If we cannot recognize the old bourgeois revolution in the act of gentrification by art, it is because modern theory has convinced us that this relationship is illegitimate. Bohemians and hipsters are not connected to the historical avant-garde, and the latter is not connected to the bourgeois revolution of the age of Enlightenment. It cannot be so, for this would amount to saying that gentrification contains within it the germ of revolution. We would have to posit some absurd theory, to the effect perhaps that the artist is the most consistent figure in the equation, and the other political and economic figures are variables that ultimately have to be rationalized in terms of the culture that the artist imposes upon the neighborhood.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
CARTESIAN CONFUSION by Laura Michaelson
I disregarded the yet-unfinished statistics assignment I had been working on in the library and focused instead on the bizarre scene before me. A plethora of equally unsettling questions was causing me much distress. How did I get to Bavaria!? Why am I in this farmhouse!? Is it the 17th century??! These manifested themselves into one short, irrational outburst of verbal confusion that I directed toward my companion:
“What are you doing here??”
I did not intend to display such poor manners, but I was beside myself with bewilderment. If this really was the Rene Descartes, why was he secluded in a house alone with all of these papers scattered everywhere? Before I had time to begin pondering any of these unknowns, Descartes responded to my previous inquiry with astonishing articulation,
“Some years ago I was struck by the large number of falsehoods that I had accepted as true in my childhood, and by the highly doubtful nature of the whole edifice that I had subsequently based on them. I realized that it was necessary, once in the course in my life, to demolish everything completely and start again right from the foundations if I wanted to establish anything at all in the sciences that was stable and likely to last…So today I have expressly rid my mind of all worries and arranged for myself a clear stretch of free time. I am here quite alone, and at last I will devote myself sincerely and without reservation to the general demolition of my opinions.”
I was confused, and still a bit too disoriented to express myself quite as elegantly.
“Wait,” I insisted, “you’re secluding yourself from society and demolishing your opinions? How is this going to help you establish scientific certainties?”
“Because,” Descartes replied, “only then will I be freed of all my preconceived opinions, and led away from my senses to re-examine corporeal nature. Whatever I have up till now accepted as most true I have acquired from the senses or through the senses. But from time to time I have found that the senses deceive, and it is prudent never to trust completely those who have deceived us even once. So I am searching for something absolutely certain beyond any reasonable or unreasonable doubt. This requires that I dismiss all that is evidenced by the senses—my hands, my eyes, the sky, the air, the earth, and all things external.”
“But wouldn’t that require you to deny the reality of yourself and all of existence? Our sensory perceptions, after all, are our sole method for perceiving the universe. If you denied all that is evidenced by them, then existence wouldn’t exist.”
Descartes eyes lit up before me. “Precisely!” he exclaimed, “which is why I can now say for certain that I exist, and that existence exists as well!”
I wasn’t quite sure I was following. “How does the hypothetical denial of your sensory perceptions bring you to the certainty of existence?”
“Because,” Descartes explained, “in doubting the existence of myself, the reality of my existence is proven through my capacity to doubt it. Even if all of my senses are constantly deceiving me, I must exist if there is an ‘I’ for them to deceive. My senses can never convince me I am not, so long as I think I am something. And if I think I am something, the reality of existence is undeniable, for where else would one find a conscious being besides in existence.”
“So you could be without anything perceptible to the senses—without your body, without the earth, without the sky—yet still exist, if you know you exist?”
“Yes,” Descartes replied confidently. But I didn’t understand. How could you be, if nothing is?
“Then what are you?”
Descartes paused. “Good question. It has been a major occupation as I have been meditating on these topics. Like I said: I am certain I exist. Doubting the truth of things reinforces my existence—rather than cease thinking entirely, I instead am able to conceive of a universe in which they are a delusion but I am still I. So what is this “I”? It cannot be my body, for I can imagine myself without it; nor can it be my sensory perceptions, for surely I cannot have these without a body. So what can I not have without I? My thoughts. For as long as I am thinking, I know I exist.”
“So you’re saying you are your thinking self, but not your body. Then what is the thinking self made of?”
“In essence, it is thoughts. But they are non-physical, and separate from the physical body.”
This struck me as highly doubtful. “If our thoughts are immaterial, and separate from our bodies, the two couldn’t interact.”
“They certainly do interact,” Descartes replied. “There is a small gland in the center of the brain, between the left and right hemispheres, called the pineal gland. Only humans, the same sole species to possess the capacity for higher thinking and consciousness, possess this gland. I have inferred that this pineal gland must be the center for communication between the mind and body. This allows us to control our body and allows the mind to interact with the sensory organs.”
Impossible. “No. If the mind is non-physical, your feelings of control and mind/body interaction must be delusional.”
Descartes seemed surprised. “Then how would you explain why I scratch my arm when it itches, or the reason I wince when I touch a hot stove?” he asked.
“There are a number of possible explanations,” I responded. “Maybe God pre-established our universe in a harmony that makes mental and physical events appear as if they are related.”
“If mental and physical events were the result of God’s will, our sense of self would be a falsity of His creation,” Descartes replied surely. “God is not a deceiver, and His goodness would not perpetuate an illusionary existence.”
“Then maybe mental and physical events simply occur simultaneously in the universe without being causally related. For all we know, this illusion could even be attributed to our physical configuration—one physical event produces a resulting specific mental event and a resulting specific physical behavior, but these two results are not actually related.”
“In which case any desires, decisions, or volitions would be delusional. Why would anyone embrace such a theory?”
“You must choose an alternative, for if you won’t concede your notion that the mind is incorporeal, you cannot claim the mind and body to be in a causal relationship. How could that which is immaterial manifest in a physical action? How do you explain the creation of substance-based, material movement from an incorporeal thought? The concept defies the laws of nature. Matter changes form, but it cannot be created or destroyed.”
“This would imply the mind to be a material entity if it is at all causally related to the body,” Descartes entertained. “You know, it is possible that the mind is composed of some mystical substance within the body that we are yet unable to recognize or measure. The body houses the mind, and the mind could still be non-physical, but its mystical substance communicates with the body through the exchange of energy.”
“But it has to be physical,” I responded. “Immaterial things have no energy to be transferred. Besides, you are violating the principle of Ockham’s Razor. You’ve created an additional class of ‘mystical’ substance and properties to explain something that can be understood in purely physical terms.”
Logically, Descartes then asked, “Then how do you explain the mind as a physical substance?”
“You admitted the possibility that we have not yet developed technology to observe or measure your ‘mystical substance’,” I began. “Isn’t it also possible that in the future, we will develop devices that can detect physical activity on microscopic levels in the brain? This activity could be nothing more than a series of tiny bio-chemical reactions, triggering the most miniscule subcellular changes. However, these reactions could begin a long chain of events that eventually stimulates sensory perceptions and physical movement.”
Descartes paused. I had presented a highly complex, nearly inconceivable theory of mind. Unsurprisingly, he was skeptical. “Even if a bio-chemical reaction within the brain could be measured, and somehow a specific physical response could be attributed to it, how can you prove that these two events have a causal relationship?”
I closed my eyes for a moment. My head was spinning. How could I possibly prove causation?
Just as I opened my eyes and prepared myself to respond, the room began to fill with fog. Descartes quickly faded into the distance…
(1991). The Conservation Laws of Physics. Retrieved February 18, 2007 from http://www.totse.com/en/technology/science_technology/conserve.html.
Churchland, Paul M. (2001). Matter and Consciousness. Cambridge: The MIT Press.
Cottingham, John (Ed.). (1992). The Cambridge Companion to Descartes. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Damasio, Antonio. (1994). Descartes’ Error: Emotion, Reason, and the Human Brain. New York: Penguin Books.
