an alien palate.
 
She was truly mystified by Swan’s song THE HERMAPHRODITE and painted a series of those...like Bottecelli’s Venus in flowing more simplified abstract, one on an old standard maple school desk at Johnny Zen’s place...Beautiful paintings of a naked couple standing on rocks in a river, forest jungle with deep Van Gogh lines to the foliage and hair, rendering etched deeply into plaques of clay, with the power of the sun pouring down on them, and glazed in bright colors.
 
She would take pages of classical sheet music and paint swirling bright colors, or multi-colored snakes rising from mystical pools of life essence fluid...Bright Pink Feminine Curing Shapes/Yellow Abstract Bananas, watercolors, foils, corregated paper.
 
SHE KNEW WHAT SHE WAS DOING. Her Husband and her Daughter criticized what she was doing, discounted what she was doing, for Raymonde with his music and Kaitlin with her writing were more than talented, but Sonya was perceived by them as a fountain that nourished them, fed them, and this she had done, but now that same spirit spilled forth and manifested itself in her art on canvas or paper with paint and splendidly blended colors, with paper cuts and clay whatever medium she touched.
 
Swan was never surprised or threatened that such art and beauty would come out of such a creature, but he was always overwhelmed by her art. SHE WAS A NATURAL... A TRUE ARTIST.
 
One day Sonya and Swan went to an area of the Chattahoochee River near Mount Sinai Road where there was a huge forest. They walked a long way down the steep trails and through the woods until they came to a bed of deep green moss beside a stream that fed the river. Here they spread their blanket as was their custom. Sonya sat Lotus style while Swan sprawled out resting his head on her lap. They looked at each other with the intense otherworldly Love they felt. “OHHH,” she said, and as usual they made love, always more wonderful and self consuming than before. As she stood on her knees and pulled up her dress and pushed down her underwear, her delicious smell as usual overwhelmed him, the lunar whiteness of her skin the beautiful perfect curves of her ass leading to her thin waist and to her long beautiful thighs was more than he could bear.  As he mounted here (As his penis entered her ) it always felt this way, perfect, a perfect fit, a perfect feeling this is where he belonged, this is where she belonged and they knew it, so joined together, HOME.
Later as they lay and ate and drank the white wine, and Sonya pulling from her little black boots a few white lines, Swan felt truly happy, for the first time in his life, truly and perfectly happy, at Home in the moment, and it seemed to last forever. As they got up to leave they stumbled around drunkenly, whirling around beneath the trees looking up at the spinning evergreens and pines and light blue and white azure sky beyond. In the thick beds of pine straw they wandered around for hours, laughing and lost until they found their way to the white van (SEAGULL he had named her).
 
The smell of all the brown and yellow and white honeysuckle was thick with fragrance, and the sun steamed in golden amber warmth around them. They were lying in the back of the white van, resting and talking and laughing after having been so lost...the cashier with scrolling letters on his fingers, l o s t, on one hand, and s o u l, on the other...In moments like these, he felt they were like Gods, fortunate to enjoy the mystical magnificence of the earth.
 
Lying in the back of the van once again they made love. Such L O V E he had never felt and would never feel again. Such perfection of unity. Such compatibility of mind & body & spirit. Their bodies were perfect for each other. Her long limber white legs, the curves of her hips, firm but soft muscles of flesh, his tall lanky body matching hers...his lingam and her yoni so well matched...in heaven. After they both reached their peak and orgasmed in unison, he lay upon her chest, smelling the mingling odors of the honeysuckle and their bodies, basking in the magnificent golden light glow of the afternoon sun. He felt Nirvana, knew he was experiencing the true beauty and warmth of true blue love, and they swirled off to sleep in each others arms, his body lying on top of hers.
 
 
NOTES  in Spring Summer Winter & Fall
                   One episode of each
                    Love in its full cycle
      At beach - with Luv Bugs in Summer
                         Honeysuckle , just described fro spring
                        Trout Run, naked in parking lot/wine bottle
                                  for Fall
                    when she felt pain - now ill   for Winter
 “Look. Look up!”
Words he would never forget
As he gazed often and deeply into the blue firmament of the atmosphere, day and night and thought of her and how he felt so lucky to have met her and to have known her.
 
...sitting on fallen trees, nature’s benches, nature’s fences in the multicolored dense layer of leaves and green gray lichens growing on the rocks...
 
 
 
                                 TWELVE
                               THE BACKDROP
 
The Piedmont Plateau, characterized by its deep and rusty colored red clay, is a region quite distinct from the adjacent areas. To the South approximately 70 miles, around Macon, the gentle rolling hills give way to the coastal plain with its hot flat sandy soil.
Anyone who has spent much time in Georgia knows South Georgia is quite different from the Metropolitan Atlanta Area both geographically as well as in the people too. Also 70 miles to the North, the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains begin to rise, making travel more difficult in earlier times and spawning another temperament in the people who settled there. In general, the people of the coastal plain are very easy going and laid back, the inhabitants of the mountain region are reserved and distant, and the people of Atlanta are NUTS. Nowhere does one see that psychotic look in the eye more than in Atlanta.
 
The location of Atlanta was arbitrary and yet natural and it made sense. Originally called Terminus, it was simply where the railroad from the seaboard town of Savannah ended. As far as the rail money would go. Unlike most older cities like New York, Boston, Chicago, St Louis, New Orleans or hundreds of other great old world cities founded primarily on waterways with direct access to open seas, Atlanta’s location had nothing to do with water or the availability of water, no great fertile valley for agriculture. It was simple where the tracks stopped, the rails ran out, the end of the line. Cold steel meets the dirt. This is what makes Atlanta one of the modern cities like Houston or Dallas, A new breed a new mindset, came with this. Supplies had to arrive by train, later by truck and plane. Atlanta is one of the few cities that has 2 north south Interstate Highways converge. And they converge right downtown, and then split off again. Trains first, then trucks, then planes, Atlanta is a rolling town. Largest airport in the world.
Drifters and Schemers and Settlers of all sorts roll through Atlanta.
The mecca of Black Power in Education and Government.
While the governor of the state has usually been a bible thumping white rube hayseed, the major of Atlanta has been the opposite, a highly successful businessman, a jew, a strong and sophisticated black, and a sophisticated black man soon discovered to be spending Atlanta money in the casinos of Biloxi, Vegas. New York and LA. Ah the High Rolling High Life. The mayor now is a woman, a black woman. Corruption and Nepotism abound, but so too does Honesty and an easy sophisticated Decency. A blend of old and new.
 
A Home Improvement Store makes good nationally and its chief executive office buys the professional teams. In a long black coat, the owner can be seen strolling the sideline, his arm around the shoulders of his franchise player Big Dick. Odd there should be such rumors for decades of the Tycoon’s gay affiliations.
 
From Billboards to pioneer of paid TV, a genius and eccentric mogul...the cocaine beverage morphing into the drink that dominates the world, providing purified water and the Cola drink to billions worldwide.
 
There are its homegrown champions, mega menses. Pioneers of Modern Day Society, not Industrialists or Kings, but providers of what people want, or at least what they have been led to believe they want.
 
NOTE   THIS SUCKS, NEED MAYBE TO REWRITE)
TED TENACAL, RAZOR CAL Q. LATA)
 
 
 
 
                                THIRTEEN
                         MASOCHISTIC  METEOROLOGISTS
                BE CAREFUL...BE INFORMED...BE AFRAID
                                     OR   STORM CHASERS
 
 
RATINGS! RATINGS! RATINGS!
THE NEILSON BOX!
Its all about percentage of viewers.
The more the merrier of course.
 
In the game, THE WEATHER STATION, yep a 24/7 station about the weather. BRAIN CHILD OF A NOW MEGA MILLIONAIRE.
Many would laugh, only one would cash in.
 
In order to improve ratings, first the weather station embarked on a series called Storm Stories. It worked. But what was better were the live reports from Natural Disaster Sites as the disaster was occurring.
 
