A Jog Thru Haley
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the Night my Father was Robbed
my father’s first relationship,
following his divorce from
my mother,
was with a gentle soul.
she had no idea what she was
getting herself into.
i was too young to articulate
my inherent reservation.
when she finally called it off,
my father parlayed a manipulative
relationship with her parents.
they agreed to let him house sit
during a cross country excursion
that was their initial realization of retirement.
my younger brother and me
visited our father due to a court order,
every other weekend. our routine was perfected
in short shrift.
he would pick us up at our mother’s house,
and we would hear the sigh of relief
from the back of her throat
as i opened the door of his faux sports car.
he couldn’t afford his desired Corvette, so he settled for a Capri.
the car parked at the apex
of the horseshoe driveway.
we carried the snacks
our mother would never have allowed us to purchase,
over the threshold of the outdoor patio,
into the elegant kitchen.
we began to unload the groceries.
my father asks us to listen to him, for a moment.
the two of us are taken aback at his
deference to something
seemingly serious.
“someone broke into the house this week….”
he then regaled us with a tale of
educated thieves;
who knew the owner of the house
was a very successful businessman,
selling TV sets
during the golden age of television.
the thieves came to steal the
vintage sets he had accumulated
while owning a retail store.
i believed him. i believed my father.
i convinced myself
that he was telling me the truth. surely,
this was an isolated incident.
and yet, every time i was at that house for a
weekend with my father,
i was petrified.
he went to the grocery store
early, one saturday morning-
to get cereal he had neglected to account for
the previous night.
a few minutes after he left, the house lost all power.
my only thought was to find my brother
and get somewhere safe.
the thieves were back.
we crouched behind a stone wall;
half covered in a pristine green moss,
gazing toward any proof of
entrance, shivering in the damp
March morning. my father drove up
to the property
and witnessed us
crouched behind a farmer’s boundary, where the driveway
met the street.
“what are you guys doing out here?!?!?!?!?”
“there was a sound in the basement, and then the power went out.
i thought the thieves were back….” i replied, in a defiant tone.
“c’mon guys, get in the car….”
we did.
and my father drove the twenty yards
to the back door of the house.
he lied to me.
someone was owed money.
he was targeted for a reason beyond
a vintage television market volatility.
Getting Above My Raising
Do you remember the Dukes of Hazzard? The television show about a moonshining, carjumping, redneck family (white trash if you are unkind)? Most people my age do remember it – the Dukes was huge in the late 70s and early 80s, and has been in reruns ever since. It went on the air in 1979, and for years was the #2 show in America, in part because of its slot right before #1, Dallas. Kids in my generation (Gen X) grew up with Dukes of Hazzard matchbox cars, action figures, lunchboxes, underroos, etc.
What made the show and its huge success surreal, and fateful, for me was that my father, Ben Jones – a stage actor based in Atlanta, Georgia – had somehow landed a co-starring role. There he was on television, every Friday night, playing Cooter, sidekick to the Duke Boys. He had a lot of lines. It never ceases to amaze me how many people know exactly who he is, from my generation and the ones before and after. He may be the most famous tow-truck driver ever.
I saw the show much more than I saw my father. I had custody visits with him at Christmas and for several weeks each summer. He and my mom split up when I was two and both remarried (in his case, several more times). She married a much older man who relocated us up North. I did not like either the man or the move. The rest of my family was in Georgia and North Carolina, but I grew up in Delaware and then Connecticut, losing my accent and close family ties.
For much of my childhood, my father was in Hollywood, earning more money than he knew what to do with. He spent quite a lot of it on going home regularly to Georgia, because he hated Hollywood and he missed his dogs. And he also spent some on flying me out to wherever he was. We would stay in Burbank while he was shooting at the Warner Brothers studios, or we would drive around the U.S. from one autograph signing to another, or we would lay low at his place in Georgia. The Georgia house was way “out in the country” – his favorite place to be. To get there, we would drive down highways, then eventually back roads, then a dirt road that went deep into piney woods. I still miss that front porch, especially its rocking chairs, perfect for reading on rainy afternoons.
My father is a large man, built like a football player, blessed with a lot of charisma and a sharp intelligence. Gregarious and opinionated, he usually dominates whatever room he is in, and charms whatever crowd he is playing for. He thrives on the attention of others and he wants to be where the action is. And he usually is; after the Dukes went off the air, he parlayed his celebrity and savvy into two terms as a U.S. Congressman from Georgia. (Not bad for a boy who grew up without electricity or indoor plumbing.) After his political career ended, he started a chain of stores throughout the South. He and his current wife make a comfortable living selling Dukes of Hazzard memorabilia.