Descartes, R. (1986). Meditations. (J. Cottingham, Trans.) Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. (Original work published 1619).
Wegner, Daniel M. (2002). The Illusion of Conscious Will. Cambridge: The MIT Press.
“What are you doing here??”
I did not intend to display such poor manners, but I was beside myself with bewilderment. If this really was the Rene Descartes, why was he secluded in a house alone with all of these papers scattered everywhere? Before I had time to begin pondering any of these unknowns, Descartes responded to my previous inquiry with astonishing articulation,
“Some years ago I was struck by the large number of falsehoods that I had accepted as true in my childhood, and by the highly doubtful nature of the whole edifice that I had subsequently based on them. I realized that it was necessary, once in the course in my life, to demolish everything completely and start again right from the foundations if I wanted to establish anything at all in the sciences that was stable and likely to last…So today I have expressly rid my mind of all worries and arranged for myself a clear stretch of free time. I am here quite alone, and at last I will devote myself sincerely and without reservation to the general demolition of my opinions.”
I was confused, and still a bit too disoriented to express myself quite as elegantly.
“Wait,” I insisted, “you’re secluding yourself from society and demolishing your opinions? How is this going to help you establish scientific certainties?”
“Because,” Descartes replied, “only then will I be freed of all my preconceived opinions, and led away from my senses to re-examine corporeal nature. Whatever I have up till now accepted as most true I have acquired from the senses or through the senses. But from time to time I have found that the senses deceive, and it is prudent never to trust completely those who have deceived us even once. So I am searching for something absolutely certain beyond any reasonable or unreasonable doubt. This requires that I dismiss all that is evidenced by the senses—my hands, my eyes, the sky, the air, the earth, and all things external.”
“But wouldn’t that require you to deny the reality of yourself and all of existence? Our sensory perceptions, after all, are our sole method for perceiving the universe. If you denied all that is evidenced by them, then existence wouldn’t exist.”
Descartes eyes lit up before me. “Precisely!” he exclaimed, “which is why I can now say for certain that I exist, and that existence exists as well!”
I wasn’t quite sure I was following. “How does the hypothetical denial of your sensory perceptions bring you to the certainty of existence?”
“Because,” Descartes explained, “in doubting the existence of myself, the reality of my existence is proven through my capacity to doubt it. Even if all of my senses are constantly deceiving me, I must exist if there is an ‘I’ for them to deceive. My senses can never convince me I am not, so long as I think I am something. And if I think I am something, the reality of existence is undeniable, for where else would one find a conscious being besides in existence.”
“So you could be without anything perceptible to the senses—without your body, without the earth, without the sky—yet still exist, if you know you exist?”
“Yes,” Descartes replied confidently. But I didn’t understand. How could you be, if nothing is?
“Then what are you?”
Descartes paused. “Good question. It has been a major occupation as I have been meditating on these topics. Like I said: I am certain I exist. Doubting the truth of things reinforces my existence—rather than cease thinking entirely, I instead am able to conceive of a universe in which they are a delusion but I am still I. So what is this “I”? It cannot be my body, for I can imagine myself without it; nor can it be my sensory perceptions, for surely I cannot have these without a body. So what can I not have without I? My thoughts. For as long as I am thinking, I know I exist.”
“So you’re saying you are your thinking self, but not your body. Then what is the thinking self made of?”
“In essence, it is thoughts. But they are non-physical, and separate from the physical body.”
This struck me as highly doubtful. “If our thoughts are immaterial, and separate from our bodies, the two couldn’t interact.”
“They certainly do interact,” Descartes replied. “There is a small gland in the center of the brain, between the left and right hemispheres, called the pineal gland. Only humans, the same sole species to possess the capacity for higher thinking and consciousness, possess this gland. I have inferred that this pineal gland must be the center for communication between the mind and body. This allows us to control our body and allows the mind to interact with the sensory organs.”
Impossible. “No. If the mind is non-physical, your feelings of control and mind/body interaction must be delusional.”
Descartes seemed surprised. “Then how would you explain why I scratch my arm when it itches, or the reason I wince when I touch a hot stove?” he asked.
“There are a number of possible explanations,” I responded. “Maybe God pre-established our universe in a harmony that makes mental and physical events appear as if they are related.”
“If mental and physical events were the result of God’s will, our sense of self would be a falsity of His creation,” Descartes replied surely. “God is not a deceiver, and His goodness would not perpetuate an illusionary existence.”
“Then maybe mental and physical events simply occur simultaneously in the universe without being causally related. For all we know, this illusion could even be attributed to our physical configuration—one physical event produces a resulting specific mental event and a resulting specific physical behavior, but these two results are not actually related.”
“In which case any desires, decisions, or volitions would be delusional. Why would anyone embrace such a theory?”
“You must choose an alternative, for if you won’t concede your notion that the mind is incorporeal, you cannot claim the mind and body to be in a causal relationship. How could that which is immaterial manifest in a physical action? How do you explain the creation of substance-based, material movement from an incorporeal thought? The concept defies the laws of nature. Matter changes form, but it cannot be created or destroyed.”
“This would imply the mind to be a material entity if it is at all causally related to the body,” Descartes entertained. “You know, it is possible that the mind is composed of some mystical substance within the body that we are yet unable to recognize or measure. The body houses the mind, and the mind could still be non-physical, but its mystical substance communicates with the body through the exchange of energy.”
“But it has to be physical,” I responded. “Immaterial things have no energy to be transferred. Besides, you are violating the principle of Ockham’s Razor. You’ve created an additional class of ‘mystical’ substance and properties to explain something that can be understood in purely physical terms.”
Logically, Descartes then asked, “Then how do you explain the mind as a physical substance?”
“You admitted the possibility that we have not yet developed technology to observe or measure your ‘mystical substance’,” I began. “Isn’t it also possible that in the future, we will develop devices that can detect physical activity on microscopic levels in the brain? This activity could be nothing more than a series of tiny bio-chemical reactions, triggering the most miniscule subcellular changes. However, these reactions could begin a long chain of events that eventually stimulates sensory perceptions and physical movement.”
Descartes paused. I had presented a highly complex, nearly inconceivable theory of mind. Unsurprisingly, he was skeptical. “Even if a bio-chemical reaction within the brain could be measured, and somehow a specific physical response could be attributed to it, how can you prove that these two events have a causal relationship?”
I closed my eyes for a moment. My head was spinning. How could I possibly prove causation?
Just as I opened my eyes and prepared myself to respond, the room began to fill with fog. Descartes quickly faded into the distance…
(1991). The Conservation Laws of Physics. Retrieved February 18, 2007 from http://www.totse.com/en/technology/science_technology/conserve.html.
Churchland, Paul M. (2001). Matter and Consciousness. Cambridge: The MIT Press.
Cottingham, John (Ed.). (1992). The Cambridge Companion to Descartes. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Damasio, Antonio. (1994). Descartes’ Error: Emotion, Reason, and the Human Brain. New York: Penguin Books.
Descartes, R. (1986). Meditations. (J. Cottingham, Trans.) Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. (Original work published 1619).
Wegner, Daniel M. (2002). The Illusion of Conscious Will. Cambridge: The MIT Press.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
NON-FICTION: Cannabis and the Christ: Jesus Used Marijuana
by Adina Zeev
editor's note: Unfortunately, Blogger doesn't annotate very well, so if anyone should have questions, please contact Adina at hominid9@hotmail.com.
"If you know the truth, the truth will make you free." (John 8:32)
Jesus used Marijuana
As doubtful as the following hypothesis might first seem to the reader, I might as well boldly state my case right from the start: either Jesus used marijuana or he was not the Christ. The very word "Christ", by the implication of its linguistic origins and true meaning, gives us the most profound evidence that Jesus did in fact use the same herb as his ancient semitic ancestors, and which is still used by people around the world for its enlightening and healing properties.
