The First Page, summer of ’91.

     Ditto the First Page: given about a week later, sitting in front of my tent, completely unexpected, from the same, almost-audible but unmistakably clear Voice.  This captures in a beautifully understated way some seventeen years of learning the complex implications of existing as a HOLOGRAPHIC, multi-dimensional emanation of Light directly from the Source, we being literal children of the One God, with all manner of potential to use our higher Gifts/Light frequencies to influence what I like to call our individual, collective, and global Timespace through focused, scientific prayer.  A great deal of the Book is dedicated to these extremely complex principles, but I could not have come up alone with such a succinct, one-sentence jewel such as this.

Social Work Resume.

     This and my fledgling professional social work career became history and I immediately became a “criminal” with the pre-ordained Bust of July 15, 1977 (a few plants on my deep wilderness farm: one plant was a “felony” -see the Book).  It then became time to leave eighteen years of education, then the three years of (initial) mystical  Training on the Two Farms, behind to study homelessness, the street, years of working myriads of minimum-wage jobs among some very fine low-income people out of those horrible (slave-) labor halls, a lot of professional truck driving, and years of brush and wilderness residency and further mystical Training.  I just keep it for laughs, and as an example of the harm a satanic “law” can do, and has done to literally hundreds of thousands of good people, professional and otherwise.  Wait until the next installment, when I will post a series of Huckleberry Finn-type mischievous adventures I deliberately had thereafter with the “law”, called Messin’ With The Law.

The Brujo Letter:  Looking For The Perfect Woman (my metaphysical resume).

     I got a wild hair and wrote this four years before I had it printed, in the summer of ’86.      I had a huge crop of excellent weed going, and had just survived being stabbed almost to death, so  I figured what the heck and had it printed as a Ceremony on all the women in San Antonio (and wherever else).  This was a Zen exercise, not caring if it brought me any results, but the third woman it did bring, my beautiful Karen, was very powerful, and an intense lover for the time we stayed together, -until February, ’87.  She, my last girlfriend to date, as well as a precious few others over the years preceding her, were exquisite expressions of the female Goddess: the feminine aspect of God, and I have been blessed for having known them.  The letter still speaks for itself.  My brothers, can you relate?

Visitation.

     While on the First Farm (‘74 to ’76: please see The Stories…), my Training in Dreaming quickly became a breathtaking nightly adventure.  I studied Dreaming with several groups and practiced about an hour of pre-sleep prayer and meditation, and quickly attained around five to seven Dreams a night with perfect recall, which progressed from “normal”/analytical dreams to psychic and supernatural Dreaming (many of us potentially have such a Gift, among others).  In the process, I learned that if I exceeded the hour of preps I was so full of Light and ideas that I couldn’t sleep.  On one such night I gave up on sleeping, twisted up a fat one and put on Dave Mason’s Headkeeper album, and kicked back in the dark to enjoy a gentle night breeze coming up off the river.  First I got a vague, but firm, concept which then became a jumble of ideas.  They refined themselves, and as I started to write, they fell perfectly into place and I wrote Visitation almost verbatim.  An interesting side note: the holy Temple was originally named Beth-el hai (I liked the Tolkein-ish, mantric sound), which I found later in an obscure but significant geographical reference in the Bible.  I changed the name some while later to Shaas-ta-vehr (still mantric, Tolkein-ish).  I still recite this piece occasionally to myself or for close friends for the spiritual high.

The Immunity Letter.

     I let this idea incubate for a few months, then wrote this almost verbatim, and they (the Express-News) actually published it, complete with the last sentence, to my (our, O.K.?) surprise and enjoyment.  It is still perfectly contemporary, is it not?  Kiss my ass… .

The Immunity Article.

     Isn’t this beautiful?  This is the article itself, which a lot of good people have gotten a hearty laugh out of over the years.  Please enjoy.

To Younger Mystics.

