Intuitive Traveler: In Search of a Compass, Cape Cod, MA, rev. II

Tremont Street, Boston. about 1843. Philip Har...

Tremont Street, Boston. about 1843. Philip Harry, American (born in England), 1843–1860. 34.92 x 40.96 cm (13 3/4 x 16 1/8 in.) Oil on panel. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

English: Race Point Lighthouse, Provincetown, ...

English: Race Point Lighthouse, Provincetown, Cape Cod, Massachusetts, USA, 1876

Provincetown, Cape Cod, Massachusetts, USA

Provincetown, Cape Cod, Massachusetts, USA (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

GIST: 1982-1983

He was a mistake, outside to in. Prematurely pushed into streets, he found sordid company. Dropped acid under a  neon-sway sign on Tremont Street, that read “Drugs.”

Friendly ghosts seen on Colonial streets, down Boylston and Massachusetts Ave, in the day.

Extreme, pulsing jazz rhythms ride and flow from the Berklee Performance Center through out the Back Bay and beyond.

1983-Moved to Roxbury, MA, before gentrification, with sordid fellows,.

14 June, 1983- The partiers threw kan, from The Book of Changes, for direction:

“Crossing The River.”


9:00 pm-ish.  Two arrived at the Cape, by the Charity of the Road. Without compass, intending Provincetown, but lost on Portsmouth On The Bay.

Sandy eyed,  blurred, directed by Gods’ breath-winds, coming off acid. Thrown kan as blind faith. To the wind as they will go.
Welcomed only betwixt sea salt air, mournful cawing, and stinging sands.

Wounded veterans, trudging eons. Stars became altered and displaced.

Curses at birth reverberated in his Virgo soul.

His  mothers’ intentional wounding. She had wanted a girl.
Multigenerational poison pulsed in his unwilling helpless, captive veins.
Cut,  hung in airless altitudes, without compassion or mercy.

He dropped tears of despair on obsidian sidewalks,  in midnight rain.

His absurdly optimistic friend puffed verdurous Rastafarian green, as

they ascended:

Pulled anaranjado sun from the bottom of prehensile ocean.

Surreal Native Americans spirits, in furtive bliss, danced ferociously, in future passed in gray mist, clouds. Tom toms, mesmerized , war whoops, fury. Love, encapsulated in timeless sapient winds, sang hope.

But their bellies grumbled amid bliss. Food not easily procured, but clams on the beach, for free. Free ice water at Ye Olde Oysterhouse, where colonial soldiers had sat “in the 1770’s,” while local bluebloods cast disdaining glances and lifted gold-frothed draughts of beer, in 1983.

On sides of the weather-beaten road,  Revolutionary tombstones jutted in spurts. Some stones pushed up uneasily in crooked curious mounds of earth, in uneven grass. The stones mutely weathered in calligraphy from old Hollywood ghost tales, bending clock time to antiquity. Some stones dated before the act of the Revolution ever became forged.

Their brimming imaginations now burst with creative fire. They were having fun. Fate thrown to the Gods, foolish youth play.

Natives, Redcoats, Minutemen collected under soles of their tender feet. Here lay New England‘s collective elders, hallowed, dissentient tectonic dust, they knew, in silence, awe.

They sat in a circle of stones from an ancient fire, or just from campers, but it was more fun this way. Breathed in bliss and thick Rasta smoke.

Barely audible purple, misty waves surrounded their heart chakras. Lingering tales extolled by globe-bells deep in tombs laying on oceans floor.  Lives opened from canoes, slave ships, war ships, boatloads of immigrants, that architected ever wider to more boisterous vibrations. Becoming the pounding urban sprawl of the American city of Boston, Massachusetts, USA.

On its safety valve of the Cape, prisms on sand shaped into mini geometrical architecture. Imperfect angles made by God,  linear measurement being only in man, as God. Man with life breathed into them, created.

Sculptured into generations of minds, as the two lost, bedraggled seekers were being viewed through hand-blown Colonial glass panes. With Puritan disdain from the blueblood locals.

Tides orchestrated by the smiling moon goddess. Waves in the azure ocean pulled sweet songs of Solomon, into the pairs’ opened consciousness, looking for universal directions.

In a moment whispered quiet to them,  direction home,…

as a simultaneous, benevolent driver of a gold chariot red Ferrari pulled over and beckoned them to come in. The driver, with a silver spoon around his neck, was coincidentally looking for weed. And in true Rasta spirit,  delivered them to their doorstep, back in Boston, free of charge.


Walk in the Park, 7/31/2013

Stolen in Burglary


Today I went to the park. A blackbird (crow?) landed on the vending machine containing duck food. It was unable to break and enter, so his crow(ny) buddy (who I named “Charlie”) knocked him off his roost, to take a crack at the heist.


Frustrated, they both paced the ground below.


I got out a quarter for the machine, saying “OK, I saw you guys. I’ll help you.”


Actually, I was supposed to be exercising, but am supposed to take it easy for a few days, so I was going slow, entertaining myself, trying to be meditative and “mindful,”etc.


To my surprise, the crows did not fly away as I approached them, duck food pellets in hand. One came up to me as if happy, saying “Thanks. What took you so long? I was hungry!”




Prostitution in the Combat Zone, Boston, MA, Naked I Cabaret (rev).

Naked Seven

English: A scantily-clad woman in a thong stuf...

Lucy_Lawless_092 (Photo credit: graphicgoo)

The Naked I Cabaret:

Naked sex,  wet

passions, searing

dervish dance maelstroms.

Pumped exotic leopard silky,

pulsing, dripping, tender skin.

Many moneyed

bulging-eyed “minutemen.”

Lawless invitations

under dirty filthy tables.

Secreted skyscrapers. Lines.