The Greek title "Christ" is the translation of the Hebrew word Messiah, which in English becomes "The Anointed" D. The Messiah was recognized as such by his being anointed with the holy anointing oil, the use of which was restricted to the instillation of Hebrew priests and kings. If Jesus was not initiated in this fashion then he was not the Christ, and had no official claim to the title.
D The title "Messiah" is much older than Christianity, as all the ancient kings of Israel are referred to as the "Messiah". "Christos - Anointed One, a title of many Middle-Eastern sacrificial gods: Attis, Adonis, Tammuz, Osiris. . ."
The ancient recipe for this anointing oil, recorded in the Old Testament book of Exodus (30: 22-23) included over nine pounds of flowering cannabis tops, Hebrew "kaneh-bosm" B, extracted into a hind (about 6.5 litres) of olive oil, along with a variety of other herbs and spices. The ancient chosen ones were literally drenched in this potent cannabis holy oil.
B The "m" is a pronounced plural, and the singular kaneh-bos sounds remarkably similar to the modern cannabis. Although often mistranslated as "calamus", the word has been translated as "fragrant-cane" in most modern bibles, and specifically designates the fragrant flowering tops of cannabis.
From the time of Moses until that of the later prophet Samuel, the holy anointing oil was used by the shamanic Levite priesthood to receive the "revelations of the Lord". At the dawn of the age of Kings, Samuel extended the use of the anointing oil to the Hebraic monarchs by anointing Saul (and later David) as "Messiah-king". These kings lead their people with the benefit of insights achieved through using the holy anointing oil to become "possessed with the spirit of the Lord."
"Anointing was common among kings of Israel. It was the sign and symbol of royalty. The word 'Messiah' signifies the 'Anointed One', and none of the kings of Israel were styled the Messiah unless anointed." The title was clearly only given to those "having the crown of God's unction upon them" (Leviticus 21:12).
After the fall of the Jewish kingdoms, and the bloody purges following the forged discovery of the Book of theLaw (1 Kings 23), the cannabis holy oil was prohibited as associated with pagan worship. Yet it seems that certain sects retained the topical entheogen, and continued to practice the older religion, silently awaiting the return of a Messiah-king in the line of David.
The ministry of Jesus marked the return of the Jewish Messiah-kings, and thus the re-emergence of the holy oil. Jesus was called the Christ because he violated the Old Testament taboo on the cannabis oil and distributed it freely for initiation rites and to heal the sick and wounded.
Although there is some evidence of Jesus' use of this Judaic cannabis oil in the traditional New Testament, we get a clearer picture of its importance when we also look at surviving Gnostic documents. The term Gnostic, meaning "knowledge", refers to a variety of early Christian sects which had extremely different beliefs about both Jesus and his teachings than those which have come down to us through modern Christianity.
Other Christian Sources
For the first four hundred years after Jesus' birth, the term "Christian" was used to describe a wide variety of sects and a large volume of different documents. Through the acceptance of one of the more ascetic branches of Christianity by the Roman ruling class, Christianity eventually became the state religion of its former persecutors.
In an effort to unify the faith into a controllable mass, the newly formed Roman Catholic Church held a number of councils. These councils prohibited not only pagans, but also differing Christian sects, and edited a wealth of Christian literature down to the few meager documents which have survived as the modern New Testament. Z
Z The New Testament in its present form was composed and edited between 367-397AD, about twelve generations after the events in question.
In an attempt to save their manuscripts from the editorial flames of the Roman Catholic Church, certain Christians, now considered Gnostic heretics, hid copies of their scrolls in caves. One of these ancient hiding places was rediscovered in our own century, and the large collection of early Christian documents was named the Nag Hamadi Library, after the Egyptian area where it was found. Prior to this discovery, what little was known of the Gnostics came from a few fragmentary texts, and the many polemics written against them by the founders of the Catholic Church.
There is no reason to consider these ancient Gnostic documents as less accurate portrayals of the life and teachings of Jesus than the New Testament accounts. In a sense, the rediscovery of the Nag Hamadi Library marks the resurrection of a more historical Jesus, an ecstatic rebel sage who preached enlightenment through rituals involving magical plants, and who is more analogous to the Indian Shiva, or the Greek Dionysus, than the pious ascetic that has come down to us through the Bible's New Testament.
The Anointed One
Contrary to the depiction given in the New Testament gospels of Matthew and Luke, Jesus was likely not born as the Messiah. He received this title through his initiation by John the Baptist, and so it is not surprising that both Mark and John are conspicuously absent of the virgin-birth mythology, and begin their stories of Jesus' short career with his initiation by John.
Although their version of Jesus' baptism by John describes it as involving submersion under water, the term "baptism" has connotations of "initiation", and Gnostic scriptures indicate that the original rite was performed in conjunction with the kaneh-bosm anointing rite, "the annointing taking place either before or after the baptismal ceremony." Some Gnostic texts also specifically state that Jesus recieved the title Christ "because of the anointing," not because of a water baptism.
Conceivably, the washing off of the oil with water would have been a means to begin the termination of ritual and the oil's effects.
The description of the after-effects of the rite clearly indicates that Jesus underwent an intense psychological experience, more than one would recieve from a simple submersion in water.
Jesus came from Nazareth Galilee and was baptised by John in the Jordan. As Jesus was coming up out of the water, he saw heaven being torn open and the Spirit descending upon him like a dove. K And a voice came from heaven "You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased." At once the Spirit sent him out into the desert, and he was in the desert for forty days, being tempted by Satan. He was with wild animals, and angels attended him. (Mark 1: 9-13)
K The reference to a dove may have connotations of the Goddess tradition, which was continued by the Gnostics, who paid special attention to Sophia, Goddess of Wisdom. In earlier times the dove was sacred to Astarts, Aphrodite, Ishtar and other forms of the Goddess. "Gnostic Christians said Sophia was incarnate in the dove. . . that descended on Jesus at his baptism to impregnate his mind."
It should be noted that the vision and words described were seen and heard only by Jesus, as it specifically states that "he saw".
The role played by John the Baptist, as priest and prophet, is very similiar to that of the Old Testament prophet Samuel. Just as Samuel's annointing of Saul and David marked them as Messiah-king, so did Jesus' initiation by John make him the Christ.
In the events after Jesus' vision and his overwhelmed recluse into the desert, there are clear parallels with the story of the prophet Samuel's initiation of Saul with the cannabis-rich holy ointment, and Saul's ensuing madness in the form of possession by the Spirit, and wandering off to make nabi (act in a frenzied ecstatic manner) (1 Samuel 10).
The tale of Saul's possession by the spirit is an example of how the ancients interpreted the effects of cannabis and other entheogens. What we perceive as being "high" or "stoned" the ancients called "possessed by the Spirit of the Lord."
"As a result of the spiritual 'anointing' Jesus expected to be different; and he was different. The prophecies had said that the Messiah would recieve from God wisdom and insight, the power to heal and to subjugate evil. The faith of Jesus was so strong that he did not question that these capacities had now been conferred upon him."
The entheogenic effect of the cannabis annointing oil would have immensely magnified both Jesus' own expectations, and the ensuing experience with John.
In some authorative texts of the Gospel according to Luke, after the Baptism the voice of God declares, "This day I have begotten thee." J This indicates that the event of Jesus' encounter with John marks the true beginnings of Jesus' mission and his acknowledgement as the Messiah.
J The same proclamation is stated of the Anointed One, or King in Psalm 2: 7.