     All children have a certain Magic (they are still close to the heavens, from which they come), but some just simply sparkle.  Such was the case for my sister’s little girl, Heather, and my apprentice Richard’s little niece, Kelli, who were about three years and six years, respectively.  So, I wrote this for them.  As I looked at it, I realized it might be enjoyable for kids of all ages (ages 3-70). 

Trip 537A/Schizology.

     My third semester at Our Lady Of The Lake University in S.A., working on my Master’s Degree in social work, was spent entirely in the capacity of a full-time social worker at a home for emotionally disturbed and abused children (like myself, thanks to my sadistic, insane mother).  I had recently read a real neat little book called, 101 Ways To Get High, which included such methods (along with a very few of the obvious ways) as water skiing, making love, performing volunteer work, writing or reading poetry, etc., which prompted this little, totally non-serious piece.  This all happened while sitting at a large conference table with all kinds of Ph.D.’s and professionals from several behavioral fields.  “Empty space has ways of making itself known…”.

Timothy.

     After my Training by Carlos Castaneda and Don Juan had begun (’71) and Spirit moved me, post-graduate, to the First Farm in May, 1974, I discovered, -was led to- my huge peyote field deep in the south Texas desert (please see the Book) in early 1975.  So in the first in a series of bi-yearly harvests that lasted until ’83 and yielded hundreds of pounds of prayer-over cactus, a highly spiritual friend and I brought out two days’ picking: well over 100 pounds.  A couple of weeks later, I had my first actual contact (over an hour) with Mescalito, the supernatural, angelic Teacher that resides within the cactus, -the first of three such direct contacts (see the Book).  On this prolonged visit, he approached as a complex and continual musical tone and taught me, lovingly and patiently, some very advanced meditation/prayer techniques, but Timothy is a true story about something real neat that happened about dawn the next morning.  It’s pretty much self-explanatory, but I thought ya’ll would get a kick out of a couple of subtleties I threw in, tongue-in-cheek.  “… an extraordinary night…” is the only reference I made to my initial Visit from this incredible, exquisite supernatural Being, and “I have been unceremoniously surprised, in the past” refers in a likewise vastly understated manner to the major, multi-week demonic attack that followed the prophecy/warning by the Angel, back in October, ’72: please see The Stories Behind The Picture.

     Oh, and there is a real happy ending to the story: I Knew Timothy couldn’t stay indefinitely, so a few days later when he came into the bedroom again, I closed off all but a small part of the door and put a paper sack across the remaining space, and I’ll be darned if he didn’t run right into it and stay there.  Then I took him down to the large trash pile behind the landlord’s house by the river, where I knew he would make a lot of friends and we both would be a lot happier.  It did me a lot of good to see him hopping off, the cute little critter.

An Affirmative Prayer.

     I wrote this just for the heck of it, to put down a few things I had learned until that time, and I guess it turned out O.K.  Please enjoy.

Stories Behind the Picture.

     I got the “idea” for this around February of this year, ’07, to share some of the thirteen (13) extremely interesting events that came together over a nine year period to produce the picture and Train me, and so I would eventually share their Magic with you.  These are four physical objects, -actual physical GIFTS, from different classes of supernatural beings.  There are several classes of such Beings involved in the receipt of these Gifts over this 9 year period, so I have included them here (out of dozens detailed in the larger 250-page autobiographical chapter, which still needs editing and time-sequencing, but at last, after decades, is finally at hand -whew!).  Oh, that larger chapter is called What Happened (?).  I snuck in a little  subtlety here I should share with ya’ll: the question mark in parentheses.  As I explain in the Book, it represents What Happened, as in a concise statement of fact, but the tongue-in-cheek (?) signifies the stunned after-effect of having been hit in the head by a very large metaphysical two-by-four.

Messin’ With The Law: Judge Barlow: Dear Mr. Eiland… .