SURFERS OF THE TSUNAMI...TORNADO RIDERS...HURRICANE HIT MEN...BALLS ON FIRE!
 
“Bill today we are now directly in the path of a F5 TORNADO.
It is now some 500 yards from us. Its amazing to watch. uh oh...here we go...we’re going to try to keep the audio and the camera with us...whoa!....(up up and away plays) the three hundred mile an hour winds whirl and roar...I’ve never experienced anything like this Bill, at that moment long slivers of glass slice through his body,  awwww, now that hurts Bill, I hate when that happens...ohhhhhhhhh   here we go, the reporter the cameraman and the camera are thrown skyward like toothpicks...
this is Jim Casanova reporting live from we’re not in Kansas anymore, back to you Bill...
 
Hello Angela, this is Stephanie Abrams, reporting from West Palm Beach in Florida, and this Hurricane, Hurricane Harry is no joke,
at this moment a board smacks her on the side of the head...agh...as you can see the wind is intense, i’m gonna step out a little further so you can get the real fury...at that moment the reporter is instantly swept off the veranda of the hotel and disappears into the grayness of the hurricane’s wrath...Well that is something, I sure hope Stephanie is alright Bob, how are things out west...
Angela this wild fire has already consumed 4 billion acres of land, leaving nothing but ashes...and shows no sign of slowing down...just to give you an example, as you can see I am now bending my knees and dipping my balls in the fire...now that’s hot Angela...
 
Angela, this is Dick and Jane in Hawaii, and we are going to dive into this Volcano, so you can see the terrifying effects of lava...here we go ... an instant of yellow then fade to red...
 
Bill and Gina, I am in a simulated earthquake environment, and you are going to see first hand the power of an earthquake packs...
a building the size of the world trade centers collapses on them...
a big cloud of smoke...wahn wahn wahn sound the toilet plungers in the trombones ...
 
Alligators are a real threat in many areas of Florida...I am going to climb in this one and give you an idea what wap wop smack smack smack and burp...the alligator smiles bellyfull
 


And the ratings SOARED! leaving many people to leave their TVs
tuned 24 hours a day to the     WEATHER STATION.
 
This is what it is like when a tree falls on you...go ahead John...
you hear the sound of a chain saw
 
a reporter wearing flippers, a nose clamp, and a motorcycle helmet...today we are literally going to ride over NIAGARA FALLS...
 
Silently the couple at the anchor desk sit watching again and again listening to the sound and watching the blood splat on the camera,
as the body hits the bottom of the Grand Canyon...”Well that is really something to think about Kelly, the next time anyone takes a vacation...be careful...be paranoid...BE AFRAID!
 
THE ULTIMATE IN REALITY TV...THE WEATHER STATION
Be careful...be informed...but mostly be afraid!
 
Here in Antarctica, we are going to see just how long it takes to go into DEEP FREEZE...
 
The Jolting Effect, and the Marshmallow Effect of Burning Flesh, on the next episode of Lightning Lickers
 
 
 
 
 
                                     FOURTEEN
                              PAIN IN THE   ATL
 
Around 1990 a good old boy named Bubba Pain, a new generation of good ole boy, this one trading in chewing tobacco and overalls for a suit and a law degree, was determined to bring the Olympics to Atlanta. This would establish what every want-to-be socialite and sophisticate in the south wanted; validity, class, true international recognition beyond mere magnolias and mint juleps;
free at last from the global stigma of racism and prejudice long associated with the south since the days of slavery. The Civil War, or as one Daughter of the Confederacy said, ‘Honey there was nothing civil about that war, The War Between the States is what you mean’, (yeah whatever) that war had left a scar on the land and in the people both black and white. As one Westerner said, “The South is permanently damaged.” But in the early 1990s both business leaders and politicians agreed there was only one thing to do, BRING ON THE OLYMPICS! The eyes of the world would be focused on them and damn it people would finally see how sophisticated and cultured The South really was. (Currently this narrator feels like he is a character in The Garden of Good and Evil (that’s Eeeeeval). The fame, the recognition, the money, the power. One man convinced them all. It was good to soak the money from the city, the counties, the state, the federal government, it’s for our little party, our Olympics for heaven sake.
Let’s pull this off no matter what the cost. State of the Art everything.
 
Traffic - we’ll narrow the lanes of the Interstate, creating another lane out of the same space that will help accommodate the massive traffic we fully expect. State of the Art message boards to tell people immediate traffic conditions to help ease the congestion we will surely experience in this fair city of ours. Millions of Dollars - a gold mine fellas. I’m telling you. The people will think it’s great. Never mind they will be paying for years to come. We’ll be rich.
 
The site of the 1996 Olympic Games will be “AT-A-LAN-TA!”
With this broken phrase, the race was on. Grandeur at last. Not since the premier of  “Gone With The Wind” had Atlanta attained such success, such notoriety. Well maybe Martin Luther King, one of the great leaders of the world, and Lester Maddox, with his Pickrick Restaurant and pick axe handles distributed to patrons to preserve segregation and to keep blacks out, and the child murder cases - Wayne Williams, and Nichols shooting judge and lawyers and deputies on his way out of the courthouse.
 
“The Bubba Games” Constant talk about massive traffic jams. The massive horde of humanity. Spectators from all over the world. Stay in your homes local people. I know you paid for this through the nose but we don’t want you to embarrass us.
 
Here’s what happened. They scared everyone away. Only the athletes and some spectators came. Mostly by plane. Limos, private buses and cabs handled them all. The convention hotels of downtown accommodated them all. On the days of the Olympics, the highways had almost no traffic. No one went to work. Fear, Fear, Fear.  Only a few “sanctioned” (that is “kickbacks”) vendors made any money. In fact all other vendors were relegated to zones where people where prohibited to go. In a grim foreshadowing of what would happen 9/11 at the World Trade Centers, a bag containing a pipe bomb left by a stage in Centennial Park exploded, killing people and putting the final nail in the coffin of “The Bubba Games”. Ten years later local residents and out of town vacationers bound for Florida die daily as trucks and poor road signs and narrow lanes and congestion cause horrendous wrecks.
 
But we are still paying for it all. Millions of Dollars yearly for “message boards” with one single dot on them, stop lights green and red on entrance ramps that are never activated; underpasses, tunnels whose row of lights are now reduced to two or three lights on; and while the great mayor Bill Compost is gambling away tax dollars in private jets to Biloxi and Vegas, millions of dollars in fines are paid to the Federal Government for one of the worst sewage systems in the country. The glitz has lost its shine, the petals are off the rose, and the shit is in the street. Hey but we had The Olympics. At all costs. The Bubba Games. The Pain in the ATL. Now drug dealers and rappers funded by drug dealers roam and command the streets in pimped out rides in this great international city, cultural mecca, but don’t say anything bad, cause in this age of Fear you will be taken as an upstart, a traitor, a terrorist even. Moral Majority Reigns Supreme. The Flag’s waving high in the Bible Belt, so watch your tongue or you might be hung as an Anti-American Terrorist, and we wouldn’t want that now would we? Bubba Pain spits out a long stream of vile juice from his chewing tobacco, chokes once, grabs his chest, and keels over with a heart attack.
 
NAFTA and the imported illegal alien work force. If the blacks and whites in this country won’t work any harder, we’ll outsource to other countries, we’ll allow mexicans to come here. They’ll work cheap and we’ll make a killing.
 
This is the major problem with The United States today. Private business corporations, are much stronger than our government. Our government is powerless in the face of the Corporate Goliaths. They dictate what happens in this country and what happens to the world. The world is in their greedy profit driven hands.
 
NOTE : GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT OF THE SOUTH -
               BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE. SAYS A VOICE INSIDE ME.
 
“GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS” the Skin Trade, deposit any extra money you have at the local strip club, worship at the altar of conspicuous consumption, drink the long tall elixir while hanging your face in the flesh of the angel of Prophets, no of Profit, the shooter girl.    
 
 
 
 
      
                                   CHAPTER WHATEVER
                            BOOZE & PILLS & POWDERS
 
It comes with the territory. Whatever bars and clubs and events
SWAN & THE MEGABYTES played, people would seek them out and offer them a sampling of their substances. People regard musicians as wacky and loose and laid back and out there and cool, so they always like to party with the musicians. One club where there played, Stanley Lee which approach the stage and open a prescription bottle and start throwing handfuls of pills
at the band as they played. He became affectionately known as DOCTOR LEE, as in “paging DR LEE, paging DR LEE.”
Soma, Oxyecoton, Percoset, and of course the ever popular Xanax.
Swan began to realize that Xanax was the base monetary unit of the drug world. 5 Xanax were worth a quarter gram of Ice, $20 of Meth, etc.
 
To many people, it seemed to Swan, musicians were regarded as astronauts of the outer space of the mind, and people would heap fuel, energy drinks if you will, on them and send them on their way, just to see what is out there or in there, just to see what they might bring back from the unknown. Consequently, Swan had an whole drawer full of drugs, pills of every shape size and description, psylicidin mushrooms, bags of pot, coke, speed, heroin, which people had given him to help him on his way. At parties Swan would bring the drawer out and let the druggies help themselves.
 
Everyone agreed including Swan that Swan was way out there already, naturally and didn’t need these substances to get him there. But he saved them because they were gifts and he knew so many of his musician friends would enjoy them.
 
But Swan’s focus was always the art, the music. That was his high, and even though he drank and smoked some, and as he used to say
“I’ve tried everything and lived to tell about it”, he never judged what other people did or believed, he accepted it about them, and dealt with them accordingly.
 
Not so with his Wife and girlfriend. Many people are not strong enough to be around the temptation, pleasure, the pleasure of vice, pleasure of mental and physical escape that drugs give. But there is always a price. A trade off. For every offset, for every altered state, emotion, feeling...there is a corresponding “payback”. For example, you buy some drugs, the drugs make you feel good,
then the drug’s effects wear off, now you don’t have the money you had, and you lost sleep...not to mention emotionally, psychologically, your change in condition, which of course is generally perceived as desirable, in fact the real purpose of taking the substance to begin with...but in many cases I believe habits happen casually, not a real conscious decision, just sort of something to do, and then the addictive qualities of the substance take hold, and the next thing ya know is your hooked...an addict.
 
This happens across the board in our culture...in fact encouraged
in the media, which aims at getting us to buy more of the same thing...watch more of the same show or station...wear more of the same clothes...eat more of the same food...ah, the great corporate way...competition, profit...one burger, one way, one company, one people! Uber alles!...... Hmmmm, seems a little odd to me.
 
But back to Christine...and Cathy...and Debbie.
Christine always became friends with the drug dealers.
Straight up, truthful and honest, here ya go, gimme the stuff...
Cathy also stayed close to the source, but loved her independence
and her flowers more...her flowers, that’s what she loved...
Debbie with down with the dudes, played the game, knew the game, never traded sex for drugs...but could pull a con on anybody.
  
 
 
 
CHAPTER       BLINDED BY BLING
CHAPTER SPEND.     THE TV MADE ME DO IT.
HIS DEFENSE WAS...
 
HUGE DETAILED COLORED BILLBOARD. A SIXTY FOOT HIGH BLACK MAN WITH CHISELED MUSCULAR SHOULDERS AND BICEPS AND A SIX PACK ABDOMEN FORGED OF SMITH AND WESSON STEEL. HE WAS LEANING ON THE SIDE OF A PURPLE MERCEDES C360, 28 INCH RIMS OF GOTHIC IRON CROSS CHROME. SHOES BIG LABELED NIKE, LOOSE WARM UP PANTS, FUBU, ZIP UP HOODED SHIRT CANARY YELLOW ENSEMBLE, THIS PHAT FARM, DIAMOND ENCRUSTED TEETH, DIAMOND ENCRUSTED HANDS OF STEEL, CROSSED AND HOLDING A GLOCK IN ONE HAND AND IN THE OTHER A COLT 45. HIS FRIENDS WERE DRINKING COLT 45 MALT LIQUOR, THE 40 S YA KNOW,
A YELLOW DIAMOND NECKLACE THE SIZE OF YOUR HAND OF A DOLLAR SIGN AROUND HIS NECK. SO MUCH BLING IT'D BLIND YA.  THE HO BITCH BESIDE HIM WAS HOLDING A BOTTLE OF HENNESY, FRENCH COGNAC. HE WAS A PLAYA AND A PIMP HE WAS THE CROWN PIMP PLAYA, DADDY YO, AND SOMETIMES HE EVEN WORE A CROWN, BUT NOT ON THIS BILLBOARD. SMOKE WAS POURING OUT THE BARRELS OF THE GUNS. HE WAS UP FOR MURDER YEAH, BUT HIS LAWYER WAS USING A NOVEL DEFENSE, CLAIMING THE TV MADE HIM DO IT, AND IT WAS A GOOD DEFENSE TOO... THE PROSECUTION WAS REELING AND DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO HANDLE IT. HALF OF WHAT YO SAID WAS STREET TALK AND THE OTHER WAS MAJOR BRAND LABELS, SIGNS AND SYMBOLS OF AFFLUENCE, SHOVED DOWN OUR THROATS WITH EVERY FLICKER OF PICTURE TUBE, DIGITAL SIGNAL, RADIO WAVE BILLBOARD OR PRODUCT IN  A STORE, BOMBARDED BY SOCIETY MESSAGE TO SUCCEED AT ALL COSTS, GO FOR IT, THE STRONG AND HEROES WILL BE REWARDED WELL, AND SOME WILL BE MADE KINGS... BARBARIC BUTCHERING IS ALLOWED... JUST DO IT DISCRETELY, JUST DON'T GET CAUGHT, BUT BE PROUD AND BRAG ABOUT IT, DISCRETELY THAT IS, TALK IN RIDDLES AND RHYMES... NURSERY RHYMES THE BEST, THAT WILL HOOK THEM, A HUGE FAN BASE ON WHICH TO BUILD A KINGDOM, AND EMASS A FORTUNE. HIS NEW CD "KILLZ IN DA HOOD" "KILLZ ON DA LOOSE", HAD GONE TRIPLE PLATNUM IN A WEEK, AN UNHEARD OF MARKETING PHENOMENON.  BUT LIKE THEY SAY, IF YOU'VE GOT THE RIGHT LAWYER, THIS IS THE BEST JUSTICE SYSTEM IN THE WORLD. EVERYONE VIED AND PAID MILLIONS TO POSE WITH HIM. PRESIDENTS, SHIEKS, SHAHS, PREMIERS, KINGS, ALL POSING, SOME SHAKING HANDS THROUGH BARS, SOME ARMS AROUND HIM, SOME WAGGING A "BAD BOY" FINGER AT HIM WHILE SMILING, BUT ALL LAYING DOWN MAD CASH FOR THE PHOTO OP.  THIS CHAPTER IS ABOUT RAMPANT CONSUMERISM, BUSINESS, MARKET DRIVEN ECONOMY IN THIS AGE OF ELECTRONIC BRAIN WASHING ADVERTISING CAPABILITY, GO OFF ON TRIAL, THE LAWYER MAKING ABSURD CONNECTIONS IN HIS PRESENTATION AND COURTROOM PERFORMANCES, WHILE PAYING OFF THE JUDGE AND JURY... AND SHOWING THEM SLICK ADS WITH IMPLANTED MESSAGES...
OKAY, GOT THE MEDICAL FIELD COVERED, GOT LEGAL FIELD COVERED, GOT BUSINESS AND CAPITALISM COVERED, GOT NEWS AND AGAIN THE MEDIA COVERED IN METEOROLOGIST CHAPTER, GOT ENTERTAINMENT COVERED, IN CHAPTER 69.
JUDGE JAMES BROWN   AWWW!  GIMME SOME PCP!
  YAWWWW! CAN I GET A PCP?
"GET ON THE SCENE, LIKE A SEX MACHINE"
"TOO HOT IN THE HOT TUB"
"I FEEL GOOD"  
CASE DISMISSED DUE TO RECENT DEVELOPMENTS INDICATING A LACK OF CLARITY IN THE RESERVOIR OF SOCIETY, A SERIOUS DIMINISHING OF THREAD IN THE FABRIC OF SOCIETY AND AN SUPERFLUOUS AND RAMPANT ABUNDANCE OF BACTERIA LADEN DOGMA IN OUR LANGUAGE AND SPEECH, AND I JUDGE SWASTIKA HATCHET DO DECLARE THE CASE DISMISSED AND THE DEFENDANT NOT GUILTY OF ANY THING EXCEPT DOING WHAT SOCIETY TOLD HIM TO DO... THE SERREPTIOUS WITHHOLDING OF EVIDENCE, THE COPIOUS EFFULGENCE OF LITIGIOUS LIAISONS AND EXCURSIONS UP THE ANNULS OF JURISPRUDENCE AND JAWBONERY HAVE MADE THE DISCOVERY OF TRUTH AND EVEN WHAT SHOULD BE THE SIMPLE DETERMINATION OF WHAT IS RIGHT AND WRONG, IRRELEVANT, IRRETRIEVABLE, IRREDEEMABLE AS A SPERM STAINED CONDOM, AND A PLEASURABLE PAIN THAT HURTS SO GOOD LIKE ITCHING A HEMMORRHOID, THE COURT IS INSTRUCTED TO STRIKE THAT LAST PHRASE AND  DO NOT TAKE NOTE THAT I AM SMELLING MY FINGERS AS WE SPEAK, NOTE STRIKE THAT TO FROM THE RECORD, AND FURTHERMORE, AS I WAS ELUCIDATING WITH MY INCISIVE VERBIAGE, IMPOSSIBLE TO TELL THE CRACK OR PCP PIPE IN THIS CASE FROM THE SEWAGE PIPE, THE INTAKE FOR THE OUTTAKE IF YOU WILL, THAT IS, 'SHIT IN, SHIT OUT', SO TO SPEAK... THEREFORE WE ARE ALL FREE AND EXONERATED OF OUR CRIMES, EVIL DEEDS AND SEXUAL PROCLIVITIES, FANTASIZED OR ENACTED... IN CONCLUSION, I JAMES BROWN, GODFARTER OF SUPREME SUPERIOR UNIVERSAL CODICIL COUNSEL ON HUMAN AFFAIRS AND HUMAN RIGHTS, DO HEREBY DECLARE YO DADDY TO COME ON BACK TO MY CHAMBER TO SMOKE ON THIS PIPE WITH ME. THE REST OF YOU ARE FREE TO GO, I INSTRUCT THE COURT TO GIVE THE JURY  A STEAK DINNER AND A GOOD BLOWJOB OR CUNT LICKING, WHICH EVER THEY PREFER. THE ONLY TWO WHO WILL BE DETAINED IN THIS CASE ARE THESE TWO GRIMY ASS LAWYERS, I NEVER HEARD SO MUCH BULLSHIT IN MY LIFE... THEY WILL BE DEFROCKED, DEFLEAED, DEBRIEFED, DEBARRED, AND DEBARKED TO DISTANT GALAXIES, THE COURT SHOWING GREAT MERCY ON THEM... NOW THE PIPE CALLS AND THIS COURT IS ADJOURNED. ALL RISE AND GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE.
COME ON YO DADDY, LET'S HIT IT.  
    
