Excerpts of Novel

Ray Sawol tells his story (the following are excerpts of different chapters):

Curled up, I sat pensively in the womb hoping that they would all go away -- Dr. Barr, the nurses and especially, my father who paced back and forth outside the delivery room and waited for my birth at Crozer Chester Medical Hospital as my mother lay immodestly spread eagle, like a sacrifice of some kind, in her eleventh hour huffing and puffing. She let loose a primordial scream, a nerve wracking one that made me cringe even more in my fetal position. Her blood pressure was meteoric, precariously rising to dangerous heights as her heart laboriously pounded and pounded some more trying to bring another Being into this miserable world. There was a distinct chance, a random spin of the roulette wheel, that we would lose her as in the wings, I waited like a nervous actor, a mere neophyte, refusing to come on stage for the Second Act of this never-ending play as Dr. Barr, an officious, middle-aged physician, yelled "Push!!"

I hung on for dear life.
I morbidly thought to myself, "Christ, I hope I don't kill her. My father would never forgive me."
"I'm going to do a C-section," Dr. Barr announced boldly as he stared at the people in attendance and acted as though if everyone simply followed his orders, this particular delivery would be just fine. Methodically, he began cutting with his scalpel.

Still Deep in my Being, I could see them now with cold forceps trying to drag me from my mother's womb in order to join them in their elaborate play, these thespians, consummate actors and actresses who after many years and years of playing their roles truly forgot Who They Were by performing in something akin to a Greek tragedy, only with the stage and props of modern day America, of skyscrapers, a vast military industrial complex, rolling hills and farm fields, shopping malls, bargain discount stores, and yellow painted tarred roads that they religiously traveled down day after day like the Tin Man, the Scarecrow, Dorothy, and the Cowardly Lion looking for The Great Oz and Emerald City.

…………………………………………………………………………………….

I was Rousseau's Noble Savage in the late twentieth century, in an age where Matter had the upper hand over Spirit, where outer technology had feverishly outpaced our inner wisdom and compassion, where so-called modern man was caught in a very strange rain dance. In truth, we were nothing but temperamental children posing as adults with well developed linguistic abilities and a penchant for wearing civilized masks and more masks, playing roles, barbarically so, in order to impress people and become a Well Regarded Somebody.

This was The Game! The real, authentic self becomes sublimated to a myriad number of social selves until after ten, twenty or maybe even thirty years, thoroughly brainwashed by society and all its minions, you truly have no clue as to who you are! For myself, around my 18th, 19th, and 20th laps, I began the audacious task of traveling over a much different terrain, a landscape not so much of city streets and familiar countrysides, but of the crowded human psyche, of the chaos of consciousness, of conflicting emotions and thoughts--often overflowing in adolescence, of a community of individuals residing within the Soul, and of the Apocalypse prophesied present within, as well, as without. I shifted gears, and again--never at a loss for urgency--pressed the gas pedal and sped down dangerous roads with my Soul, the silent passenger in the car, and often my maniacal ego at the wheel. But this, as with every other event in human life, was painfully necessary.

It was like.
A Halloween
Party.
Masks.
And more masks!
As I wore.
My Original.
Face.
Of the.
Noble Savage.

…………………………………………………………………………………….

Grandpop Bayer nonchalantly continued rocking back and forth, almost like a little child as I wondered, sadly, if this would be the last time that I would see him. He began trembling, and soon the massive quake spread through his entire body, one of his uncontrollable shivering spells, I guess. Renee began to nervously laugh. I felt embarrassed, and my mother frantically ran to the phone to call the doctor.
But Grandpop Bayer, through sheer will, pulled himself together, like a sage, and then said matter of factly, "The Soul is shaking the body from its dreams."

In another minute, his rather esoteric shouting-to-the-Heavens-standing-on-a-milk-crate speech continued as everyone except for me looked away.