College girls

exude exotic perfumes.

Lights of neon graffitti’d walls.

Playing Peter’s piper,

beckon teasing lady Chinese fingers,

beckon after dark.

I Ching

gods throwing coins in splendid pink gutter.

Whores in daddy-masters hose,

humped, eaten, thrashed rawly.

Fish-net stockings drip

teeming teasing

bawdry tits

trapped in tall snake cages.

Fluted freaky people.

Freed in war paint, smeared mascara.

Strobe lights hang indecent, redly

promise kissy lips.

Teasing, dominant fun house smiles.

Bent-to-mirror tricks,

slapped silly,

high asses,

up in gold spiked heels.

All corralled at the

hidden, respectable

blue blood edge.

Downtown Boston Combat Zone‘s

Naked I Cabaret.

Where freedom riders

rode! horses! whipped! senseless!

Importance of Rocks

Surprise Tank - South entrance

I embrace the rock. We hug. It holds me warm, solid, in gentle mountain breeze. Warmed in Ra-sun surround, I hear my breath. Forestalls stunning silence in the back of in my running mind.

A Paiute warrior runs barefoot on the hot, sandy terrain. I am him

How beautiful the black and white metallic glitter rock spikes light. Speckled and striped like my dear old tiger cat’s back.

A crow darts up in the sky. It dove from olden days behind a pile of mountain rocks, last time. I follow the bird, thinking of my betrayal to my grandmother and ended up surrounded by rattlesnakes, as if her spirit wished me ill.

My insides twist again, though the rock does not let go, in its great compassion. Nor abandon me like Mom did. People think they are superior to mere lifeless rocks. The Native Americans said stones have the oldest spirits, should be respected.

Donna appears in my mind’s eye, from forty tears ago. Just thirteen when I pulled a knife on Donna. She said I did that but to this day, I do not remember. My first drunken blackout. Just like Mom had all the time.

She pulled open the knife drawer on me, age three. Said “if you ever say you’re a boy again, I’ll kill you.” Jesus was not there to protect me. The church lied, everybody lied.

So now I latch onto my therapist for dear life, but he won’t fuck  my brains out so I can forget for awhile. So I do it in secret.

Wind blasts, howls all off a sudden. Did I anger God with my thoughts? No one here to judge. I’m safe. The rock is safe as well. It holds me in quiet strength, soothes me, warmed by sun. It doesn’t get angry no matter what I say or do.

Rocks have stayed here, warmed by the love of the sun and cooled in the dark moons for eons. Waiting and watched dinosaurs, and will see the end of the world in quiet expectation  in sweet song. We sense something more is coming.

Patience. My spirit animal turtle.

Petroglyphs at Surprise Tank - 4820

To think when You were cremated, Mom, your ashes will be rock. So, this rock is all people and I and we are all people.

I wonder if it will take eons to love you again.

Sacred Geometry Daydreams, rev.

All Giza Pyramids in one shot. Русский: Все пи...

All Giza Pyramids in one shot. Русский: Все пирамиды Гизы на изображении. Español: Las Pirámides de Guiza (Egipto). Français : Les Pyramides de Gizeh (Egypte). Català: Les Piràmides de Giza, a Egipte. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Flag of Israel. Shows a Magen David (“Sh...

Flag of Israel. Shows a Magen David (“Shield of David”) between two stripes.

The end of dreaming is the end of fear. Quote: A Course in Miracles, purportedly  channeled from JC himself.

The inverted triangles. aka Solomon’s Seal,  Star of David, Magen David.

Over several weeks I “encountered” this symbol dozens of times in many different places. Too many times to “just be coincidence,” I thought.

One thing is right before that, a friend traveled to Israel. He put a prayer for healing I had written in the Wall, in Jerusalem.

My background:  I was raised Christian, or at least went to a Christian church. However my mother converted to Judaism before she died, so I guess I’m a little “Jew-ish” lol.
Additionally,  we celebrated Christmas and Hanukah and most of our friends were Jewish.

Despite Presbyterian Sunday School,  I grew up with the idea that Jesus was just a man, though a fully actualized human being who had reached the ultimate possibility.

My parents were quite intelligent, scientists, well educated. Jesus was the perfect man or as close as possible. He was not God.

Plus God was a vengeful, punishing God whose wrath was to be feared. In our Presbyterian church, people were sinners. And sinners go to Hell. No forgiveness, no exceptions, no amount of good works nor repentance nor in any other way could this fate be prevented. Life was suffering. The purpose of life was suffering, because that was Gods Will, according to the way I was raised.


Heaven and Earth. Male and Female. …..many interpretations of those inverted triangles. An ancient symbol. Used as a Jewish symbol in the 1600’s onward, I think. But the symbol is much older, in the history of the world.


Here’s some daydream thoughts:

I saw you in the concentrations camps, and flying in the flag of Israel , the people who could not be killed from exile in Egypt till time immemorial.

I saw you again, the triangles of Solomons Seal fell together and I found you.

You are the cornerstone your sacred geometry. Aztec temples with solar solstices planned like the architecture of Indians of Arizona and New Mexico and Stonehenge in Europe, ancient wonders before your time.

Did we know you then?

To my materialist Catholic doctor:  The pyramid, the great seal of US,  13 arrows, the founders of US were free masons.

What secrets, the symbols. Hidden behind the symbols the truth.

The construction of the universe,  the globe circle, the earth of eternity of the now moment.

Why do we dream at night?

I told my friend about seeing the Star of David and that I had overcome some long term problems, using the symbols. One of these was encountering some Messianistic (sp?) Jews, who gave me some hope in seeing JC as a real Savior, for the first time in my life.

The last time I talked to my friend about the Star of David, he said “More will be revealed….”