The importance of the anointing, and Jesus' own acknowledgement of it, is again exemplified in the gospel of Luke.
According to the New Testament Jesus began his ministry in Nazareth, by reading the following passage from the scroll of Isaiah and proclaiming, "today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing" (Luke 4:16)
The Spirit of Yahweh God is upon me, because Yahweh has anointed me to bring good tidings to the afflicted; he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound... (Isaiah 61:1-2)
The Anointed Ones
Unlike the shamanistic priests and kings of earlier generations, Jesus did not follow the strict Old Testament taboos that limited the holy cannabis oils use to Yahweh's chosen few (Exodus 30:33), but broke tradition and began to liberally use it in both healing and initiation rites.
Through this open distribution the singular Christ, "the Anointed", was extended to become the plural term "Christians", that is, those who had been smeared or anointed. "By rubbing on this divine unction. . . obtained from certain special herbs or plants, they believed they were donning the panoply of God."
As the New Testament's John explains:
. . . you have an anointing from the Holy One, and all of you know the truth. . . . the anointing you received from him remains in you, and you do not need anyone to teach you. But as his anointing teaches you about all things and as that anointing is real, not counterfeit - just as it has taught you, remain in him." (1 John 2: 27). L
L A similar claim was made about hashish by the medieval Sufi poet Fuzuli, who recorded in his treatise Bang and Wine, the story of Basra, a disciple whose sheik felt that he had reached the ultimate degree of perfection through the consumption of hashish, and that he was no longer in need of further guidance. This story led to Fuzuli's proclamation that "hashish is the perfect being. . . for the seeker of the mystical experience." In many ways the Sufi movement can be seen as the phoenix which rose from the ashes of the earlier Gnostics.
". . . the Christian, the 'smeared or anointed one', received 'knowledge of all things' by his 'anointing from the Holy One' (1 John 2: 20). Thereafter he had need of no other teacher and remained forevermore endowed with all knowledge.
"Whatever the full ingredients of the Christian unction may have been, they would certainly have included the aromatic gums and spices of the traditional Israelite anointing oil: myrrh, aromatic cane,M cinnamon, and cassia. . . Under certain enclosed conditions a mixture of these substances rubbed on the skin could produce the kind of intoxicating belief in self-omniscience referred to in the New Testament."N
M ie: Kaneh Bosm, documented as cannabis.
N This quote is from scholar John Allegro, whose work I drew from for this article. Allegro was a great scholar of both the bible and ancient languages, and his work broke a lot of ground. Allegro was also the only human secularist on the original team of scholars involved in the translation of the Dead Sea Scrolls, so he came to his views through more unbiased anthropological thinking than that of his more "faithful" co-researchers. In The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross, Allegro translated the kaneh-bosm reference in Exodus as "aromatic cane", and I have quoted him here on how the anointing oil "could produce a kind of intoxicating belief in self-omniscience." Yet Allegro failed to make the rightful connection with cannabis, seeing instead another plant drug at use, the amanita muscaria mushroom. His writings reveal he was extremely prejudiced against cannabis, even going so far with his etymological arguments as to suggest that the Greek term "kannabis" somehow referred to a mushroom. Allegro never smoked marijuana, but his own observations of what he referred to as "the 'pot'-smokers of today, the weary dotards who wander listlessly round our cities and universities," caused him to discount any possible use of cannabis as a means of achieving spiritual ecstasy.
The Incomplete Baptism
In the first few centuries AD, Christian Gnostic groups such as the Archontics, Valentians and Sethians rejected water baptism as superfluous, referring to it as an "incomplete baptism". In the tractate, the Testimony of Truth, water Baptism is rejected with a reference to the fact that Jesus baptized none of his disciples.
Being "anointed with unutterable anointing", the so-called "sealings" recorded in the Gnostic texts, can be seen as a very literal event. "There is water in water, there is fire in chrism." (Gospel of Philip).
"The anointing with oil was the introduction of the candidate into unfading bliss, thus becoming a Christ."
"The oil as a sign of the gift of the Spirit was quite natural within a semetic framework, and therefore the ceremony is probably very early. . . In time the biblical meaning became obscured."
The survivng Gnostic descriptions of the effects of the anointing rite make it very clear that the holy oil had intense psycho-active properties, which prepared the recipient for entrance into "unfading bliss". In some Gnostic texts like the Pistis Sophia and the Books of Jeu, the "spiritual ointment" is a prerequisite for entry into the highest mystery.
In the Gospel of Philip it is written that the initiates of the empty rite of Baptism:
"go down into the water and come up without having received anything. . . The anointing (chrisma) is superior to baptism. For from the anointing we were called 'anointed ones' (Christians), not because of the baptism. And Christ also was [so] named because of the anointing, for the Father anointed the son, and the son anointed the apostles, and the apostles anointed us. [Therefore] he who has been anointed has the All. He has the resurrection, the light. . . the Holy Spirit. . . [If] one receives this unction, this person is no longer a Christian but a Christ."
Similarly, the Gospel of Truth records that Jesus specifically came into their midst so that he:
"might anoint them with the ointment. The ointment is the mercy of the Father. . . those whom he has anointed are the ones who have become perfect."
The apocryphal book, The Acts of Thomas, refers to the ointment's entheogenic effects as being specifically derived from a certain plant:
Holy oil, given us for sanctification, hidden mystery in which the cross was shown us, you are the unfolder of the hidden parts. You are the humiliator of stubborn deeds. You are the one who shows the hidden treasures. You are the plant of kindness. Let your power come by this [unction].
Gnostic Mysteries
The Gnostics had many levels of initiation, and the mysteries of these different grades were not written down like the more esoteric surviving texts were, but were given verbally at special ceremonies. Elements like the recipe of the obviously psychoactive holy oil were guarded with the closest secrecy, and were known only by the sect's most trusted initiates. This was a standard mystery school method, as "magic revealed is magic lost", and such secrets could only be entrusted to the group's most loyal members.
"Gnostic treatises did not reveal the whole matter. . . the final revelation was only communicated by word of mouth in the body, and by vision out of the body."
"It is certain that Gnostic texts even in cultic matters favour a metaphorical symbolic manner of speaking and. . . clearly avoided communicating precise details about their 'mysteries'."
In 130-200AD, the Catholic Church Father Irenaeus accused the Gnostics of initiating members with "secret sacraments". In his discussion of Gnostic texts which dealt with the anointing rite, he stated that they were written in an archaic manner, "to baffle even more those who are being initiated."
We can add to Ireneaus's comments that the Gnostics likely wrote in such a concealing fashion to "baffle" their persecutors, like Ireneus, whom they feared would find out the source behind the secret power of their anointing oil.
Mysteries of the Faith
Such a hidden reference to other psychoactive plants can be seen in "the mystery of the five trees", which were used by Jesus in complicated shamanistic initiation rituals. They are described in what is possibly the oldest Christian text in existence O, The Gospel of Thomas:
"...there are five trees for you in Paradise... Whoever becomes acquainted with them will not experience death."
O The Gospel of Thomas has an estimated date of composition as early as 40-100 AD, and likely predates the earliest New Testament Gospel, Mark, which is thought to have been written around 60 AD.
In the Gnostic view, "not experiencing death" meant reaching a certain state of interior purification or enlightenment, at which point the initiate would "rise from the dead" and "never grew old and became immortal." That is to say, he rose from ignorance and blindness, gained possession of the unbroken consciousness of his spiritual ego, and as such realized that he was a part of a larger Cosmic whole, which continued on long after the disappearance of the material body. Jesus referred to attaining this "higher" state of consciousness, as "entering the kingdom of heaven".