"The only thing you need to do, Ray, is get up the courage to walk out of this dreary graveyard filled with a lot of good looking, well dressed corpses that are going Nowhere Fast. Be a Seeker. Don't be satisfied with easy answers, keep searching, and if you happen to come across a copper mine, keep going and you'll find a silver mine, and then a gold or even a platinum mine for yourself, and you'll not only be a rich man, but you'll finally find It.

"Just don't waste your time ..." and then Grandpop Bayer casually looked at my Father, "... like these fools."

I sat flabbergasted, astonished that I had by seeming accident turned the dial of The Electromagnetic Spectrum and found such a great TV show at a lower frequency that I could perceive.

"Go beyond these silly ideas about yourself, that you're a lowly human, and strive to know the inner You, not just your personality, or even the community of individuals that reside within the Individual, but know the Atman, or the Self, which is pure bliss among other things."

"I ...I wouldn't know where to begin," I stammered as though the Holy Grail had been given to me, placed in my lap, and I hadn't even been looking for It.
"Don't worry, it's not that difficult to understand, Ray."
"What?"
"Life."
"I ..."
"It's like we made this huge story," Grandpop Bayer continued, "an incredible fiction, about Life in order to protect us from the truth. Man invented religion in order to imbibe small teaspoons of the Truth because if he were to truly Awaken it might burn him to a crisp, like an over fried piece of bacon, and there would be nothing left."
Grandpop Bayer took another swig of beer, belched, and then gazed at me with those maddening eyes.

"I am going to break one of my greatest vows. Ordinarily, I don't give advice or interfere in the lives of others. But since I see that we are not only of the same flesh but Spirit, I will give you a hint: If you want to find God, you don't need to listen to robed men talk incessantly about strawberries--or listen to others talk--and how they are grown in the fields, or what their special chemical composition is that makes them so deliciously sweet, or even how they are picked by everyday laborers and taken to the market in New York or Philadelphia. The only thing you need to do is to pick up the strawberry, a damn lovely piece of fruit, and eat it.

"But how difficult it is for a lot humans these days as they are still in kindergarten class preferring to argue about the strawberry and fight about it instead of focusing all their efforts on experiencing the God within themselves and cultivating that above all else!"

With a quick turn of the wrist.
The TV channel was abruptly changed.
By my parents.
Who always had my best interests in their minds.
And I was whisked away.
"Crazy old man," my father said in the car during the drive home, "if he wasn't so sick, I'd give him a piece of my mind. I'd shut his trap real quick. I
can't believe he told Ray all that crap about not being interested in school. If you listen to him, son, take any word he said seriously, you'll be dealing with me!"
I shrunk in my seat.
Life seemed hopeless.

Seagulls and Horseshoe Crabs

When the earth's window above is clear
the weatherman says it's sunny,
and I walk to the beach with my family,
letting the ocean roll its white, foamy
carpet out for me.

A seagull overhead speaks in its ancient
tongue and above the din of the ice cream man
selling popsicles along with sand,
I hear tales rivaling fishermen's lies.
News of the waves hiding mountains,
canyons, and even a continent far beneath
the revealings of any low tide. This
salty soup (I taste with my mouth) also

hiding the magical mixture cooked long
ago that gave plants, animals, and even
people their different lives.

Yet the seagull talking says, "Do not
take my word because I fly. Ask the
horseshoe crab at your feet before he dies.
He knows as well as me the mysteries
of the deep."

And so I do ask, and he tells,
and I see it is true. My father is
really a lobster, my mother a dried
starfish and all of us beached whales.

But with a frantic kick, wave, splash
and another wave I drown myself before I die.

…………………………………………………………………………………….

There was something pushing me from the Inside, driving me, like the force that through the green fuse drives the flower, making it blossom, with time, like a white chrysanthemum or a red tulip. I couldn't really say what this force was, that moved its way through my muscles, bones, and my entire being, creating a profound restlessness that compelled me to seek. In the back of my mind, I had a
remembrance of that Primordial Bliss, our native state in Heaven, and no matter what I had to do, whatever thorny path that I needed to take, I longed very much to get back There from Here which seemed to be a miserable place to be. In essence, I was a seeker, a foolhardy Soul who had this undying belief in a better way of life, a higher state of consciousness, standing out there on the horizon for youandi, like the majestic Mt. Everest, and in this profound fit of world weariness, I was more than willing to travel beyond the trickery of many orthodox beliefs and ideologies, turning over these moss laden rocks and stones, in religion, science and the arts, and the modern 20th century façade of so-called reality, which is just a collectively dreamt fantasy by millions who don't know any better.