JUDGE JUDY TANUDIE
 
 
 
 
 
GIRL FROM THE NORTH COUNTRY
 
 
He met her in a field in Arabi, a small town in South Georgia. She had distant blue sky colored eyes, a harley bandana around her head, her blonde braid
hanging down her back, she wore a t shirt, faded blue jeans, and brown work boots. She had a distant, confused but amused look in her eyes. Swan
immediately fell in love with her.
 
THE TANGERINE JAM was playing an afternoon gig in Arabi, Georgia,
half way between Macon and the Florida Line, just off of I-75. Daytona Bike
Week would attract thousands of bikers each year, riding their bikes down
Highway A1A, and events and places cropped up for bikers in route to Daytona
stop overs, places to stay and places to play and things to do that bikers
and campers enjoy...Here they were...in a compound...sometimes they would
play Roddy's Hog Farm, Keller's Flea Market in Savannah, and The Quail Compound in Arabi.
 
They were between sets, and Swan was leaning again Mink's van. She had on a red bandana which made her distant blues eyes all the larger. He could not take his eyes off of her as she passed. "My goodness, what is that?" Swan couldn't contain himself, and that's what came out. Another woman had come up and was talking to Swan, said she and her husband where from New Jersey,
had a lucrative business, garbage. She was very nice and upbeat.  Swan said oh yeah there's a lot of money in garbage. During their conversation he noticed the blue eyed one was standing around listening, so with his red marlboro racing hat turned around backward, he walked right up to her and asked her what was up? He was smiling and she was smiling and he asked her if she knew where he could get a little something and asked her if she wanted some money.
She said no, just wait, let me see what's around.
 
Swan headed back to the stage to play another set. As they cranked out the songs, he saw the bandanna girl out in the field, hanging out with a bunch of girls, talk and laughing and having a good time. Every now and then she would look at Swan, and she would start pumping her arms straight up and down while she danced in place, and Swan would just smile as he played. Something about that woman hit home. He would find out later that she was from the Motherland, Upstate New York as he would come to call it. His mother was from there, her mother was from there, and she was a mother too. Hence the Motherland. And whenever he traveled through upstate New York, he felt the pull, the draw of the Motherland. It was hard to explain but it was a beautiful place to him. She would come and go in his life. And he would go all the way  to Canada to get her, they were soul mates, twins, soul to soul. There would be years when they lived together, and years when they were apart. But their souls would always be one.
 
Sonya was quite a few years younger than Swan, and even though she liked him, she was really physically attracted to his band mate and bass player, the tattooed love boy, the chrome plated cutie, Strange or White Rat. This was not unusual, many girls, chicks, women, bitches, hoes, whatever, were attracted to Twang. His long straight blonde hair, his trim body, was an eye catcher to everyone, and many a woman fell for him only to discover within months that he was rather vacuous that is empty inside. It normally wouldn't end up much of a relationship. Stwang just couldn't express himself too well. He never had anything to say. He was a simpleton. A deceptively pretty simpleton.
 
By the end of the day Sonya was friends with Swan, and Swan could see she was attracted to Strange. So he tried to hook them up. Hey Twang she likes you man, I'm going to get her to come back to the hotel. Ten of them sat around in the Waffle House at 4 o'clock in the morning. And Sonya was one of them.
That night she did make love to Twang String. And it didn't bother Swan at all.
He liked her in ways far beyond physical attraction. He had some natural instinctual bond with her, and it would remain for years.
 
The next day, back at the festival, the people she was staying with had left, and gone to Daytona, and the band packed up and headed back to Atlanta. Swan gave Sonya his card with his phone number, and it was that card that she found in the woods when she went back looking for things she had lost that kept them in touch, she didn't find what she had lost or the money, but she did find the card and called Swan the next day. That was fate. What is meant to be will be. There is no altering that.
 
"HEY, this is Sonya. Did you miss me?" He had to admit he did. He had thought about her every day for the past two weeks. He wondered what she had been up too. They decided they would meet up at a truck stop halfway  between Atlanta and Macon. A Petro. Her friend Amy in a ragged out toyota pickup truck, pulled up and out popped Sonya. She had had her court date earlier that day, and now was free to move on and get her life going.
 