The attainment of this Gnostic state can be compared to the goal of yoga, (which itself means "union"), where the successful devotee obtains "a radical switch in consciousness obliterating the sense of individuation."
As with the similar goal of yoga union, the "kingdom of heaven" state was not attained instantaneously, but required years of vigorous training. Like certain older branches of yoga, a variety of psychoactive plants were used as aids to facilitate the devotee in attaining this "higher" state.
Although the Gnostic give us some detailed descriptions of these esoteric Christian teachings, it is interesting to note that they are also alluded to in New Testament accounts by Jesus himself:
"To you has been given the secret of the Kingdom of God, but for those outside everything is in parables: so that they may indeed see but not perceive, and may indeed hear but not understand. . . " (Mark 4:11)
The Treasure of Light and the Mystery of the Five Trees
At the turn of the present century Professor GRS Mead summarized a German translation of a surviving Gnostic text, the "Second Book of Ieou". P The text describes Jesus bidding male and female disciples to join him so that he can reveal to them the great mystery of the Treasure of Light.
P One of the few that managed to survive the Catholic Church's editorial flames, without being hidden with the Nag Hamadi codexes.
In order to accomplish this, the candidates have to be initiated by three Baptisms: The Baptism of Water, the Baptism of Fire, and the Baptism of the Holy Spirit, "and thereafter the Mystery of the Spiritual Chrism [anointing]."
Jesus tells his followers that the master-mysteries of the Treasure of Light are involved with the mystery of the Five Trees, which may mean having knowledge of the magical plants that were used in the ceremony.
All of these mysteries Jesus promises to give to His disciples, that they may be called "Children of the Fullness (Pleroma) perfected in all mysteries." The Master then gathers His disciples, and sets forth a place of offering, placing one wine-jar on the right and on the left, and strews certain berries and spices round the vessels; He then puts a certain plant in their mouths, and another plant in their hands, and ranges them in order round the sacrifice.
Continuing with the ritual, Jesus gives the disciples cups, along with other articles, and seals their foreheads with a magical diagram. Then, like shamanistic and magical ceremonies the world over, he turns his disciples to the four corners of the world, with their feet together in an attitude of prayer, and then offers a prayer which is prefixed with an invocation, and continues with a number of purifications and into the Baptism of Fire.
In this rite vine-branches are used; they are strewn with various materials of incense. The Eucharist is prepared...
The prayer [this time, is to] the Virgin of Light. . . Q the judge; she it is who gives the Water of the Baptism of Fire. A wonder is asked for in "the fire of this fragrant incense", and it is brought about by the agency of Zorokothora.R What the nature of the wonder was, is not stated. Jesus baptizes the disciples, gives them of the eucharistic sacrifice, and seals their foreheads with the seal of the Virgin of Light.
Q This offering of "fragrant-incense" to the Virgin of Light is reminiscent of the Old Testament offerings of kaneh-bosm incense to the Queen of Heaven (1 Kings 3:3). The Goddess played a paramount role in Gnostic theology.
R The title Zorokothora is likely derived from Zoroaster, an ancient Persian prophet-shaman. Centuries before the Christian age the Zoroastrian Magi were known for their use of "bhanga" (cannabis), as well as a primordial entheogenic drink known as "haoma" or "soma", now widely identified as anamita muscaria, or fly agaric mushroom. The Zoroastrians had a great influence on Jewish culture during the years of Persian rule. The concept of heaven and hell (conspicuously absent from the Old Testament) is derived from Zoroastrianism. Jesus' apparent knowledge of Zoroaster, and Zoroastrian sacraments, hints that perhaps amanita was identified with the entheogenic "wonder" filled "five trees" which Jesus used in his shamanistic initiation ceremonies. One of the more significant and widespread Gnostic sects, the Manicheans, were known to use anamita mushrooms, and worshipped Jesus right alongside Zoroaster. The Manicheans survived into the twelfth century in parts of Europe and China, and performed ceremonies similar to the one which Jesus is described as presiding over.
Next follows the Baptism of the Holy Spirit. In this rite both the wine-jars and vine-branches are used. A wonder again takes place, but is not further specified. After this we have the Mystery of Withdrawing the Evil of the Rulers, which consists of an elaborate incense-offering.
The "wonder" in the incense which so perplexed Mead was presumably a reference to its undescribable psychoactive effects. It's also likely that the other undefined "wonder" indicates the magical properties of the different plants used in the ceremony.
It would seem to follow that the identity of the different plants, vines, and berries described in the excerpts were identified to the participants as the Mystery of the Five Trees.
At this time we can only speculate what other plants were used in the ceremony. The account of mandrake in Genesis 30: 14-16 and in Solomon's Song of Songs 7: 13, (which seems to indicate its addition to the holy anointing oil), clearly document the long term interest the Hebrews had with these seemingly magical plant angels.
That the use and knowledge of such plants could have been passed down by certain "heretical" branches of the faith such as the Gnostics seems self evident. The addition of such a powerful hallucinatory drug such as mandrake (or belladonna, which was also popular in the Middle East at that time) would help to explain some of the extreme experiences related to the holy anointings and baptisms described in the Gnostic literature. S
S Recipes for medieval witches' "flying ointments" contain cannabis, mandrake, belladonna and other entheogens, and the out-of-body experiences attributed to the Gnostics have many parallels with the Witches Sabat, as do aspects of their cosmology.
The Leaves of the Tree are for the Healing of the Nations
Cannabis is likely the most useful plant medicine in existence, and it has been used to treat a wide variety of ailments throughout history. Few readers will not be aware of the international fight taking place at this time, to get the sick and dying access to the amazing healing and curative powers of the cannabis plant's leaves and flowers.
As such, it should not be surprising to find that there are numerous references to the early Christians healing with the anointing oil, giving further indication that Jesus and his apostles had begun to freely dispense the sacred kaneh-bosm anointing oil, which had previously been under a strictly enforced prohibition, restricting its use to the Hebrew priests and kings.
Knowledge of cannabis' healing powers may account for some of Jesus' healing "miracles".T The Acts of Thomas specifically invokes the healing quality of the sacred plant into the holy oil: "You are the plant of kindness. Let your power come. . . and heal by this unction."
T Like other ancient historians, Biblical authors had a tendency to magnify historical events and make them appear miraculous. The earliest gospel is thought to have been recorded about 60 years after the crucifixion, and such a text cannot be regarded as an accurate, contemporary historical account. With time, imagination and fancy have a tendency to obscure memory. Yet it seems possible that many of the New Testament accounts could have at their basis logically explainable events, which became shortened and glorified into the unexplained miracles of the New Testament Gospels.
The Acts of Peter and the Twelve Apostles demonstrates Jesus' own view of the importance of this rite, when he gives the disciples an "unguent box" and a "pouch full of medicine" with instructions to go into the City of Habitation, and heal the sick. He tells them you must heal "the bodies first" before you can "heal the heart".
"Knowledge and healing were two aspects of the same life-force. If to be rubbed with the 'Holy Plant' was to receive divine knowledge, it was also to be cured of every sickness. James suggests that anyone of the Christian community who was sick should call to the elders to anoint him with oil in the name of Jesus The Twelve are sent out among their fellow-men casting out demons and anointing the sick with oil (Mark 6:13)."
At the time of Christ, no differentiation was made between medical treatment and exorcism or miracles, all three were interrelated. To cure someone of a disease or to relieve them of an injury was paramount to exorcising the tormenting spirit, or miraculously healing them.