     Three very intense initial post-graduate years of mystical Training ended, ironically, with the Bust of  7-15-77 on the Second Farm: 100 acres of paradise 25 miles south of S.A., way up past a gate on a dead-end dirt road, right on the S.A. River. A meter reader snitched me off: one plant (of 45 seven-footers) was a “felony”.  After four days in jail (a whole neat story in itself after the brothers found out what I was in for) I snapped to call Tom, one of the top criminal defense attorneys in the city and to whom I had apprenticed in paralegal work in graduate school, who said he would have me out the next day (he was busy with a capital murder case).  Though they had valued my 45 plants at $50,000 (the narks must have weighed the freakin’ dirt: they were just going to bud, and worth maybe a grand, just for the weight), Tom got me three years’ probation (no piss tests, in those good old days: party on…), with Deferred Adjudication, -wiping the record clean- at the completion of probation.  It is, truly, a matter of who you know.  I was brought, cosmically, after a month’s delay, before Judge James Barlow, the “head” judge of Bexar County, on my birthday.  He was a real big guy, looking down from his throne over half-glasses.  It was a brief, arranged meeting: “Just growing your own, huh boy?”  “Yessir.”  “If I ever see you again I’ll put you as a farmworker at T.D.C., you understand me?”  “Yessir.”  “Motion for probation granted.  Get out of my courtroom.”  “Yessir.  Thank you, sir.”  The moment I walked out of his courtroom I started “messin’ with the law (numerous extremely humorous anecdotes covering many years, covered in detail in the Book).  I should mention that these blatantly insubordinate actions were probably the result of having read Mark Twain’s adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer as they traveled the Mississippi: they made a party out of anything.  This is also, I figure, the duty of any true hippie worth his or her salt.

     After, -note, after probation was completed I wrote Barlow a precise letter, Dear James… (in the Book), in which I explained explicitly that his “laws” in this area were not from God and thus were satanic, and that therefore as a willing representative of the “state” he owed me the following: $50,000: marijuana confiscated, by his estimate; $1200: lawyer; $354: “court costs”.  “Hurry and send it along, James”, I told him, and signed it, with my address.  This letter is what he sent back, and which is exactly what I wanted, even beyond my wildest expectations.  Isn’t it priceless?  Please note, especially, the next-to-last sentence: “The next time you come in conflict with the law we will understand you better” (translated: We gonna fuck you up, boy!).  Isn’t that fine?!  The right people all over the world are gonna get a big kick out of that… .  It turned out, cosmically, that he helped me find my daughter much later, in ’87, one of the many times that her mother, Cynthia (known henceforth and on a letter accompanying each and every one of my child support checks as the Psycho Bitch From Hell), had abducted her or denied me my visitation.  God bless him for that (he didn’t recognize me).  In retrospect, he seemed that day like a real decent man, despite our earlier disagreement on this issue.  I should also note here that the two narks who led the raid on my wilderness Farm, Frank Ashton and Bernie Salazar, were also decent, highly professional and well-meaning individuals as well.  No hard feelings: this was God’s way of moving me back into the big tittie, -oh, I mean city, for the next phase of Training. 

Messin’ With The Law: This Bud’s For You.

     Man, I just had to do this.  Nine years after the Bust, the sixth growing season since then (in deep brush, not in my garden, as was the case on my supposedly-isolated Second Farm), I spent the fourth year dodging rattlers, coral snakes, and moccasins, and getting bee-, scorpion-, and ant-stung, and sealing off a state-of-the-art, tree-covered deep-brush marijuana plantation within the city limits of S.A.  I closed off a few trails and made a impenetrable perimeter with thorn brush, created an aqueduct off my spring right into my plants, worked the soil, but then made a pre-ordained mistake.  I took a lady I knew and (rightfully) trusted out to see the plants.  I had created an invisible crawlspace going in to my then-huge crop of sinsemilla: over 200 seven to ten foot females, leaning over with bud (excuse me while I salivate), but coming out there was the nark, way over in the brush.  He was plainclothes, but he was a nark.  He walked right up, saying he was “just walking in the woods” (sure…) and heard us talking.  I had made sure, in selecting the site four years earlier, that I had plenty of tree cover, so they must have found it by infrared from the air (I’m sure those luscious females made quite a heat imprint, but I hadn’t anticipated this high-tech intrusion).  He started to go down the trail to the plants and I stopped him and explained that I had built Laura and I a place in there where we went to camp and get away from the world, and asked him to please respect its privacy, and he went off in another direction.  Shit!  We went home and I waited a week to go back out, to check on the status of my beloved females (I had talked to them, caressed them, prayed over them using a combination of kundalini breathing and several other prayer techniques every time I came and went for four years). 