He lives in a spectacularly beautiful place, a 50 acre “compound” (I call it) nestled in a hollow below the Blue Ridge Mountains. Once I moved to Brooklyn, I began visiting him every few months, always happy to exchange the dirty city for a weekend in the country. His favorite thing to do when I visit is to drive me around. So we spend a lot of time touring the backroads of the Shenandoah Valley and the Blue Ridge Parkway, windows all the way down and radio all the way up. My father has always been full of energy, maybe a little manic to be honest, and he enjoys the hell out of being alive. I love that about him.
But my trips to the compound were fun before Trump, when we could talk about politics and the state of the world, and agree on many, if not all, things. My father has been a Democrat his entire life, and mine, until now. His politics are about the working class, and he disdains the elites of either party. I am far more to the left and I often disagree with his take on things. Sometimes I tell him so, but not always. Disagreement provokes him and then I have to dig in for battle. He loves to debate, and at times he can get very aggressive – a trait that works well for him with fellow politicians, but not so much with me. Fighting with him over anything exhausts and depresses me. I would usually much rather just change the subject.
But there is one subject that I can’t get my father away from, and now he brings it up in almost every conversation we have: the Confederate flag. The recent controversies over that flag and Confederate monuments have resulted in fights and estrangements in many Southern families, including my own. The past few years have changed my father into a different person politically. He once took part in the Civil Rights Movement when he was a student at Chapel Hill, but now he rails against the UNC students who toppled Silent Sam.
That flag is all over the products sold in his stores. He is defiant against those who want it and other symbols of the Confederacy removed from public view. He is angry about what he sees as an erasing of Southern history and culture. He feels that he is fighting a battle against political correctness and class snobbery. His loyalty is to the people he grew up with, and who have been his audience and customers – white working class people in the South.
These people are also my people, or were until my mother moved us North and sent me to prep school and then college. She was determined that I would get a decent education – something my working class grandmother had wanted for her – and she made sure I traveled too. In part because of this, I become more aware of nonwhite, nonSouthern perspectives. I also came to the conclusion that I don’t like the flag and don’t approve of flying it. My reasons are simple, and based on my sense of fairness. When descendants of people who were enslaved by my ancestors ask, in the name of reparations, for a change to be made, for example a flag or a monument to be taken down, I believe that I should listen to them and respect their wishes. I also don’t want to display anything connected to the multi-generational traumas (slavery, lynchings, the Charleston shooting, and other horrors) of my African American neighbors. It feels cruel, and it certainly does not symbolize the elements of Southern culture that I am proud of.
Part of what makes my conversations about the flag with my father so difficult is the tension between us about social class. Class, and moving between classes, has been a huge theme in our lives. He grew up dirt poor, an experience that continues to shape how he sees the world. Everything he has, he earned. I grew up in middle class comfort, for the most part, and I enjoyed many more opportunities than he did growing up. Of course that experience shapes my worldview too.
He paid for my college education with earnings from the Dukes. He also never fails to tell me that he is proud of my educational accomplishments (and doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve never done much with my graduate degrees). But my education also gets in between us. For my father, my lefty politics, which he thinks I picked up from my Northern elitist professors, mean that I am a traitor. By rejecting the flag, I’ve committed the ultimate sins: I’ve “gotten above my raising”, “forgotten where I’m from”, and betrayed my working class family and culture. But for me, by rejecting the flag, I am only being true to my beliefs. He always taught me to be independent, to think for myself, and to fight for what I think is right.
I don’t know where our relationship is going from here. Because I reject the flag, he feels rejected, and then he rejects me in turn. I do know my father will never give an inch on the issue. And because I am his daughter, a rebel girl through and through, neither will I.
12/12/1989 to 12/17/1989
12/12/1989
A knock on the door at 10AM but not heard until 12:30. Then and up and alone in a warm house full of food and telly, with Young Ones on tape, so while eating Frosted Flakes I watched for 2 hours and then walked down into Havant Hants, a small town with too many shops. Into an old book store searching for “Naked Lunch” or Jack or something but came away with nothing but the knowledge that small town England is scared of small town US.