 
I LOVE YOUR LIPS        I LOVE YOUR FINGERTIPS
I LOVE  YOUR PAINTED NAILS
I LOVE YOUR SUNSHINE HAIR (YELLOW HAIR)
 
I LOVE YOUR EYES OF BLUE
LIKE CHANGING SKY BUT TRUE
I LOVE YOUR RUSTIC ROSY CHEEKS
 
I LOVE YOUR BODY
STRETCHING LIKE A BEACH
I LOVE TO RIDE YOUR OCEANS
I LOVE YOUR FEET
POINTING DOWN THE SAND
I LOVE YOUR PAINTED TOES
 
I LOVE YOUR TURQUOISE MIND
I LOVE YOUR TANGERINE WORLD
 
I LOVE YOUR MAGIC CONSTELLATIONS
I LOVE YOUR INNER STELLAR MAGNIFICATIONS
I LOVE YOUR PSYCHEDELIC ATMOSPHERE
I LOVE IT WHEN YOU ARE HERE
 
                            MONASTERY IN THE SNOW
 
On a cold night in December, Swan, William, Johnny Zen, and a mutual friend of theirs, Rhonda Lauren, a large but sexy woman who worked on films and TV projects, all met up at a bar, drank a bunch, and headed to the midnight mass at  The Trappist Monk Monastery in Conyers. It was snowing. They rolled into the mass excitedly and drunkenly... then the somberness, the quiet, the calmness, of the service hit them. They were ill prepared for this. It was a raucous romp they were on. Standing, sitting, kneeing... singing a sacred hymn while crammed into pews was difficult... Swan kept nodding off to sleep in the hot cathedral. Later that night Swan found himself in bed with Rhonda... she was greatly voluptuous, as they sported and rolled around in the bed, a shapely mountain of flesh, he had to admit she was very sexy... and this proved it did not matter what size you were but how you handle what you have that determines your sexuality,  your sensuality, your sexual appeal... another night he would end up with a woman lawyer, red headed, that kept snakes in her bedroom...stories on and on.
 
 
                            CHAPTER __
                        THREE SAINTS
 
It was the light of a new day. They had been up all night at a party. They leaned against a van. In rapture, they looked up at the sky. The infinite blue space.
The vibrant green leaves in the foreground. Kaiser Wilhelm Guard, Mike Kaiser,
William the Conqueror, and Swan... they could see the whole world it seemed... nothing was beyond them... Kaiser and Richard and Cosmo had taken 4 hits of ACID each...  so they were tripping their brains out, and their asses off... William and Richard were fine, lost in ecstasy... as  dawn arose they could be seen leaning against the side of a van, their heads leaning toward each other, their long curly auburn hair down around their shoulders, their blue eyes looking up to the sky, both wrapped in a beautific vision of some celestial splendor they beheld, the deep azure of the sky, the forever changing shapes of the clouds, the call of the birds in the oak trees... looking  like the painting of Saint Sebastian, minus the agony, but with the same piercing into other worlds and worlds within worlds look in the eyes.   Cosmos on the other hand  degenerated and deconstructed, regressed to a childhood state... flung his wallet his license, his ids, his money in the air and left, and Swan never saw him with a wallet again... He renounced having an identification, a license, a trackable personae. He became a free spirit in the modern world.  
 
 
NOTE:  Every day now Swan would ride from Northside and 75 to East Point, down Northside Drive, past the Dome, past Morehouse, Spellman, Morris Brown... Atlanta University... hub of black power base... ATL, riding alongside brand new Rolls Royce, same back way... to Lee Street/Main Street, MLKING and on West End and on down to Tri City Hapeville, East Point, College Park...
Rolls from OutKast studio BossTown down to place of origin hanging in studios, basement, Organized Noise... righteous... knowing the streets, been there with his friends, drug addicts, crack addicts, whores and prostitutes, homeless, all living somehow, it's hard on these streets, hard to survive, all a hustle... got to make it somehow, got to make your nut... selling running drugs down the road... fist size caulky rocks of cocaine... sweat... freezer bags of dro, dank, mids... 40 elbows every day... give you a good idea about what it is all about...
 
 
 
                            J O Y   LANE
 
And then there was Joy. They had first met at those long nights in The Hole,
when Swan would play and stay and even perform music sometimes four nights in a row, but every week for five years, playing deep and long into the unforgiving  and unspeakable starry sensual night, Arabian Nights, Irish Nights,
Southern Nights, slow languid dreams merging into reality and vice versa... and vice there was a plenty... all vices, the vice squad, bars, clubs, liquor, sex, rock n roll, drugs,  the whole buffet, pot, crack, cocaine, speed, ice, opium, heroin, not to mention any prescription known to western civilization. A Zanax was the base monetary unit in the drug world... 10 Zanax would get you a 20  bag of speed, etc... Those nights when sex was oozing from the bars and tables and chairs and bathrooms and dressing rooms and back alleyways, sex and drugs everywhere... this is where Swan met Joy.
 
She was a tall striking cowgirl, sophisticated model type, educated and spacey, just the way Swan liked it. She had long red Irish hair, and pale translucent skin. At 5'9" she had curves that made you lust porsche fingers that could drive those mountain roads, the muscles of her spine taut with a little aquaduct of skin running from her shoulder blades, angel bones, down her back, down into her jeans and spilling into her buttocks (ass). A fine lass. A fine lass indeed. She would always be dressed with great style. Funky woven hats, or just cowgirl hats and boots, long sweaters, East Indian jewelry, long fingers, and legs and arms always moving sensually, the ultimate feminine beauty. Her blue eyes sleepy exotic but sweet and happy blue crystal eyes, the blue jewels normally barely visible through the slits of her eye lids, lashes that fluttered down a veil and indeed they were. Perfect teeth and sweet luscious red mouth, lips that to kiss could sink ships and had over the course of history. She loved her music and liked to rock out. College and modeling and years with rockers and druggies had left its mark. Because she was gone, no question about it in this case, everyone agreed, she was definitely out there. She had been shot by stray rapper bullets 8 times that week, or Missy Elliot stole her Lamborgini, or her quarter horses this year weren't the same at the Derby as in the past. But sweet. Everybody loved Joy. Most just looked at her tentatively, handling her with kids gloves. They had never seen such an exquisite creature, definitely crazy, but nonetheless exquisite.
 
But Swan and Joy talked of Art. And Love. And there they both excelled. Swan determined that they were each others Angel, sent to look after one another in the midst of all the sharks and wolves of the world. They were the lambs and they knew it, extremely sensitive, other worldly, not of this world, this dimension, but of a world gone beyond. When they touched it was sublime, when they kissed it was unreal. When they talked  it was surreal. But they were each others Angel. They decided they would have a child together. Her name would be Sky. His name would be Sean. In another world not bound by the rules of this physical world, this would work. In this world, it would be insanity for these two to mate, both were truly spaced out.  
 
 
 
                            
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
                            INTRODUCTION
                                INVOCATION
 
Images broken, refracted off broken glass of sinews pink and pulsating, feeling, the rising agitated and heated white foam of thoughts once again, ah the spasm of bodies entwined in intimate pleasure, good indeed, but only for a moment... ah go beyond go beyond, as the seizure subsides and the heart rate and breathing slow... to sleep dreaming state of innocuous pink chasms falling into soft caves, caverns smooth and moist cushioning the fall, falling into a deeper sleep, a sleep of timelessness, nothingness, complete and utter peace. Devoid of anything from the senses, profound emptiness and void, gone beyond all stimuli, beyond the slow rise and fall of breathing... into the unknown, not felt Other Realm Beyond Wonderment... Gone, Gone, into the state beyond womb state and death, through transforming and occupying various physical or bodily states becoming different creatures, transforming but continuing The Great Grand Nothingness that has always existed through all changes. The insistence of impermanance ever present, but mesmerizing tranquility, realm of non being, realm of quiet, peace and calm so profound you and the self are gone, transported,  transmigrated, absorbed into it. Now sound beyond all sound shatters the ears, sights so magnificent as to destroy all sight, all senses exploding and imploding into the profundity... when one can get beyond the self and all its trappings and constructs, when one realizes that all information from the senses is false, illusory, temporal, fleeting, beyond all codes habits and behaviors, one reaches the ultimate confluence of space of Worlds Within Worlds... expanding, contracting, pulsating in cosmic multitudiness and melifluous colors... some fabulous glorious Dance of the Universe... White and shades of white, saffron and pink, yellow & red & orange, Blues and violets, Lilacs and Turquoise, greens and reds & blues, purples... fading into Black.
 