     I had Laura drop me off in a literal deluge, to pick me in exactly two hours.  The rest, as they say, is history (God surely does have a sense of humor).  When I crawled in, I found the plastic yellow tape, Crime Scene: Do Not Cross, stretched across my first few plants.  The narks had been out that morning, and pulled two huge plants, and, because it was pouring down rain, left the rest for me!  I picked with all my expertise for two hours,  expecting every moment for them to come crashing through the brush, and left them nothing but stems, -not a single bud.  It got even more intense when it stopped raining for about twenty minutes (Rain! Rain!).  When I came out the crawlspace with about thirty pounds of maybe twenty varieties of pure bud, I was more animal than human, but still had the presence of mind to grab the plastic police tape (CRIME SCENE: DO NOT CROSS).  I still treasure it, as have a good number of close friends.  Laura was right on time.  After a picture at home with me sitting on a tarp on the floor literally covered with a mountain of individual buds (the long, thick, limbs full of juicy, thick buds were already in the back room, hung upside down on twine all over the walls and stinking up the entire house), I walked up to a pay phone and called the S.A. newspaper, the Express-News.  I explained to a real cool reporter in the news room that I had “found a whole bunch of marijuana growing” and exactly where it was (what the heck).  I told him the narks had been there and left their tape, but had not pulled the plants, and didn’t he think they should have, in case the grower came back.  He agreed, hesitated, then asked me if I had ever been out there before.  That’s when I told him I was the grower, and did he want to make a story out of it.  He was silent for a moment, then laughed hard, and said he’d have to ask his senior editor about this one.  We wished each other a good day (he was still laughing), and that was that. 

     Nothing came out in the paper for a couple of weeks, so I sent them, print-free, this letter, a bud as big as my thumb in a baggie, and the picture, which in turn created the outrageously funny article, Hippie Tribe Snubs Marijuana Raid, by the same dude I had talked to.  The narks denied finding my magnificent crop, because it embarrassed the hell out of them (I still have the tape: liar, liar, pants on fire ).  I’m glad the same dude got to write the article- he was real cool, and cosmically helped complete this particular cosmic adventure in messin’ with the law.  Again, because I had prayed for protection on my plants coming and going, and because the manmade “laws” against weed are satanic, God not only preserved my crop but gave me (us) a hilarious ending to a great growing season, -at their expense.  I am also glad, as the article states, that the narcs enjoyed the letter.  Hey, no offense, our brothers: this bud’s for you.

Messin’ With The Law: To The D.E.A., (Bush, Cheney, the F.B.I., D.E.A., state representatives and senators, High Times, N.O.R.M.L., good friends, etc.):  Weed.

     This is a relatively recent little something I knew I had to write someday, and it finally came through while I was living in the exquisite little Texas hill country town of Kerrville.  This, after the thirty plus previous years seem to have finally settled down enough (it’s about time) to start doing some serious work on the Book.  I had a lot of fun, deciding who all to send it to, and hope ya’ll like it, as have a lot of my Tribe here.  I had a whole bunch of us, all over the Mother Earth, in mind when I wrote it.  Please enjoy.  Kick back.  Have a toke.  Order a pizza… .