Walking, learning town, and finding McDonald’s under construction and think of Gales Ferry. Back to the Burn family hostel house and soon out to pub with Alex’s mates. Only three pints each, as they all work, but I don’t get it.
Back home and start reading “1984” and even after four chapters it affected my dreams, but I don’t remember exactly how.
12/13/1989
8:30AM woken by, holy shit, Graham! Back and basically penniless after his adventure month on the continent. He had a blast. We ate breakfast and lunch and watched Young Ones and bullshat and listened to Mike’s pot tape and bullshat some more until I, now at 10 of 4, head into town to meet Alex in Portsmouth and we wander in and out of shops and he answering my history questions of Portsmouth/Havant Hants, which is an old Roman crossroad and also bombed out in WWII. Into a nice old pub for half glasses before diner and walk/run back home from bus stop as the rain started again.
Huge dinner with fish and true to my “if it is free, eat it” rule I did and along with half the rest of all the food! After dinner, two of Alex’s mates came by and I just busted up laughing because I finally figured out English humor.
Alex’s dad came home as I entered the back door after having a smoke and a fart, and I, with dirty dreads, shook his hand and that was that. Sitting in Alex’s room listening to Graham and others sing and play CSN as I write this now.
Sleep after more “1984”.
{Historical note: on this day, in Reading, PA, USA, Taylor Swift is born.)
12/14/1989
10:30am and up. Mrs. Cleaning 80-Year-Old Woman is downstairs and was probably up at 5, so I am marked a lazy bastard before she even sees me, after which she judges that I am actually a nut.
Day spent with Tom and Graham drinking coffee and watching video tapes. The Burn Hostel had another visitor with pack, but for Alex’s sister at school in London, so she went away.
Second large home-cooked meal in as many days and I gorged again.
Night at college type “cool” pub with two pints and then on to some dance pub in Portsmouth with cool DJs and Go-Go’s and beers and Joy Division, Cure, New Order, Smiths and all kinds of other shit. Almost in two fights. That’s right. Two. First with a bastard who was obviously elbowing my “pals”, as they are all hippyish and small, so I circled around them obviously to block him. He tagged me twice and my gleaming mad eyes reached out and sucked the piss right out of his head. He got the message and was not seen again. The second was while I was upstairs talking to a guy who could maybe handle a beer drinking challenge with your humble author. Alex came up and said “Some wanker’s giving Graham a hard time downstairs”, so down my throat goes a bit more than half a pint and down the stairs let’s go! It was over by the time I got there, but I met the stare of the fucker Nazi wannabe and gave it right back. I was warned by his bigger buddy not to stare, fuck off, and man this little bastard was nuts but would not have been a problem. (Graham: May 2, Kaplan’s, 6:30PM, pack of smokes.)
Back to the house and toast with Graham and talk of fights past, now listening to Megen’s death tape and Waterboys “Whole of the Moon” was played and I went crazy dancing, thinking of her. Good night at 3:30AM
12/15/1989
Graham and I walk down to corner store to buy Cokes and smokes to escape the house as Mrs. Burn is having an Xmas party with her fellow social workers. I get hired for £5 to do the dishes, but the money never comes and I don’t really mind as she’s fed me several meals and given me a nice bed to sleep in.
Off into the night to some club that we had to get to by train. The Hole in the Wall. And to get back we had to take a taxi (£9.50), but the train was free, as was much of the beer!
Back home with a tired Alex and his mate Dom breaks out his hash and rolls two joints. Me, Dom, and Graham go to the back yard and smoke. Dom has a mild epileptic fit and I went to The Beyond as a million intertwined “T”s in yellow and black stripes were all that I could see. Dom eventually was OK, but he’d never had a seizure before. Man, I was really out of it.
Back inside to watch Young Ones (again) until 3:30AM.
{It is now one month since I set out from the US.}
12/16/1989
Back again to the India Pub in Portsmouth with £10 that Graham and I borrowed from Alex. Graham and I are so broke that we combined our change, too, and have been living on human kindness. I drank two ports, which is served as a shot in a half-pint glass. The first was so small that I had to have another. This is not how we drink it back home!
Nothing earth-shattering happened today.
12/17/1989
Tomorrow I will leave The Burn Hostel. Graham’s birthday bash with alcohol-free wine and all kinds of food and bunches of these knuckleheads.