Blessed with a sword-like intellect, I was willing to question: Sun
Everything from my parents' nonsensical ramblings and moral precepts to my teachers' stodgy advice to the Bible and its many dark and dreary interpretations to the so-called modern scientific paradigm to even, at a greater scrutiny, with squinting eyes, the folly of our times! I stared so hard at things that my eyes burned as I saw past simple and quite deceiving appearances and began to see what the Germans have often called the ding-an-sich, the thing-in-itself.

Naturally, I wanted to know as much about the world and myself as I turned over with curious hands and eager eyes these rocks and stones, molecules and atoms, vague theories and nebulous paradigms, String, Super Symmetry, and Unified Field theories in physics and searched for what seemed a long eternity the long and winding labyrinths of Maya, the hills and valleys of awareness, and indeed the heart and very fabric of God, this Uni-verse, in which we move and have our being. In short, I was an intrepid explorer of The New World, the inner worlds, that we all inhabit and are citizens of even though most have forgotten our own Divine Heritage in these tenement-like slums.

…………………………………………………………………………………….

By now, we were cruising near City Hall in Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love, with lots of smog, traffic, pedestrians, and street vendors selling hoagies and soft pretzels. This was my home away from Home as I had grown to love this old American city with all of its blemishes and pockmarks and famous landmarks as I saw William Penn on Market St., as usual, standing erect on a lofty perch fifty stories above at City Hall. Craning my head, I--blinked my eyes--as he scratched his nose--WAS ANYONE ELSE SEEING THIS?!--and then slowly, quite deliberately, brushed himself off in a pedestrian manner as though he were just another one of the boys before walking a few paces north and then south, and then peering about the entire city, looking down on his children as if to evaluate our slow march towards a greater state of freedom and democracy. My cavernous mouth dropped open. Was I mad? Was this a hallucination? His face was the cover and first chapter of a book: stern but compassionate. His eyes seemed as wise as an owl's for they had seen so much as first governor of The Keystone State. I felt embarrassed as he looked into our collective Soul, the American Soul, and found it not lacking, but sleeping to a great extent, a Gentle Giant that needed an awakening. Finally, after several minutes scanning in many directions--and mine--he shook his head in dismay. Far away, I could hear his cockneyed thought-voice, "When will they ever git it! They can't rest on the laurels of us, the genius of their Founding Fathers, but on their own! I've got faith in 'em, but when will they have faith in themselves? My God, they get me sooo mad that I think I'm gonna step down from this Hall and scare 'em all!"

I peed my pants.

This Grand Illusion had changed as atoms, subatomic particles, quarks, and Thoughts--the very foundation of this world --were shifting, and shifting some more.

Ideological earthquakes.

Paradigm temblors.

The world itself was shifting.

Beneath my feet!

And City Hall much to my surprise.

Bricks, mortar, and woodwork.

Was slowly crumbling.

Before my very astonished eyes.

Turning down Chestnut Street, almost in a state of panic, we were in the historical district now as I looked at the cobblestone streets and wondered about all the stately, historical personalities that walked down here over two hundred years ago, our Founding Fathers, Betsy Ross and the first freed African Americans. I blinked. And quickly blinked--again. Was I hallucinating?! The Liberty Bell, a bronze beauty, with its jagged crack and supposedly, stripped of its clapper, was ringing and ringing in a ghostlike manner. Nobody--not even a Soul--was listening as two worlds were entwined like a piece of rope, one directly connected to the other.

But nobody knew.

That Every-thing.

Comes from.

No-thing.

And that behind.

The Physical.

Is the Superphysical. World.