Proving God Scientifically.

     This is the first in a series of morning devotions I gave to over 100 of the finest men I have ever met at the Salvation Army A.R.C. in San Antonio.  The others will be in the Book and maybe here, later.   My stay there was a huge and timely blessing, with unlimited opportunity to heal after more than three decades of hard Training and to focus totally on my Master Jesus and get a huge amount of the written manuscript on disk.  Truly, the Salvation Army is one of the finest, true representations of what Jesus would call a true church: simultaneously bringing people to God as well as assisting with their physical, emotional, and mental needs, individually to nationally.  Jesus said, “Faith without works is dead”, and the vast majority of the Latter Day “state”-licensed denominational “churches” fall far short of these peoples’ good works (and are thus satanic).

To Jesus.

     Written in honor of my best buddy since 1975, the soon-coming Messiah (trust me) and the direct emanation of the One God Who came to walk among us and willingly undergo the incredible suffering of the Ceremony on the Cross, -all this so He could demonstrate that He, as our High Priest, could overcome all “physical” “reality”, even the illusion of death.  This is also He Who continually exhorted the “common” people that they (and therefore we), as children of His “Father”, had the same innate, unlimited supernatural Gifts even as He demonstrated: “The works that I do shall ye do also, and greater works that these shall ye do” (John 14:12).  One day all people shall know that He is also from the One Who sent Mohammed, Gautama the Buddha, Gandhi, Martin Luther King, the Native American holy men and women, and all saints, male and female, who have visited the planet over the centuries, each to their own people according to their own understanding of the One God (trust me).

Untitled.

     This was written on a super laid-back day at the First Farm: sittin’ on the couch with a perfect breeze coming from the river forest, good weed and music, and a drifting, exceptional sequence of inspirational moments.  It didn’t seem right to limit it with a title.

Halloween.

     This is my attempt to capture a memorable event involving the Power Spot and a special afternoon and evening with a small group of close, beautiful, Magical friends I will love forever.

To A Friend, Upon Her Father’s Death.

     I wrote this for Sharon T., who was a fine, fine Lady and a good friend I knew in 1974, and an excellent mother of four good kids (and an ex-prostitute, at that).  She also had some of the softest skin I have ever touched, or tasted, on a woman.

Friday Night.

     I wrote this mental excursion/catharsis during a prolonged period of confusion and anger that occurred between when my Soul Mate, Coleen, informed me she had been fucking around on me and when I went down to my river Power Spot to zap the bitch, to assure she had more than an adequate supply of appropriate partners for her promiscuity (see The Stories…) for the rest of her life.  This, in turn, triggered the Ceremony of 2-27-76, seen in the Dream-Vision of October, ’72, which in turn triggered the digging up of the Power Rock behind my farmhouse (please see The Stories…) and the Visitations to the landlord’s family, and then me, of the astral shaman.

The Encounter.

     I wrote this when I had planned to get some good friends together for a prayer ceremony out in the wilderness by the First Farm.  There was a certain Tolkein-type dried creekbed we had found with all kinds of big, weird rocks and tree roots, and I had wanted to hide there and pop out when my buddy Ted brought them out.  I would confront them as a guardian of the other realms, with he and I reciting this as an introduction to the evening.  Something equally as fine came up, though, so we never followed through with it.

Clare.