Oh! Yesterday, after pubbing, we went back to Adam’s flat for coffee, which I never got but did smoke off of three joints and felt fine. Other than the port, we did drink some Guinness.
Back to today, I read “1984” during the birthday party and retired to bed to finish reading, but was interrupted for dinner, which was left over party food. Back up to bed to read and they plan on going out later, so I plan on staying in with all of 11p in my pocket! I finished the book just as Graham convinced me to go out. So I go out and get pretty pissed on five pints of Guinness and HSB bitter, free, and again could not piss inside, so I went out.
Home to Alex’s, but the outside night goes on. Down to the bridge over the railway tracks to throw 1p and make a wish. Then talks and then to bed. Tomorrow I head back north, early.
Panama Diaries, Part III
I take a bus alone from Panama City into the jungle. One one-way ticket. My friend Guadalupe, a retired Spanish journalist who has been my tropical partner-in-crime for three months has returned to Spain, leaving me with a kiss on each cheek and a warning to stay safe.
The crowded bus terminal across from Albrook, a famous mall on the outskirts of Panama City is a disorganized Port Authority on acid. The old bus I board looks like something out of a Bollywood movie meets a Grateful Dead tour van from the 1960’s revamped for everyday travelers. All brocaded curtains, paisley patterned seats, gold, red, and psychedelic purple swirling over the interior.
We drive five hours through small towns nestled in palm trees, a trek that oddly reminds me of when I was in love with a girl in Toronto and would regularly take the endless bus ride from NYC through Upstate New York and across the Canadian border to see her. Youthful amor knows no geographical boundaries.
Now, waiting for me is a cheerful older ex-pat named Kippy, with short cut blonde hair and a gap-toothed grin in her beat up old truck blasting jangling Motown.
“We’re going to a party.” She announces, as I climb in.
When Guadalupe was here, I was able to hang out with Panamanians, the feisty ninety-four year-old matriarch of the small town Pedasi, an owner of a hostel who called me “Mi Rei,” my king, a guy from Chile who strummed guitar while I belted live karaoke in his cantina, American songs like House of the Rising Sun, Proud Mary and Mack The Knife. It seems now that Guadalupe is gone, that world is inaccessible to me. So I fall in with the expats.
After the concrete condos of Panama City, rising by the Pacific like some Miami Vice throwback, the cracked sidewalks and salt stung air, window washers rushing out at streetlights with homemade squeegees and buckets of sudsy water like the crackheads on Houston Street did when I was a kid, the countryside feels even more surreal and tranquil. Kippy and I stop at a roadside stand to buy giant bunches of pinkly stained lychees, and semilla de coco a new delicacy for me, a round white orb of coconut seed with a spongy texture and pure subtly sweet flavor.
On the beach, under the portico of a local cantina, a group of expats have gathered to party, throwing back rum and $1 beers. I haven’t been around this many white people in months and it feels overwhelming and a bit embarrassing. They form their own cohort and even though many have lived in the country for years, they don’t speak Spanish. I wonder how they go grocery shopping.
All the expats in the jungle by the sea seem to have ended up here for some shady reason. So have I, I suppose. No one leaves everything they know behind unless they want to escape something.
At her seventy-first birthday party on the beach, I meet Corey, a “California girl” and old school lesbian who tells me she used to have a gambling problem.
“What made you stop?” I ask.
“I lost my job and my house.” She says frankly, in her nicotine growl, going off to chain smoke another menthol.
There is Sammy, who arrives at the beach and immediately announces he has just gotten a blood test for HIV and herpes.
“I met someone.” He says giddily. “I’m doing it for her.”
After our third round of cervezas, I find out he is a New York Jew, like me, though originally from Israel and three decades older.
He and his parents emigrated to the Bronx of the 1950’s when he was a kid, then moved to Canada when he turned eighteen, so he wouldn’t be drafted in Vietnam.
“When I was eight years-old I got held up by knifepoint for milk and eggs I was bringing home to my mom.” He says.
He notices me noticing his tattoos, numbers across his inner arm and a semi-colon at his hairy wrist.
“The numbers were my father’s when he was in a camp. The semi-colon you should know as a writer.” He says.
“I do.” I say. “But what does it mean to you?”
“My son committed suicide two years ago. It means continuation. Life continues.” He says.
The sun sets over the sea and the green hills of Isla Iguana in the distance. The island looks so close under the bronze, violet and blood red rays it seems you could swim there, though you would die trying.