Further down the road, we traveled on this truly miraculous journey and saw Independence Hall with its simple elegant colonial charm standing like a beacon of Light, of Hope in an otherwise dark world. But that too, like City Hall, espied earlier, was crumbling noisily to the ground as red bricks fell and the white trimming cracked and broke down under the weight of neglect. Our national monuments were crumbling! Our first hall of democracy was perilously in danger of being condemned for we had become a lazy country of sleepy citizens and inveterate, greedy materialists!

It was sacrilege of the worst kind!

Standing on sacred ground.

We defiled.

Ourselves.

By forgetting.

Our first principles.

Of Liberty, Truth, and the Pursuit of Happiness.

Our Founding Fathers, a group of about thirty men dressed in the styles of colonial America, watched this sad spectacle and vociferously complained to anyone who would listen:

"It's a democracy of the people, by the people, but for the very few," Thomas Jefferson lamented as he sat, by himself, almost crying on the steps.

"Give me Rights, and more Rights, but not Responsibilities!" Patrick Henry said in blustery, sardonic voice pacing about tormented. Slowly, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dried his eyes while few were looking.

The conversation then meandered lazily until Benjamin Franklin interjected: "There are more human rights than they have presently discovered. There are the rights to lifelong training and education, and to self-actualization to name a few. America, bless Her heart, still has a long life ahead of her, if they but see that Democracy, Freedom, and Justice are but evolving Ideas."

"Here! Here!" Thomas Paine said, "It is only Common Sense, I must say, that their creative genius, their vital force, and not ours--since we are no longer There--will be the only thing that will sustain them. If they only believed in themselves, that they are the rightful heirs to this beautiful land and that they have the wisdom to keep it going during these dark times, then they will meet with Prosperity."

"They need a philosopher-king like you, George!" Alexander Hamilton, the ever-willing servant, added.

"It's not a time for philosopher-kings, or great presidents; it's a time to move from a representative democracy to a participatory democracy, the greatest this world has ever seen. Americans need to renew their own sense of identity, and to become world citizens by applying our most cherished principles and beliefs overseas making friends of our foe, and conquering our enemies through Compassion." George Washington solemnly spoke as he looked at the hushed crowd. A strange beacon of hope, almost other worldly, penetrated the dark and cumulous cloud-filled skies.

Old Glory waved in the background, whipping in the ever changing winds, as there was thunderous applause from every corner. These Founding Fathers still believed in the Original Idea--and US--but time, no doubt, as I gazed at my watch and even the writing on the wall, was running out.

In despair, I traveled over to Kristine's room, a wonderful sanctuary, where both of us could be ourselves, without any pretenses, any stupid masks. She was a pre-med student, a brilliant scientist in the budding, and I appreciated her clarity of thought on many issues, and in a way, she was fascinated by my mysticism, my stubborn insistence that there was something more to Life, and that if we just tore the veil we would see it. Nature, at least, for the moment, played matchmaker, and although we made an odd pair in many ways, we complemented each other well as I looked deeply into her hazel eyes and wanted to drown myself in her beautiful curvaceous body, her femininity, and indeed, her Being, to melt and re-member our primordial unity that long ago we once shared.

"How are you?"
My inner Child--if there is such a thing--came out.
"I'm angry."

I looked into her beautiful elfin face and felt her long brown hair that sometimes I became lost in, like the wilderness. She was a gift from the Heavens, a guide, leading me to an inner world of feelings and thoughts that I had only been vaguely connected with her as I touched her body, and I tried to drink from the senses as much as I could.

"You don't need to say anything," Kristine gently whispered as she slowly caressed my face and I lost the power for any words.
"I'm confused ," I dejectedly said. "I think I know things. I believe I know things, that can help people, and yet I'm laughed at, ridiculed in my endeavors.

"If I speak their gibberish, they applaud. If I begin talking of things outside of Plato's Cave, things more of the Soul, they hiss and howl, and threaten me with expulsion," I blurted out, standing like a wounded soldier in the midst of a very heated battle.

Like a lonely angel, this Cherub kissed me and then we looked into each other's eyes, our stained glass windows, our holy churches, and entered a sacred moment.