     Clare was one of my major lovers of all time.  She was a yoga teacher, single, raising her daughter Radha when we got together in late ’76.  She was so Magical, feminine, sensuous, powerful with the Presence of the Goddess, and highly knowledgeable of mystical matters, including Tantric Yoga.  Hatha Yoga, which she taught (yoga: growth toward union with God), is the most widely known, using the physical postures to improve the physical Temple, while Tantric involves making love to glorify and bring forth the presence of God, even to the point of attaining supernatural, literal Oneness with one’s partner (ideally, one’s Soul Mate).  Often we would precede our physical lovemaking by sitting in front of each other, holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes and breathing in unison.  As I inhaled, she exhaled.  On the exhalation, she would “breathe” herself totally into me, way beyond the physical, (Soul to Soul), and  I would “inhale” her total Being and the Goddess within her into me, then with a gentle hand squeeze we would switch roles.  Of course, this “metaphysical foreplay” made our eventual physical Union exquisite, even supernatural.  Indeed, God designed sex to be between two people deeply in love with each other, -enough to desire becoming literally One with one’s partner- and, with or without this technique, slam-bam, recreational sex (sportfucking) does not even close in quality to the real thing and its karmic payback is eventually “unsavory”  -trust me.

Wandering.

     As a child, we had a book in our sizable home library by a nineteenth century Irish poet, James Whitcomb Riley, which had a huge influence on me, even as a young teenager.  This guy could write in either the most eloquent, breathtaking language imaginable, or just as capably lapse into total hillbilly slang, ya’ll.  I wrote this one night after a few weeks of being homeless for the first time, and was just letting my mind wander.  It contains a subtlety I should share with you guys.  I slipped in my knowledge (not mere “belief”) of reincarnation: “It’s a longlife…”.  Oh, gambols is not gambles misspelled, though it could have fit the contextual setting- it means something like weird beings of some kind, such as a gargoyle, but I meant it in a broader sense, tongue-in-cheek, regarding all the very serious, weird beings I had already met in those early years of Training.

Letters To The Editor, Terrorists.

     With so much evil being progressively committed in the name of “religion”, I got a wild hair and wrote this as a brief, primitive attempt to clarify, as many of you good people already know, that we are all children of the same God.  I e-mailed it to a bunch of major newspapers nationally as a Zen ceremony, not caring if any of them printed it and knowing that it would be in the Book someday nonetheless.  I have a deep, long-term hunger, as others on both sides of the Force, to help bring (especially) Christians and Muslims together, especially after my Islamic Sufi training regarding the proximity of God, and being blessed to read the love letters to God from Rumi, and the works of the great Teachers, Pir Vilayat Khan and Hazrat Inayat Khan, all of which is from God.  La illaha illa allah: There is no God but God.

Letter To The Editor, 2-21-99.

     Again, a wild hair: I knew this had no chance of being published, -I just wrote it as a Zen ceremony, and because I truly had experienced all this weird stuff for so many years and as something I (we) could look back on at a future date and get a good laugh out of, when the manuscript was adequately completed, -as now- to impart legitimacy to such boldness (how dare I come out, so to speak, in such an unashamed, unapologetic manner?).

Rejection Letter.

     This was an amazing, blatantly atheistic piece I received from Bob Richter, the editor of my hometown paper, the S.A. Express-News, in response to an anti-abortion letter I sent in (please see the Book).  In the letter, I challenged the pastors of the spiritually-dead “churches” of S.A. as to why they were not screaming from the pulpit against the daily “legal” slaughter of the unborn (“Jesus is the Supreme Court”) within our city.  I did rewrite it, as he suggested, knowing it was futile, and expanded pastors to include rabbis, mullahs, imams, priests, wiccans, brujos and brujas (to literal hell with atheists: let them be “offended”- they are going into hell anyway).  Bob then wrote me back saying he was going to “forward” it to the religion editor (yeah, sure) and I never did hear anything after that.  I wonder how many babies that letter would have saved, had he not blocked it for the sake of secular humanism/atheism, and what kind of hard questions God is going to ask him when he inescapably comes before Him for his life review, for such censure of  criticism of the lowest form of murderers, -the who “legally” destroy the helpless unborn and all who support them in any manner (all of whom are reserved some special places deep in hell).

     Oh, and speaking of some quotes his censure prevented-“too ‘religious’ for a ‘secular’ newspaper”(?!!):

     Deuteronomy 27:25: God’s curse on anyone who takes money to kill an innocent person.