Terrible news filters in from the States. There is a certain anarchy among the ex-pats, escapees who have given up their country for another. Some try their best to ignore all American news, some rage against it. But all seem to live in a sort of tropical Brigadoon, a valley the outside world can’t penetrate.
It reminds me of an ill-timed trip my grandparents took me and my brother on my senior year of high school in 2003. We ended up in the Galapagos Islands on a small nature cruise touring islands desolate except for teeming wildlife.
On one of the few inhabited spots in the archipelago in a small internet café, I found out through an email from my dad that the United States had declared war in Afghanistan. Only two years after 9/11 had changed my New York childhood and teenage world forever, I cried in a roughly paved town square thousands of miles from home feeling angry and helpless all over again. War was the last thing I wanted, but how could I stop it?
Fifteen years later, on a different beach, someone makes a crack about sexual assault on the darkened porch. An older gay man talking about the priests of his youth molesting fellow choir boys.
“The whole time, I was like pick me! Pick me! Is something wrong with me that they don’t want to fuck me?” He says and everyone laughs uproariously.
I don’t and get sideways glances like I’m being a party pooper.
“I think it’s normal for kids to feel chosen or made special by abusers.” I say. “That’s part of the abuser’s power over their victims. I’m sorry you felt that way.” I tell him.
And as the chuckles around us fade, he nods quietly and says, “Thank you.”
“When I was a teenager we fooled around, but we were just figuring out what we liked and what we didn’t.” Protests a grandmother from Colorado. “If a boy and I were heavy petting and he did something I didn’t like, I always told him ‘no,’”
Though unstated, it is clear we are now talking about the recent hearings around the latest Supreme Court nominee.
“There’s a difference between normal exploration and being forced into a situation.” I tell her. “Some people don’t have the ability to say no while it’s happening, that doesn’t make it okay.”
“What about innocent until proven guilty?” She jabs.
“What about believing victims?” I ask.
“I was never a victim.” She says so vehemently it makes me wonder, if like the joke about the priests, there is some pain behind her bluster.
“Bet you didn’t think hanging around with a bunch of old people, you’d be having conversations like this.” Kippy takes me aside to order us more drinks.
“I spoke to my dad on the phone the other day about his artwork and how he used to correspond with a guy who was into phallic piercings to do a portrait.” I shrug. “He’s older than all of you.”
But as the party dies down, I think about generational ideas of sex. How this older crew who grew up with so much normalized repression and sexism have all been touched by abuse in some way and see it as a hard knock reality rather than something that needs to change.
Kippy drives me back in the dark, past swooping bats and the crooning melodic croaking of frogs. Guadalupe always sang back to them “Sapo cancionero, de la noche cantas tu melancholia.” Singing frog, in the night you sing your melancholy.
I think of being five and forced into a bathroom by a girl in my class who demanded to see my penis, being ten at a Mets game at Shea Stadium and a fat old man saying to me, “Hey kid, cute ass.” when other adults were out of earshot, being twelve and the odd pitch of my babysitter’s panting as she pinned me down in a game of wrestling, being thirteen and a homeless guy following me down the street offering “I’ll suck your dick for a quarter.”, being eighteen and an older gay friend pawing me whenever he got drunk, being twenty-seven and doing a reading in Philadelphia where the hostess promised me I had a room for the night, which turned out to be her bedroom she wouldn’t let me leave when I tried. How through all of these experiences and more, I felt like I was the fucked up one because I was a guy and shouldn’t I just enjoy it?
We reach the rusted black metal gate of Guadalupe’s property and Kippy keeps her brights on me as I trip up the path lined with palmeras, their fronds glowing poison green in her headlamps. I am alone in Guadalupe’s small house now.
That first night in my friend’s borrowed casita on her vast stretch of land I have nightmares I am being robbed, like I was when I lived in Bushwick, Brooklyn in my early 20’s.
Maybe it is Guadalupe’s paranoia infecting me. Before she left me on my own she warned “Pueblo chico, infierno grande.” Small town, big fire. Her house has been knocked over three times before, so maybe I am just being realistic.
I wake up to glaring sunlight, safe for the moment in my sweaty nightmare tossed sheets. I wonder how many other of the revelers from last night went home and dreamt of a world where we were violated. And if the lush beauty of the tropics will ever be enough to quell those visions.