Emotional armor.
Came off.
Minds.
And.
Hearts.
Uniting.
In a.
Sacred Space.

…………………………………………………………………………………….

"Take cover!"
"What's going on?" I asked.

"The War to End All Wars! Get down! Or you'll be killed!"

Thick black smoke, the looming skyscrapers, wafts of polluted air, the sounds of artillery gunfire, and the ever present jitters of war filled Market Street as I looked about in amazement taking snapshot photos with my Mind and saw, for myself, my own City of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia, wracked in headlong fighting, like Beirut, Kosovo or The West Bank. I pinched myself, once more. Incredulously, I surveyed the widespread mayhem that had diminished the stature of this wonderful city, the long ago capitol of America, to almost a Third World environment and a demilitarized zone run amok: F-15's screeching in the distance, hundreds of dead, barely clothed civilians lying in the streets, destroyed and gutted buildings in City Center, abandoned newspaper stands and street vending carts, tanks galore and the rag tag group of soldiers that I found myself with who had gas masks on, hiding behind cars with rifles and AK47's.

Slowly, I walked into the middle of the street--like a deer caught in the headlights--thinking that this was a horrible dream, that The American Experiment wouldn't, no, couldn't end as I tried to survey the intense fighting as explosions resounded a block away.

We ran for our very lives as America, the Once Beautiful, was becoming another country facing its own mortality. Chaos ensued. Panic spread like an infectious disease. More people were dying. It was hard to tell, at first, who our allies were and who the enemy was as I was merely a trained journalist, scribbling notes in my head. But slowly the haze began to clear and I could finally see the whites of their beady eyes. I was, in fact, horrified by what I saw: legions and more legions with expressionless faces, of sharply pressed uniforms, marching and marching to the same incessant drumbeat, as these mindless Nazi-like soldiers, in truth, were trying to extinguish life as we knew it. They were only fifty yards away as bullets were fired and grenades landed near a signpost before a burly black man in his fifties, dressed in a tattered Armani suit, mercifully grabbed my arm, and threw me down on the scorching asphalt.
KABOOM!

…the rumbling grew louder, almost to a pitched crescendo, while tanks suddenly appeared and I began to backpedal, fearing for my life as this war, it seemed, was going to meet an early death instead of finding a place in the annals of history.

Had I inadvertently stepped onto the screen of a large movie set?
Was this the Apocalypse?

A young man with a blood smeared face, torn clothes and a Federal Express package tightly hugged under his arms sprinted past me as he looked behind himself, and saw dark violent Thought Forms ascend into the sky. The Winds of War were blowing. Violent Thoughts rose into the atmosphere and cumulous clouds of blood poured down. The armored division moved closer as everyone, including myself, broke into a quick and heavily laden jog down tarred streets no longer caring to follow the proverbial yellow brick road.

"We're hopelessly outnumbered," he cried in utmost desperation. "Run for your life! Go into hiding!"
"May I ask a simple question?" I shouted above the quickening mayhem.
"Sure," he said as a dark fear radiated from his eyes.

"Who's fighting?"
"Where have you been? The War on the Human Soul!' he cried over the incessant gunfire, sporadic grenades and now Tomahawk missiles. "They found out we were trying to change the trends of time, so they launched a full-fledged assault. I don't know if we can hold on."

…………………………………………………………………………………….

Blithely, I sat in the doctor's office in a blue thin gown with my ass sticking out as I looked at my hands slightly swollen, and filled with liver spots. My wretched face in the mirror was a rubbery yellow mask filled with cavernous creases. My suit of flesh and bones that I had worn for many years was ragged and fretfully torn as this celebration gone amok--was almost over--Thank God! This charade of being a Cosmic Nobody and then heedlessly striving and fighting in regards to being a Somebody was finishing--and nothing could stop this inevitable and natural process. My Spirit, alas, was going to harvest all of my human experiences! Yet these extravagantly paid auto mechanics, I mean, prestigious doctors, had busily examined my body for hours checking under the hood trying to save my precious life, and asked, as always, a torrent of inane questions: Were the pistons running? Was the timing belt coming off? How 'bout the brakes? The exhaust system seems fine. Breathe in, breathe out. Good!! The computer? Still works. Not as well though. Then how come this whole contraption is shuttin' down?! And then frustrated by their own lack of progress, they ordered another endless battery of tests and more tests as these doctors used their flowchart thinking to deduce, hypothesize, find evidence to the contrary and then carefully hypothesized some more as my Soul sat here packing its bags getting ready to leave.