    And speaking of the “state”-licensed,  spiritually-dead (and thus satanic), useless, Latter Day “churches” and their priestcraft:

     James 2:17: Even so faith, if it hath not works, is dead, alone.

     Revelation 3:15-16: I know thy works, that thou art neither cold or hot: So because thou art lukewarm, I will spew thee out of my mouth (Jesus, dictated to John on Patmos).  

Psycho Bitch.

     I like this, which I sent in to the Attorney General with each and every  monthly child support check.  In 1981 Satan himself (herself), in a direct, calculated attack sent me this woman to have my precious daughter, Lea Christine (I named her for Christ, and baptized and committed her to Him as soon as she was born, on 1-11-1984).  Cynthia (the PSYCHO BITCH FROM HELL) turned into a raving bitch soon after Lea was born, and after a year of this told me to take Lea and get out, so she could go out and play the slut.  I did, and she did, and I raised Lea for 14 months alone (I was making good money, truck driving and then getting up the huge crop of weed in ’86).  As soon as I did all the paperwork myself to file for custody, then she wanted her, her family got her a lawyer, and I was forced to retain a pro bono shyster bitch who literally gave her away (rot in hell, bitch) over three slow, agonizing years.  Cynthia got herself knocked up by some sucker in the Army (her second of four babies by four different guys/victims) in ’90 and finally took Lea out of S.A. to Fort Hood, evil dripping from her lips as she sadistically savored my pain: “You’ll never see her again, and there’s nothing you can do about it, ha ha ha”.  She didn’t know it, but I was gonna kill her and do the time, so at least Lea would have a shot at a decent foster home, but after a lot of prayer a gun failed to materialize at the last moment and I gave Lea to God.  I have been in His/Her face daily since then some seventeen years now, to protect her, bless her, and prepare her for eventual spiritual service, despite the slut’s influence. 

     After they were gone the Lord moved me into the heavenly, deep pine wilderness in northwest Pennsylvania next to Canada for two years to heal (I was pretty messed up, literally wounded deep by this direct, long-term satanic attack).  Oh well.  I wouldn’t want to be anywhere around the slut when God gets ahold of her.  As they say on the street, payback’s a MF.  Crash and burn, bitch.  Literally. 

     I figure some date entry clerks in Austin got a kick out of that letter.  Oh, and Judges John Murray and John Specia, in S.A.: rot in hell.  “My” pro bono “lawyer”, Jackie Reibach, who as well as gave my precious daughter to the satanic slut: rot in hell.  The lawyers (scribes, Jesus derisively called them) who took money to give my little girl to the slut and the devil: rot in hell.  Satan certainly knew what he/she was doing: losing my Lea to the slut through such an extended, obvious display of satanic bravado hurt more than any pain I have ever experienced, physical and otherwise, but I am pretty much over it now (2007).

Bookstore.

     This is just a little course I almost taught at the main S.A. mystical bookstore.  I had too much else going on, though, and the bitch that owned the place did not want any mention of Jesus in her “mystical” bookstore, so it never happened.  How ironic: these self-described “mystics” feel the need to dismiss the greatest mystic of all time, the fools.

Hey, Street Freak!

     My masterpiece, to date.  It was written over three years living in deep brush, sitting in my taxi at the airport, and God-knows-where-else, and finally on Patti’s magical farm, south of S.A.  It’s pretty much self-explanatory.  It has a totally-unfinished, highly technical counterpart for the straight world, Synthesis, which at this writing is but reams of handwritten, stream-of-consciousness thoughts, and notes about notes, which I wrote back in ’76.  I got it out a few years ago, and it intimidated even me.  Maybe one of you will finish it for me (that’s a little inside joke between me and God concerning the Book for a several years now).

     That’s about it, for now.  God bless you and yours. 

                    Love,  Ed

                    7-7-07

                    Published (at last- whew!) 7-7-08