“This Night Has Opened My Eyes”
“The dream has gone
But the baby is real
Oh you did a good thing
She could have been a poet
Or, she could have been a fool
Oh you did a bad thing
And I’m not happy
And I’m not sad”
—-the Smiths, “This Night has Opened my Eyes”, from Hatful of Hollow, a compilation album released 12 November 1984, Rough Trade.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hatful_of_Hollow
featuring Model: Liz Walz wearing a handmade dress by Susan Hickman for Crocker House FashionShow
Photograph by Michelle Gemma
lost in thought
sat down with the intention of writing something
anything
and that’s when the distractions of the day became the subject of the day
the smells –
are those my shorts?
my socks?
my shoes?
sat down with the intention of writing something
anything
and instead of the esoteric, what gets tapped into instead is just so common
so basic
the vagaries of effluent discharges brought about by the bodies that live on bodies
kinda smells like shoes
or bodies on a hot summer day
or the first few minutes of sex
sat down with the intention of writing something
anything
this isn’t to say that this “subject,” this “idea,” is not worthy
it just so happens
to have nothing to do with the thought that first sat me down to open this document
but here we are
a little lost
thinking about
something other
than that which was the thought
that originally sat me down
to start typing
It Takes A Nation of Millions
33: THE MAGIC NUMBER
“Since the most ancient of times numbers and numerology have been believed to conceal secrets and messages. For some, numbers have very special significance, with the ability to conceal true meaning from all but the initiated. To some, certain numbers can convey that something of particular importance lies within the text under their study. Such numbers needn’t even be written to convey the presence of a hidden code within a sentence or paragraph, only that the sum of letters included adds up to a particular number.
No number holds more esoteric significance than “33.” The number three is significant in all major religions. There is a Trinity for Christians, and a Triple Goddess for the ancients.”
“In the written words attributed to Shakespeare, to Francis Bacon, to Spenser, Dante, and others we can find hidden code words and paragraphs that use this number to alert the initiated reader that something important is connected.
In the works attributed to Shakespeare there are many phrases and passages referencing the number 33. Julius Caesar is stabbed 33 times. The body of work shows a mastery of numerology. The number 33 reflects the interface of the familiar world with the higher spiritual realm. In Hamlet, the Ghost is represented in the first scene with an entrance described in a sentence with 33 characters. And Horatio addresses the ghost in 33 characters as he leaves. “Stay: Speake, speake, I charge thee, speake.” In Julius Caesar, the ghost of Caesar visits Brutus in a passage that starts with a 33-character sentence, “That shapes this monstrous apparition.” Brutus recovers from the shock and addresses the ghost in a 33-word sentence.”
“From Iraq through Phoenicia to Phoenix Arizona, whether by design or coincidence, the 33rd parallel passes through some very significant places.
The ancient city of Babylon was very near the 33rd-degree latitude line while modern Baghdad is on the 33rd parallel. This area was once thought to be the Garden of Eden. Heading west, the line passes through Damascus, Beirut, and onto two Templar castles one exactly on the 33rd latitude the other at 32.71. The light of the sky is embodied by the Sun with the solar year divided by the sun’s cycle of 11.06 years, equaling 33. The Sun, defined as a circumference of 360 degrees divided by 11, equals 32.72.”
Crossing the ocean, the 33rd parallel brings us to Charleston, South Carolina. This city is the original site of Scottish Rite masonry in U.S. Charleston’s Fort Sumter is the location of the first shot fired in the Civil War as that state succeeded from the Union.
Coincidence or not, Dallas, Texas, was of course where President Kennedy was assassinated. Not only is it on the 33rd parallel, but also the date of 11/22 adds up to 33. During Kennedy’s administration Papa Doc Duvalier of Haiti was upset because aid from the U.S. was cut off. He claimed to put a curse on JFK, which caused his death on the date of those powerful numbers.
While writers on this subject often include Roswell, New Mexico, we’ll go on to Phoenix, Arizona. This was once the center of the Hohokam culture. The largest site, known as Snaketown, was only five miles from the 33rd parallel and the observatory called Casa Grande is five miles from the line as well. Here this advanced ancient culture built 500 miles of canals irrigating 25,000 acres.”