Finally done, these skilled surgeons huddled with their x-rays, and then conferred with each other before they poked and prodded me some more, filling the room with more verbiage and medical opinions, driving me to the point of exasperation.

In the meantime, I, my Soul, calmly looked about this small one room schoolhouse with green grass floors and blue ceilings, and then intrepidly walked to the front of the room having finished all my life lessons except for a remaining few.

Outside, I looked like a seventy-four year old man who had numerous heath-related complications nearing the end of my life, yet inside, I abided within this shell, this suit of flesh, a veritable Beacon of
Light getting ready to ascend into the higher planes of existence. In truth, there was nothing more for me to learn, no more gifts of awareness to receive, as I had made a lot of progress during this one particular incarnation. In essence, I had learned to bathe in my cosmic bathtub and understood The Body Electric and regenerated myself.
Like many before me, I had swallowed the bitter pill often called Life and had turned it into candy. Consciously, I had worked on my lessons instead of running around with the blinders on, and with time, I had made it to The Idea Factory where I learned to co-create with God all the flower and fauna, mountains and streams, and every human scene imaginable. This play, at least, Act IV Scene III, was running out of time though.

"We have some bad news to tell you, Mr. Sawol," the doctor said with a pitch of sadness and the exact facial expression needed to evoke a host of other emotions.
"You have inoperable liver cancer," he continued, "that has since spread to your lymphatic system, lungs, and brain."
"How long?" I quietly asked.
"You probably have less than two months to live."
Instantly.
I felt a deep shudder.
The Cage.
That I had been in.
For so long.
Was going to be.
Opened.
And soon.
I would.
Fly away.
Into the.
Azure skies.
My memory had been somewhat foggy most of my life but then the mist lifted like in a harbor, the sun brilliantly shone, and as I slowly reached into my left breast pocket, there it was: a return ticket stamped for Sept. 5th 2038 back to the blissful Heavens, first class passage, back to that particular angel--who was he?--ahh, yes, the Seraph who had told me quite confidently that everything would turn out alright.
A burden had been lifted.
From my shoulders.
A heaviness.
A weight.
Earthly cares.
Worries.

Frustrations.
As my sojourn.
Was nearing.
Completion.
As i smiled.
Knowing.
I was.
No longer.
A stranger.
In a Strange.
Land.

"It's alright, Doc," I said. "Everybody has a return ticket, and it looks like I just found mine."
"Well, I'm sorry the prognosis isn't better, Mr. Sawol," he said looking at me with soft blue eyes as he tried to read me like this morning's Philadelphia Inquirer. "Do you have any family nearby?"
"My daughter."
"It's pretty much time to be with loved ones."
"Yeah. I need to wrap up a few loose ends," I admitted.
"It's a traumatic experience facing one's own mortality. It was for my wife when she passed away and being in a supportive environment is probably the best thing for you at this time. We have counselors available and information on hospice centers, if you'd like."
"Oh, I'm not really sad about leaving this one room schoolhouse. There are other places for a Soul to go and visit," I said as the Doc with his stethoscope around his neck looked with a raised eyebrow. "From what I've found out, there are seven cosmic planes each with seven subdivisions and do you know where we are?"

"No," he hesitated in saying as he eyed me in a different light, almost as though he were speaking with a madman.
"We're at the bottom of the ocean, the seventh subdivision of the last cosmic plane."
"Well, that's nice to know, Mr. Sawol."
"It's just something to think about, Doc. The way I see it there's only one way to go and that's up."