Having Gone Beyond, World Within Worlds... the peeling away of the onion skin of Reality.  
 
A mandala  of all colors, of all existence, of all sensation, of all being & non being, Worlds Within Worlds merging form new Worlds, the fabric of Life merging and weaving together, the Tapestry always weaving and transforming into other existences, the permanance of change, the ever present, onmipresent, nature of change creating new worlds... a new colorful city formed and appearing instantly & people too, so diverse, distant & intimate all at once... all knowledge, all information available and accessible, the shuffling of cards in a deck... is it all controlled randomness! Going Beyond! Go Beyond! Into the Fire! Into the Clouds!
 
Into the Worlds morphing into other Worlds, other existences where all that seems to be is not, through the veil of the Illusion of Reality, the Illusions of Realities, Worlds Within Worlds ever exploding... Flower upon flower emerging in front of us, right before our eyes, right before our face, Flower upon flower emerging,  petals of the Rose becoming petals of the Lotus becoming petals of the Gardenia and so on through all Flowers, All blossom before your eyes as you smile... but not just seeing this, not just looking at them, but flowing into them, becoming a part of them, becoming one with them, flowing over and around and into your being as you smile, the Musics of all cultures resounds in a Universal Unison Unique and All Encompassing Chansons and Choirs and the blast of trumpets -  a Note that disembodies and disassembles you, takes you up into its pressure, a mighty sound of all instruments - trumpet, guitar, breaking of clay pots and shouts - horns & strings & wind & percussion instruments, Lutes & Lyres & gourded instruments, all archaic and modern, the sound the reverberation of all of the sound that has every been made in the universe... exploding blood of ear drums, sound pressure disintegrating us - you, me, all of us, into this all of sound, and beyond all sound... The Smells, ungastly stenches and the sweetest of feminine smells and honeysuckles wafting us up into the All Beyond World Within Worlds... Delicious Nectar, ambrosian dreams and streams of delight, creamy cool liquids and solids, or Buffalo tough tears of meat or Dolphin Fin, Plants, animals, water thirst, all Worlds Within Worlds. Breathe...Pause...breathe in deeply all negativity, now breathe out all negativity... The Taste of Water, The big fish eating the small fish syndrome of reality, even those relocating to a distant Andromeda Strain... beyond the sweet succulent taste, beyond all this, beyond all the Worlds Within Worlds... TOUCH, THE TOUCH - ah the sweetest of the senses, engenders libidinous desires, sweet liaisons of youth - tender kisses, electric shuddering caresses, tingling touches fingers to flesh, flesh to flesh, soft sheen and silky sweetness of mouths, lips touching and merging, bodies clinched together... Male & Female, Male & Male, Female & Female, Physical Love and the Physical Expression of Love... grinding of sensual passion so good so wonderful, almost divine - best Symbolized By The Kiss - the sweet pulpy moist flesh, the vertical lines to contract and relax of lips touching oh so gently, the moment before the great giving and going and letting go into the throes of passion - The Worlds Within Worlds of bodies mingling, molecules of juices and moistures and essences and smells, sounds of moans and flesh on flesh suctioning and pounding... and the openness in the eyes that pure pleasure brings of Love of a sort, the taste of one another on the tongue, and the sweet smells of bodies mingling lingering in air & olfactory nerves, falling into the chasms of multitudiness and multicolored orgasms that unbeknownst became the spasm of the universe, the universe throbbing with fleshy space & light, didn't know what we were getting into, & unleashing a great swell & pulsating dna essence of Stars and Space & Planets of all Worlds Within Worlds. Worlds Within Worlds. Entering Worlds Within Worlds in order to arrive Beyond World Within Worlds. Yes, to go Beyond. Go through Worlds Within Worlds in order to go Beyond... where all & nothingness exist and there is no reward only arrival at this plane, space, realm outside all space and time... the final ultimate phenomenal STATE of MIND & BODY & SOUL ECTASY. That is what exists beyond WORLDS WITHIN WORLDS. (That is what waits Beyond WORLDS WITHIN WORLDS. Go and seek this gentle reader, thanks for stopping by, and may you find what you are looking for.  
 
 
EPILOGUE
 
Now all the friends, the parties played out, now the wives and girlfriends returned to their homes, he sat there, in a sand chair, low to the ground, his head upturned to the sun. It was fall, the air was cold, the leaves were red, green and gold and swirling to the ground. As he sat with his eyes closed, the sun was warm on his face. As he breathed in, he felt the air rushing through his nostrils, breathing in all the negativity of the universe, then breathing out, the air flowing out of his mouth, all the negativity of the universe leaving. Letting go of all things and all wants and desires. Just to be, to be in this present moment, and then to go beyond the senses, the temporary illusion that is now, absorbed in nothingness, and one with all. After a while of breathing like this, he opened his eyes. He picked up the book. The Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu. This book now echoed, reverberated in his soul. His life had been his life, for better or for worse, and now he had reached this point. He was in a lull, a silence, a quiet moment he had never felt before, and he knew his life would never be the same again. The next phase, who knew? For now he was wrapped in calmness and inner peace. For Swan this was a new feeling, he had always been driven by wild desires. To exist without responding to them was a big step for him. They swirled around, like a raging wind in his thoughts, but he was discovering an inner peace beyond them. He was caught up in the rapture, in the astonishing absorption of his being with the All. All. All there is. Here, and there. All. There is All. Here is All. Is there All? Yes. There is All. It is here. Now. All.  
 
 
 
END... THAT'S ALL FOLKS... FOR NOW...                      
 
 
 
                                                      
CHRONIC
or
WORLDS WITHIN WORLDS
 
THOMAS
ADAM
HILL
 
 
 
                         WORLD WITHIN WORLDS aka CHRONIC
 
INTRODUCTION  
INVOCATION
 
CHAPTER 1.   ROCKIN THE HIGH  
                       Rocking The High Museum of Art
                 Hard Rock at the High Museum
 
CHAPTER 2.  WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR
                             or RICHARD THE LIONHEARTED
                 THE BICYCLE RIDE OF RICHARD THE LIONHEARTED
 
CHAPTER 3.  THE MUMMIFIED REMAINS OF KING RAMSES II
 
CHAPTER BRAIN SURGERY.   PAGING DOCTOR DRAIN.
                                                 or ZEN AND THE BRAIN
 
CHAPTER 4.  ANDRE COSMOS  ** NOTE: MOVE THIS CHAPTER
                             TO LATER IN THE BOOK
 
CHAPTER 5.   EXOTICA PERSONIFIED   KEBE   OR FIFI
                              YOLANDA FIG  CHRISTINA FIGARO
 
CHAPTER 6.  ALBINO HERMAPHRODITE MONKEY GIRL
                     ZOOBIES
 
CHAPTER 7.   THE PHONE CALL
 
CHAPTER 8.   JOHNNY ZEN
                  YEN FOR THE MEN
                   ZEN YEN FOR THE MEN
                   ZEN YEN MEN
 
CHAPTER 9.     FIFI
 
CHAPTER SPEND.   BLINDED BY BLING or TV MADE ME DO IT
 
CHAPTER 10.  PARTIES PARTIES AND PARTIES
                EXILE STUDIOS CHE STANK
                BIZARIS RECORDS
 
CHAPTER 11.  THE ALBINO HERMAPHRODITE MONKEY GIRL
                              LUNAR LUMINOSITY OF SKIN
                  AND LAPIS EYES CRYSTALIZED
                              BY LONG GAZINGS AT LIFE'S BRIGHT BEAUTY
                              EYES WIDE AS SKIES, PAINTING PANORAMAS
                               VISTAS OF PSYCHEDELIC HUMANSCAPES,
                                AND A MIND AND LIPS THAT SAID LAUGHING
                                "LOOK UP! LOOK UP AT THE SKY!"
 