“Despite the reputation given to such beliefs by organized religion, science in modern times has come to understand the concept of a body clock, the effect of the lunar cycle on animals, and most likely people, and the reality of circadian cycles. Ancients might have known this as well. There are 33 vertebrae in the spine. In India, it is believed a vital energy is needed to awaken the spiritual energy located at the base of the spine. This coiled-up energy is known as Kundalini, and through Yoga energy it ascends to the brain and beyond. Both Hindu and Tantric arts seek this awakening.”
“The spinal column is often referred to as Jacob’s ladder, or the Serpent. It is also compared to the caduceus symbol of Mercury, Thoth, and medicine. Did the ancients also know there were 33 turns in a complete sequence of DNA? Could the Caduceus symbolize the two intertwining snakes apparently reflected in the 33-sequence, double helix DNA ascending a vertical pole, which could be the 33-vertebrae spine?”
“When the two threes are put together facing each other they offer a design that is said to represent the ancient Hermetic maxim ‘as above, so below.’ ”
“The heavens mirror the earth; the spirit reflects humankind.”
Photo Narrative featuring Writer Royal Young on location in Great Neck, New York
Excerpts from the article, “33: The Magic Number, Why Is This Number So Important To So Many?” by Steven Sora, Atlantis Rising magazine, March/April 2015 Issue #110
https://atlantisrisingmagazine.com/article/33-the-magic-number/
Photographs by Michelle Gemma
12/11/1989
Off we go! All packed posting warrior travel madman to Portsmouth suburb Havant to see Alex and Graham T. {edit: Mystic/Noankers, yes, that is the one I am talking about}. Graham is traveling the Continent but should be back in a couple of days. Maura and Sarah buy me a pint of lager and a Guinness at the last resort pub and even a pack of Camels. Pictures taken outside Smoker’s Paradise and one even with a Bobby who couldn’t have been more than 19. Tube to Morden, last stop in London, very south, and walk 45 mins to Route A3 (oh A3!). The forecast from BBC2 is clear ‘til the weekend so everything should be fine.
A3 is like I-95 but everyone drives 80 MPH and the cops don’t bother “until you are over 90” the first of six drivers tells me. He was really cool and had traveled US, Australia, New Zealand. Says England is the toughest for hitching. Fifteen miles later, he drops me off at an exit and I walk with thumb out for easily five miles before a truck stops for me.
Two 22ish males, listening to house music and asking me about the States.
Seven miles with them and I walk, again, three miles, and a really nice sports car, like a Jag or something, stops for me with a tie behind the wheel. As I run to catch up to the car, my small pack pops open and spills its contents on the highway and grass. All I lost was my new cassette of Unknown Pleasures. I managed to recover two shooter bottles of vodka.
He drives about 20 miles and lets me off at a gas station where I get a cup of Java and put on my rain poncho as it is raining (Great! Thanks, BBC!). I then walk about three more miles when another car stops.
Young guy with a tie but not living that life as his car is full of shit, beer cans, sleeping bags, etc, and even “a cooker or two”. He drives about two miles to a pub where he is meeting his friends at now 10:30PM. He gives me a smoke and tells me how to get cheap reliable cars in Brixton and even in London.
Walking in the rain dark night on a Ledyard backroad that is still somehow the A3 but a far cry from the 90MPH I-95 section and I get about another mile when an old guy stops for me. He was fucking nice as shit, telling me about the dream house he is building and a story about a soldier he picked up once and how he was impressed with my canvas rucksack. He drives about five miles to the town that he lives in and apologizes for not being able to bring me further but he has to get up in the morning to work and he is beat tired. Tells me where to stand to get another ride and wishes me a Happy Christmas.
Short 300 yard walk when a car stops and the passenger gets out and yells “Do you want a ride?” Of course I do, you stupid sod! I get in and there is a guy in the back seat and the driver straight right off asks me if I have any hash or grass. No, do you? No, but we are going to get some, where are you going? They bring me almost to Alex’s door and all the while they are talking all paranoid of cops!
11:10PM and I knock the knocker on the door, #7 3rd Ave. Alex’s mom answers and invites me in and THEN realizes that I am the guest that Alex is expecting! She gives me a letter from my mom, talking of tragedies and all all all from home and I am glad that I am not there. Baked beans, toast, and tea comes in and is devoured by me like an animal while she tries to have a pleasant talk and calls Alex at his friend’s house. He shows up and actually gave me a hug and we sit around talking until almost 1:30AM.
{edit: scribbled numbers at the top of the page sum to 66 miles, so not a bad estimate for 1989!}