Thus it is not so surprising to find that the anointing oil expelled demons and gave protection against them, correspondingly it cured and dispelled the "sickness" of the soul and body. Exorcism (literally "driving out") was performed by means of anointing. The ancient magical texts provide abundant evidence for this application of oil.3
The oldest New Testament Gospel, clearly verifies this use of the holy oil early on in Jesus' controversial ministry:
And they cast out many devils, and anointed with oil many that were sick, and healed them. (Mark 6:13)
cleanse the lepers
One of Jesus' most well known miracles is his healing of lepers, which appears in the first three New Testament Gospels. The term translated as leprosy can actually refer to any number of skin diseases, usually systemic infectious lesions or extreme allergic reactions.
Due to its topical anti-bacterial properties, cannabis has been used to treat a variety of skin diseases such as pruritis, also known as atopic dermatitis an inflammatory skin disorder. The symptoms of pruritis are severe itching, "and patches of inflamed skin, especially on the hands, face, neck legs, and genitals," a description that sounds startlingly similar to the skin disease described in Leviticus 13, called tsara'ath. It is usually translated in the Old Testament as leprosy, but has been noted by a number of scholars to be more likely a reference to a severe form of pruritis rather than true leprosy (Hansen's disease).
In relation to Jesus' curing of the lepers (Matthew 8,10,11 Mark 1, Luke 5,7,17), we could have an example of a disease expelled through the use of the cannabis "holy oil". Besides the anti-bacterial properties of cannabis oil, cannabis has been said to be effective in treating sufferers of Pruritis even when administered through smoking!
A 1960 study in Czechoslovakia concluded that "cannabidiociolic acid, a product of the unripe hemp plant, has bacteriocidal properties." The Czech researchers "found that cannabis extracts containing cannabidiolic acid produced impressive antibacterial effects on a number of micro-organisms, including strains of staphylococcus that resist penicillin and other antibiotics.U
U Evidence of cannabis ointment's topical healing abilities can also be seen in its use as a treatment for the modern "sexual leprosy" of herpes. Sufferers of cold sores and genital herpes have reported succesful treatments by soaking cannabis leaves and flowers in rubbing alcohol and then dabbing the greenish solution on the site of a potential herpetic sore outbreak. "They say it prevents blistering and makes sores disappear in a day or two."Direct contact with THC killed herpes virus in a 1990 research study at the University of South Florida.
"The Czech researchers successfully treated a variety of conditions, including ear infections, with cannabis lotions and ointments. Topical application of cannabis relieved pain and prevented infection in second-degree burns. . . "
heal the wounded
The Gnostic Gospel of Philip makes direct reference to how the holy oil "healed the wounds", and not suprisingly we find that cannabis was used in salves and ointments for burns and wounds throughout the middle-ages. Cannabis resin was also used for other topical applications, especially in relieving the pain of worn and crippled joints.
The Acts of Thomas specifically states "Thou holy oil given unto us for sanctification. . . thou art the straightener of the crooked limbs." This medicinal quality of cannabis oil could account for the miraculous healings of cripples attributed to Jesus and his disciples.
"Cannabis is a topical analgesic. Until 1937, virtually all corn plasters, muscle ointments, and [cystic] fibrosis poultices were made from or with cannabis extracts."
A common and effective home remedy for rheumatism in South America was to heat cannabis in water with alcohol, and rub the solution into the affected areas. In the middle of the 19th century Dr WB O'Shaughnessy claimed to have successfully treated rheumatism (along with other maladies), with "half grain doses of cannabis resin" given orally.
cast out demons
In the ancient world and up until medieval times, the disease now known as epilepsy was commonly considered to be demonic possession, and its victims were outcasts from society. Here again, we could have an explanation for events of demonic exorcism (as in Mark 5, Luke 8), and the demon's expulsion by the use of cannabis.
Dr Lester Grinspoon and other medical marijuana advocates have offered testimonials from modern epilepsy sufferers, who have noted the profound effects of natural marijuana in controlling their seizures. Dr Grinspoon also points to the positive results of cannabis and synthetic cannabidiol in the treatment of epilepsy obtained in a 1975 report, and again in a 1980 study which concluded "for some patients cannabidiol combined with standard antileptics may be useful in controlling seizures. Whether cannabidiol alone, in large doses, would be helpful is not known."
Other ailments of spasmodic muscular contractions such as Dystonias, which results in abnormal movements and postures, have been beneficially treated with the administration of cannabis.
Another of the miracles attributed to Jesus was the healing of a woman from chronic menstruation (Luke 8:43-48). Again we find that cannabis has been used for the treatment of such ailments, as the US Dispensary of 1854 listed cannabis extract as a remedy for "uterine hemorrhage", as well as other maladies. V
V "The complaints to which it has been specifically recommended are neuralgia, gout, tetanus, hydrophobia, epidemic cholera, convulsions, chorea, hysteria, mental depression, insanity." (US Dispensatory of 1854).
Although the Biblical story of Jesus' cure of the menstruating woman describes this event as a faith healing which results from the woman touching Jesus' robe, and him feeling the "power" go out from him, an actual remedy seems more likely. That such a medicinal remedy could be considered a miracle is not at all far-fetched.
Although far beyond the breadth or intent of this article to document, cannabis has also been used successfully to treat glaucoma, arthritis, depression and mood disorders, migraines and chronic pain.
Archaeological Evidence
In an earlier article the use of cannabis among the Jews prior to the Christian period was documented, and a recent archeological dig in Bet Shemesh near Jerusalem has confirmed that cannabis medicine was in use in the area up until the fourth century. Thus it would seem to stand to reason that it was used for these purposes throughout the intervening Christian period.
In the case of the Bet Shemesh dig, the cannabis had been used as an aid in child bearing, both as a healing balm and an inhalant. Scientists commenting on the find noted that cannabis was used as a medicine as early as the 16th century BC, in Egypt.
This find garnered some attention, as can be seen from the Associated Press article, "Hashish evidence is 1,600 years old", that appeared in Vancouver newspaper The Province, on June 2, 1992:
Archaeologists have found hard evidence that hashish was used as a medicine 1,600 years ago, the Israel Antiquities Authority said yesterday.
Archaeologists uncovered organic remains of a substance containing hashish, grasses and fruit on the abdominal area of a teenage female's skeleton that dates back to the fourth century, the antiquities authority said in a statement.
Anthropologist Joel Zias said that although researchers knew hashish had been used as a medicine, this is the first archeological evidence. (Associated Press 1992).
Although the idea that Jesus and his disciples used a healing cannabis ointment may seem far-fetched at first, when weighed against the popular alternative (one that is held by millions of believers) that Jesus performed his healing miracles magically, through the power invested in him by the omnipotent Lord of the Universe, the case for ancient accounts of medicinal cannabis seems a far more likely explanation.
Indeed, it was through the dawning of the Spirit, provided by the entheogenic and healing anointing oil, that the early followers of Jesus came to consider themselves Christians, or Anointed-Ones! Ironically, many modern day Christians zealously persecute marijuana culture, unaware that the name of their faith makes reference to a psychoactive topical ointment that was rich in cannabis.
editor's note: Unfortunately, Blogger doesn't annotate very well, so if anyone should have questions, please contact Adina at hominid9@hotmail.com.
"If you know the truth, the truth will make you free." (John 8:32)
Jesus used Marijuana
As doubtful as the following hypothesis might first seem to the reader, I might as well boldly state my case right from the start: either Jesus used marijuana or he was not the Christ. The very word "Christ", by the implication of its linguistic origins and true meaning, gives us the most profound evidence that Jesus did in fact use the same herb as his ancient semitic ancestors, and which is still used by people around the world for its enlightening and healing properties.
The Greek title "Christ" is the translation of the Hebrew word Messiah, which in English becomes "The Anointed" D. The Messiah was recognized as such by his being anointed with the holy anointing oil, the use of which was restricted to the instillation of Hebrew priests and kings. If Jesus was not initiated in this fashion then he was not the Christ, and had no official claim to the title.