***NOTE: CONTINUE ON WITH THIS CHARACTER UNTIL HER DEATH, TALK ABOUT IT, THE XRAY, WAS NEVER SICK IN THIRTY YEARS, THEN A HUGE PAIN IN HER BACK, X RAY, SHE HAS CANCER, AND EVERYTHING CHANGED, SHE WAS NO LONGER THE LIFE OF THE PARTY, SHE HAD TO BE POSITIVE, WITHDREW, BUT THE CANCER SPREAD FAST, IN LESS THAN 6 MONTHS SHE WENT FROM SUPER HEATHLY TO DEATH. FIRST FOUND IN HER LUNGS, THEN IN HER THROAT, THEN IN HER STOMACH, THEN IN HER BRAIN, FINALLY THEY STOPPED THE CHEMOTHERAPY, IT WAS UP TO THE MORPHINE NOW THE BLUE LIQUID BOTTLES, TO KEEP HER HAPPY, SHE RETURNED TO HER PARENTS HOUSE, SHE LIVED IN THE ROOM WHERE THEY HAD MADE LOVE SO LONG AGO. SHE ALLOWED HIM TO VISIT ONE TIME, HE OFFERED TO HELP DAMIEN ADD A BATHROOM, AND SHE CONSENTED TO HIS COMING OVER.  SHE SEEMED EXQUISITE TO HIM, AS ALWAYS. SHE STOOD IN THE DOORWAY AND SAID HELLO IN THAT FAR AWAY AMUSED VOICE OF HERS. SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL BEYOND COMPREHENSION. HE WAS THERE 3 DAYS. THE FIRST DAY SHE DID NOT MAKE AN APPEARANCE. THE SECOND DAY  THERE SHE WAS ABSOLUTELY STUNNING, STANDING IN THE DOORWAY. LOOK LOOK SO CUTE SHE SAID AND SMILED. HE WAS SO TONGUETIED BY HIS EMOTIONS. AFTER THE LAST FIVE YEARS OF SUCH INTENSE LOVE, IT WAS SO HARD NOW TO LEAVE HER ALONE, TO NOT SEE HER, TO NOT BE WITH HER, HE WANTED TO DO SOMETHING FOR HER, HELP HER, BUT SHE WOULD HAVE NONE OF IT. SHE TOLD HIM ONCE, ON ONE OF THE FEW OCCASIONS WHEN SHE CAME OVER TO HIS HOUSE, SHE SAID, WELL I'VE THOUGHT ABOUT IT, AND I'VE DETERMINED THAT I ONLY DID ONE WRONG THING, AND THAT WAS YOU. BEING WITH YOU, THAT IS THE ONLY THING I DID WRONG. SHE WAS NOW BACK WITH HER FAMILY, RETREATING, PULLING BACK TO DIE. ONE TIME SHE HAD CHRISTINE AND FLYNN DOWN TO HER CONDO, THEY WERE ALLOWED TO SEE HER FOR ABOUT HALF AN HOUR, THEN WERE TOLD THEY SHOULD LEAVE. IT WAS ALL VERY STRANGE, SWAN FELT SO BETRAYED, AS THOUGH THE LOVE HE FELT EXISTED BETWEEN THEM WAS AN ILLUSION. SHE REFUSED TO SEE HIM. SHE WOULD NOT ANSWER WHEN HE CALLED. HE FELT THEY SHOULD BE TOGETHER. BUT SHE DID NOT APPARENTLY. SHE BLAMED HIM. IT WAS HIS FAULT. SHE HAD TO PLACE BLAME ON SOMETHING OR SOMEONE FOR SOMETHING LIKE THIS TO HAVE HAPPENED TO HER. SHE HAD CONQUERED EVERYTHING IN LIFE SHE CAME UP AGAINST, BUT THIS WAS TOO MUCH, THIS WAS DEFINITELY KILLING HER AND SHE WAS ANGRY, FELT IT WAS UNFAIR, AND SHE TURNED ON CHRISTINE AND SHE TURNED ON SWAN LIKE A CAT, LIKE SHE HAD NEVER KNOWN THEM. DISGUSTED, REPULSED BY THEM THE SERVICE, THE CHARACTERS, T., R., S., B., F'S SON  CALL HIM CHARLES... THE PILGRIMAGE TO THE BEACH TO SCATTER HER ASHES, A STORM, THE WIND BLOWING HER ASHES BACK INTO OUR FACES OUR MOUTHS, YOU KNOW SONYA WOULD BE LAUGHING... AS THOUGH SONYA SENT THAT STORM...
 
INTERMISSION (INTERMESSO)
 
CHAPTER 12.     THE BACKDROP    
TWELVE
 
CHAPTER 13.     MASOCHISTIC METEOROLOGISTS
THIRTEEN          "BE CAREFUL...BE INFORMED...BE AFRAID"
                                    OR    STORM CHASERS
 
CHAPTER 14.     PAIN IN THE ATL
FOURTEEN
 
CHAPTER 69.   DEBBIE'S CHAPTER/DELETED
 
CHAPTER WHATEVER.     BOOZE & PILLS &  POWDERS
 
CHAPTER 17.   THE ICE PALACE
                  
CHAPTER SPEND.   BLINDED BY BLING or TV MADE ME DO IT
 
CHAPTER 18.  GIRL FROM THE NORTH COUNTRY
 
CHAPTER 19.  CHI
 
CHAPTER 20.  The BANJO MAN
 
CHAPTER 21.   MONASTERY IN THE SNOW
 
CHAPTER 22.  THREE SAINTS
 
CHAPTER 23.   J O Y   LANE
TWENTY THREE     JOY TO THE WORLD
                                          JOY McKINNEY
 
CHAPTER 24.   EPILOGUE
 
OTHER CHAPTERS POSSIBLE
 
TANKERS ON THE MISSISSIPPI  
 
THE CRYSTAL KING    
 
GIRLS OF LAKEWOOD
 
"THE WEDDING & THE WEDDING BAND"
     SWAN'S WEDDING BAND
 
NIKKI  FETISH DANCER
    SEX & DRUGS & THE ARMY RESERVE
 
SACRED FEMININE
 
STEPHANIE
 
THE BASEMENT PARTIES
 
ANN DUERR
 
DAHLONEGA  GOLD GOLDSCHLAGER NIGHTS
MINK AND TAINGE
 
CRAZY MARY & JACKIE TILTON & LYNN CARLYLE & SHANNON
 
BERNIE MARCUS & ARTHUR BLANK
        BLACK & WHITE
 
FRANCESCA'S VISIT TO ATL
 
PATRICIA & STANLEY
 
A, WALKING DISORIENTED ON BRIDGE ON I 4 INTERSTATE  4
R H... S J...
 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER
 
TANTRIC EPISODES
TAO ROADS
TAO HIGHWAY
ZEN ROADS
HIGHWAYS TO ENLIGHTMENT
 
CHAPTER 24
PAGING DOCTOR DRAIN
DR BRAIN DRAIN
ZEN AND THE BRAIN
 
FINALE.   OR EPILOGUE
 
NOTE:  So here is the flow of the book. Like a Roller Coaster, first pulled up hill, then the great wide fast swoops and loops and centrifugal force, the giddy happiness... and then the death and the dying and the dispersal of all the people, the terrible and tremendous drug use, like the big bang of the universe now everybody separate, he sold the house had nothing, no more parties, no more happiness, people in jail, people in the ground or in urns, people now living all over the country... the once proud cocky man reduced to ruins. As Shannon said not Shannon but Sloane said once she overcame her obsession with him and saw him for what he was, "You are defeated and a ruined man."
That's what he felt like at the end. All the happiness, all the joy, gone. The crazed wild drug use of his wife and those around him and soaked all the joy.
He was alone now. With no one. Oh yes, he still went through the motions, he went out and played all over town with his band. But it  was not the same, it was only the joy of music now. The joys of his life were all gone now. True he still loved getting down in the groove of a song, and watching people dancing all around him. But the true loves of his life were gone or so far away as to be non existence. He was the living dead. He was a zombie. All the fun was gone. He was alienated from people. He was alienated from his surroundings. He was alienated from his city. He was alienated from the streets. He was alienated from his house. The house that had been home to so much fun and debauchery, love and sex, and parties and drugs, lots of drugs, and alcohol, the house that he had saved from certain demolition, he had sold to a friend who bought and sold real estate. He had turned it into an apartment building.
Good people. But no one knew each other. They were not creative. And he was alienated from them all. He lived in what had been his studio. A small shed in the  back of the house. What was he going to do now. Alone, he sat and wondered what to do. He wrote, built a website, developed many friends on the internet, and when his computer failed to work, became very depressed because he could not communicate with his mySpace pals. He had become addicted to mySpace. What was he going to do now?
Beginning/playing music traveling/ the people the parties/ the love and fun and art/ the price of excess/ the deaths / bankruptcy of the soul and of his world/ financial collapse/loss of his house/ dispersal of all friends/ no one around anymore/ a fool and his money are soon parted. oh well, what to do next... he laughed and thought what a wild and wonderful and strange life he had lived. He just wanted to rest now. He was tired of working. Tired of living. Tired of everything. Probably after some sleep, he would get up and head out on some new misadventures of a life over which he had no control.  
 
 
                            INTRODUCTION
                                INVOCATION
                                EPILOGUE
 
Images broken, refracted off broken glass of sinews pink and pulsating, feeling, the rising agitated and heated white foam of thoughts once again, ah the spasm of bodies entwined in intimate pleasure, good indeed, but only for a moment... ah go beyond go beyond, as the seizure subsides and the heart rate and breathing slow... to sleep dreaming state of innocuous pink chasms falling into soft caves, caverns smooth and moist cushioning the fall, falling into a deeper sleep, a sleep of timelessness, nothingness, complete and utter peace. Devoid of anything from the senses, profound emptiness and void, gone beyond all stimuli, beyond the slow rise and fall of breathing... into the unknown, not felt Other Realm Beyond Wonderment... Gone, Gone, into the state beyond womb state and death, through transforming and occupying various physical or bodily states becoming different creatures, transforming but continuing The Great Grand Nothingness that has always existed through all changes. The insistence of impermanance ever present, but mesmerizing tranquility, realm of non being, realm of quiet, peace and calm so profound you and the self are gone, transported,  transmigrated, absorbed into it. Now sound beyond all sound shatters the ears, sights so magnificent as to destroy all sight, all senses exploding and imploding into the profundity... when one can get beyond the self and all its trappings and constructs, when one realizes that all information from the senses is false, illusory, temporal, fleeting, beyond all codes habits and behaviors, one reaches the ultimate confluence of space of Worlds Within Worlds... expanding, contracting, pulsating in cosmic multitudiness and melifluous colors... some fabulous glorious Dance of the Universe... White and shades of white, saffron and pink, yellow & red & orange, Blues and violets, Lilacs and Turquoise, greens and reds & blues, purples... fading into Black.
 
Having Gone Beyond, World Within Worlds... the peeling away of the onion skin of Reality.  
 
A mandala  of all colors, of all existence, of all sensation, of all being & non being, Worlds Within Worlds merging form new Worlds, the fabric of Life merging and weaving together, the Tapestry always weaving and transforming into other existences, the permanance of change, the ever present, onmipresent, nature of change creating new worlds... a new colorful city formed and appearing instantly & people too, so diverse, distant & intimate all at once... all knowledge, all information available and accessible, the shuffling of cards in a deck... is it all controlled randomness! Going Beyond! Go Beyond! Into the Fire! Into the Clouds!
 
Into the Worlds morphing into other Worlds, other existences where all that seems to be is not, through the veil of the Illusion of Reality, the Illusions of Realities, Worlds Within Worlds ever exploding... Flower upon flower emerging in front of us, right before our eyes, right before our face, Flower upon flower emerging,  petals of the Rose becoming petals of the Lotus becoming petals of the Gardenia and so on through all Flowers, All blossom before your eyes as you smile... but not just seeing this, not just looking at them, but flowing into them, becoming a part of them, becoming one with them, flowing over and around and into your being as you smile, the Musics of all cultures resounds in a Universal Unison Unique and All Encompassing Chansons and Choirs and the blast of trumpets -  a Note that disembodies and disassembles you, takes you up into its pressure, a mighty sound of all instruments - trumpet, guitar, breaking of clay pots and shouts - horns & strings & wind & percussion instruments, Lutes & Lyres & gourded instruments, all archaic and modern, the sound the reverberation of all of the sound that has every been made in the universe... exploding blood of ear drums, sound pressure disintegrating us - you, me, all of us, into this all of sound, and beyond all sound... The Smells, ungastly stenches and the sweetest of feminine smells and honeysuckles wafting us up into the All Beyond World Within Worlds... Delicious Nectar, ambrosian dreams and streams of delight, creamy cool liquids and solids, or Buffalo tough tears of meat or Dolphin Fin, Plants, animals, water thirst, all Worlds Within Worlds. Breathe...Pause...breathe in deeply all negativity, now breathe out all negativity... The Taste of Water, The big fish eating the small fish syndrome of reality, even those relocating to a distant Andromeda Strain... beyond the sweet succulent taste, beyond all this, beyond all the Worlds Within Worlds... TOUCH, THE TOUCH - ah the sweetest of the senses, engenders libidinous desires, sweet liaisons of youth - tender kisses, electric shuddering caresses, tingling touches fingers to flesh, flesh to flesh, soft sheen and silky sweetness of mouths, lips touching and merging, bodies clinched together... Male & Female, Male & Male, Female & Female, Physical Love and the Physical Expression of Love... grinding of sensual passion so good so wonderful, almost divine - best Symbolized By The Kiss - the sweet pulpy moist flesh, the vertical lines to contract and relax of lips touching oh so gently, the moment before the great giving and going and letting go into the throes of passion - The Worlds Within Worlds of bodies mingling, molecules of juices and moistures and essences and smells, sounds of moans and flesh on flesh suctioning and pounding... and the openness in the eyes that pure pleasure brings of Love of a sort, the taste of one another on the tongue, and the sweet smells of bodies mingling lingering in air & olfactory nerves, falling into the chasms of multitudiness and multicolored orgasms that unbeknownst became the spasm of the universe, the universe throbbing with fleshy space & light, didn't know what we were getting into, & unleashing a great swell & pulsating dna essence of Stars and Space & Planets of all Worlds Within Worlds. Worlds Within Worlds. Entering Worlds Within Worlds in order to arrive Beyond World Within Worlds. Yes, to go Beyond. Go through Worlds Within Worlds in order to go Beyond... where all & nothingness exist and there is no reward only arrival at this plane, space, realm outside all space and time... the final ultimate phenomenal STATE of MIND & BODY & SOUL ECTASY. That is what exists beyond WORLDS WITHIN WORLDS. (That is what waits Beyond WORLDS WITHIN WORLDS. Go and seek this gentle reader, thanks for stopping by, and may you find what you are looking for.