D The title "Messiah" is much older than Christianity, as all the ancient kings of Israel are referred to as the "Messiah". "Christos - Anointed One, a title of many Middle-Eastern sacrificial gods: Attis, Adonis, Tammuz, Osiris. . ."
The ancient recipe for this anointing oil, recorded in the Old Testament book of Exodus (30: 22-23) included over nine pounds of flowering cannabis tops, Hebrew "kaneh-bosm" B, extracted into a hind (about 6.5 litres) of olive oil, along with a variety of other herbs and spices. The ancient chosen ones were literally drenched in this potent cannabis holy oil.
B The "m" is a pronounced plural, and the singular kaneh-bos sounds remarkably similar to the modern cannabis. Although often mistranslated as "calamus", the word has been translated as "fragrant-cane" in most modern bibles, and specifically designates the fragrant flowering tops of cannabis.
From the time of Moses until that of the later prophet Samuel, the holy anointing oil was used by the shamanic Levite priesthood to receive the "revelations of the Lord". At the dawn of the age of Kings, Samuel extended the use of the anointing oil to the Hebraic monarchs by anointing Saul (and later David) as "Messiah-king". These kings lead their people with the benefit of insights achieved through using the holy anointing oil to become "possessed with the spirit of the Lord."
"Anointing was common among kings of Israel. It was the sign and symbol of royalty. The word 'Messiah' signifies the 'Anointed One', and none of the kings of Israel were styled the Messiah unless anointed." The title was clearly only given to those "having the crown of God's unction upon them" (Leviticus 21:12).
After the fall of the Jewish kingdoms, and the bloody purges following the forged discovery of the Book of theLaw (1 Kings 23), the cannabis holy oil was prohibited as associated with pagan worship. Yet it seems that certain sects retained the topical entheogen, and continued to practice the older religion, silently awaiting the return of a Messiah-king in the line of David.
The ministry of Jesus marked the return of the Jewish Messiah-kings, and thus the re-emergence of the holy oil. Jesus was called the Christ because he violated the Old Testament taboo on the cannabis oil and distributed it freely for initiation rites and to heal the sick and wounded.
Although there is some evidence of Jesus' use of this Judaic cannabis oil in the traditional New Testament, we get a clearer picture of its importance when we also look at surviving Gnostic documents. The term Gnostic, meaning "knowledge", refers to a variety of early Christian sects which had extremely different beliefs about both Jesus and his teachings than those which have come down to us through modern Christianity.
Other Christian Sources
For the first four hundred years after Jesus' birth, the term "Christian" was used to describe a wide variety of sects and a large volume of different documents. Through the acceptance of one of the more ascetic branches of Christianity by the Roman ruling class, Christianity eventually became the state religion of its former persecutors.
In an effort to unify the faith into a controllable mass, the newly formed Roman Catholic Church held a number of councils. These councils prohibited not only pagans, but also differing Christian sects, and edited a wealth of Christian literature down to the few meager documents which have survived as the modern New Testament. Z
Z The New Testament in its present form was composed and edited between 367-397AD, about twelve generations after the events in question.
In an attempt to save their manuscripts from the editorial flames of the Roman Catholic Church, certain Christians, now considered Gnostic heretics, hid copies of their scrolls in caves. One of these ancient hiding places was rediscovered in our own century, and the large collection of early Christian documents was named the Nag Hamadi Library, after the Egyptian area where it was found. Prior to this discovery, what little was known of the Gnostics came from a few fragmentary texts, and the many polemics written against them by the founders of the Catholic Church.
There is no reason to consider these ancient Gnostic documents as less accurate portrayals of the life and teachings of Jesus than the New Testament accounts. In a sense, the rediscovery of the Nag Hamadi Library marks the resurrection of a more historical Jesus, an ecstatic rebel sage who preached enlightenment through rituals involving magical plants, and who is more analogous to the Indian Shiva, or the Greek Dionysus, than the pious ascetic that has come down to us through the Bible's New Testament.
The Anointed One
Contrary to the depiction given in the New Testament gospels of Matthew and Luke, Jesus was likely not born as the Messiah. He received this title through his initiation by John the Baptist, and so it is not surprising that both Mark and John are conspicuously absent of the virgin-birth mythology, and begin their stories of Jesus' short career with his initiation by John.
Although their version of Jesus' baptism by John describes it as involving submersion under water, the term "baptism" has connotations of "initiation", and Gnostic scriptures indicate that the original rite was performed in conjunction with the kaneh-bosm anointing rite, "the annointing taking place either before or after the baptismal ceremony." Some Gnostic texts also specifically state that Jesus recieved the title Christ "because of the anointing," not because of a water baptism.
Conceivably, the washing off of the oil with water would have been a means to begin the termination of ritual and the oil's effects.
The description of the after-effects of the rite clearly indicates that Jesus underwent an intense psychological experience, more than one would recieve from a simple submersion in water.
Jesus came from Nazareth Galilee and was baptised by John in the Jordan. As Jesus was coming up out of the water, he saw heaven being torn open and the Spirit descending upon him like a dove. K And a voice came from heaven "You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased." At once the Spirit sent him out into the desert, and he was in the desert for forty days, being tempted by Satan. He was with wild animals, and angels attended him. (Mark 1: 9-13)
K The reference to a dove may have connotations of the Goddess tradition, which was continued by the Gnostics, who paid special attention to Sophia, Goddess of Wisdom. In earlier times the dove was sacred to Astarts, Aphrodite, Ishtar and other forms of the Goddess. "Gnostic Christians said Sophia was incarnate in the dove. . . that descended on Jesus at his baptism to impregnate his mind."
It should be noted that the vision and words described were seen and heard only by Jesus, as it specifically states that "he saw".
The role played by John the Baptist, as priest and prophet, is very similiar to that of the Old Testament prophet Samuel. Just as Samuel's annointing of Saul and David marked them as Messiah-king, so did Jesus' initiation by John make him the Christ.
In the events after Jesus' vision and his overwhelmed recluse into the desert, there are clear parallels with the story of the prophet Samuel's initiation of Saul with the cannabis-rich holy ointment, and Saul's ensuing madness in the form of possession by the Spirit, and wandering off to make nabi (act in a frenzied ecstatic manner) (1 Samuel 10).
The tale of Saul's possession by the spirit is an example of how the ancients interpreted the effects of cannabis and other entheogens. What we perceive as being "high" or "stoned" the ancients called "possessed by the Spirit of the Lord."
"As a result of the spiritual 'anointing' Jesus expected to be different; and he was different. The prophecies had said that the Messiah would recieve from God wisdom and insight, the power to heal and to subjugate evil. The faith of Jesus was so strong that he did not question that these capacities had now been conferred upon him."
The entheogenic effect of the cannabis annointing oil would have immensely magnified both Jesus' own expectations, and the ensuing experience with John.
In some authorative texts of the Gospel according to Luke, after the Baptism the voice of God declares, "This day I have begotten thee." J This indicates that the event of Jesus' encounter with John marks the true beginnings of Jesus' mission and his acknowledgement as the Messiah.
J The same proclamation is stated of the Anointed One, or King in Psalm 2: 7.
The importance of the anointing, and Jesus' own acknowledgement of it, is again exemplified in the gospel of Luke.
According to the New Testament Jesus began his ministry in Nazareth, by reading the following passage from the scroll of Isaiah and proclaiming, "today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing" (Luke 4:16)
The Spirit of Yahweh God is upon me, because Yahweh has anointed me to bring good tidings to the afflicted; he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound... (Isaiah 61:1-2)
The Anointed Ones
Unlike the shamanistic priests and kings of earlier generations, Jesus did not follow the strict Old Testament taboos that limited the holy cannabis oils use to Yahweh's chosen few (Exodus 30:33), but broke tradition and began to liberally use it in both healing and initiation rites.
Through this open distribution the singular Christ, "the Anointed", was extended to become the plural term "Christians", that is, those who had been smeared or anointed. "By rubbing on this divine unction. . . obtained from certain special herbs or plants, they believed they were donning the panoply of God."
As the New Testament's John explains:
. . . you have an anointing from the Holy One, and all of you know the truth. . . . the anointing you received from him remains in you, and you do not need anyone to teach you. But as his anointing teaches you about all things and as that anointing is real, not counterfeit - just as it has taught you, remain in him." (1 John 2: 27). L
L A similar claim was made about hashish by the medieval Sufi poet Fuzuli, who recorded in his treatise Bang and Wine, the story of Basra, a disciple whose sheik felt that he had reached the ultimate degree of perfection through the consumption of hashish, and that he was no longer in need of further guidance. This story led to Fuzuli's proclamation that "hashish is the perfect being. . . for the seeker of the mystical experience." In many ways the Sufi movement can be seen as the phoenix which rose from the ashes of the earlier Gnostics.
". . . the Christian, the 'smeared or anointed one', received 'knowledge of all things' by his 'anointing from the Holy One' (1 John 2: 20). Thereafter he had need of no other teacher and remained forevermore endowed with all knowledge.
"Whatever the full ingredients of the Christian unction may have been, they would certainly have included the aromatic gums and spices of the traditional Israelite anointing oil: myrrh, aromatic cane,M cinnamon, and cassia. . . Under certain enclosed conditions a mixture of these substances rubbed on the skin could produce the kind of intoxicating belief in self-omniscience referred to in the New Testament."N
M ie: Kaneh Bosm, documented as cannabis.
N This quote is from scholar John Allegro, whose work I drew from for this article. Allegro was a great scholar of both the bible and ancient languages, and his work broke a lot of ground. Allegro was also the only human secularist on the original team of scholars involved in the translation of the Dead Sea Scrolls, so he came to his views through more unbiased anthropological thinking than that of his more "faithful" co-researchers. In The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross, Allegro translated the kaneh-bosm reference in Exodus as "aromatic cane", and I have quoted him here on how the anointing oil "could produce a kind of intoxicating belief in self-omniscience." Yet Allegro failed to make the rightful connection with cannabis, seeing instead another plant drug at use, the amanita muscaria mushroom. His writings reveal he was extremely prejudiced against cannabis, even going so far with his etymological arguments as to suggest that the Greek term "kannabis" somehow referred to a mushroom. Allegro never smoked marijuana, but his own observations of what he referred to as "the 'pot'-smokers of today, the weary dotards who wander listlessly round our cities and universities," caused him to discount any possible use of cannabis as a means of achieving spiritual ecstasy.
The Incomplete Baptism
In the first few centuries AD, Christian Gnostic groups such as the Archontics, Valentians and Sethians rejected water baptism as superfluous, referring to it as an "incomplete baptism". In the tractate, the Testimony of Truth, water Baptism is rejected with a reference to the fact that Jesus baptized none of his disciples.
Being "anointed with unutterable anointing", the so-called "sealings" recorded in the Gnostic texts, can be seen as a very literal event. "There is water in water, there is fire in chrism." (Gospel of Philip).
"The anointing with oil was the introduction of the candidate into unfading bliss, thus becoming a Christ."
"The oil as a sign of the gift of the Spirit was quite natural within a semetic framework, and therefore the ceremony is probably very early. . . In time the biblical meaning became obscured."
The survivng Gnostic descriptions of the effects of the anointing rite make it very clear that the holy oil had intense psycho-active properties, which prepared the recipient for entrance into "unfading bliss". In some Gnostic texts like the Pistis Sophia and the Books of Jeu, the "spiritual ointment" is a prerequisite for entry into the highest mystery.
In the Gospel of Philip it is written that the initiates of the empty rite of Baptism:
"go down into the water and come up without having received anything. . . The anointing (chrisma) is superior to baptism. For from the anointing we were called 'anointed ones' (Christians), not because of the baptism. And Christ also was [so] named because of the anointing, for the Father anointed the son, and the son anointed the apostles, and the apostles anointed us. [Therefore] he who has been anointed has the All. He has the resurrection, the light. . . the Holy Spirit. . . [If] one receives this unction, this person is no longer a Christian but a Christ."
Similarly, the Gospel of Truth records that Jesus specifically came into their midst so that he:
"might anoint them with the ointment. The ointment is the mercy of the Father. . . those whom he has anointed are the ones who have become perfect."
The apocryphal book, The Acts of Thomas, refers to the ointment's entheogenic effects as being specifically derived from a certain plant:
Holy oil, given us for sanctification, hidden mystery in which the cross was shown us, you are the unfolder of the hidden parts. You are the humiliator of stubborn deeds. You are the one who shows the hidden treasures. You are the plant of kindness. Let your power come by this [unction].
Gnostic Mysteries
The Gnostics had many levels of initiation, and the mysteries of these different grades were not written down like the more esoteric surviving texts were, but were given verbally at special ceremonies. Elements like the recipe of the obviously psychoactive holy oil were guarded with the closest secrecy, and were known only by the sect's most trusted initiates. This was a standard mystery school method, as "magic revealed is magic lost", and such secrets could only be entrusted to the group's most loyal members.
"Gnostic treatises did not reveal the whole matter. . . the final revelation was only communicated by word of mouth in the body, and by vision out of the body."
"It is certain that Gnostic texts even in cultic matters favour a metaphorical symbolic manner of speaking and. . . clearly avoided communicating precise details about their 'mysteries'."
In 130-200AD, the Catholic Church Father Irenaeus accused the Gnostics of initiating members with "secret sacraments". In his discussion of Gnostic texts which dealt with the anointing rite, he stated that they were written in an archaic manner, "to baffle even more those who are being initiated."
We can add to Ireneaus's comments that the Gnostics likely wrote in such a concealing fashion to "baffle" their persecutors, like Ireneus, whom they feared would find out the source behind the secret power of their anointing oil.
Mysteries of the Faith
Such a hidden reference to other psychoactive plants can be seen in "the mystery of the five trees", which were used by Jesus in complicated shamanistic initiation rituals. They are described in what is possibly the oldest Christian text in existence O, The Gospel of Thomas:
"...there are five trees for you in Paradise... Whoever becomes acquainted with them will not experience death."
O The Gospel of Thomas has an estimated date of composition as early as 40-100 AD, and likely predates the earliest New Testament Gospel, Mark, which is thought to have been written around 60 AD.
In the Gnostic view, "not experiencing death" meant reaching a certain state of interior purification or enlightenment, at which point the initiate would "rise from the dead" and "never grew old and became immortal." That is to say, he rose from ignorance and blindness, gained possession of the unbroken consciousness of his spiritual ego, and as such realized that he was a part of a larger Cosmic whole, which continued on long after the disappearance of the material body. Jesus referred to attaining this "higher" state of consciousness, as "entering the kingdom of heaven".
The attainment of this Gnostic state can be compared to the goal of yoga, (which itself means "union"), where the successful devotee obtains "a radical switch in consciousness obliterating the sense of individuation."
As with the similar goal of yoga union, the "kingdom of heaven" state was not attained instantaneously, but required years of vigorous training. Like certain older branches of yoga, a variety of psychoactive plants were used as aids to facilitate the devotee in attaining this "higher" state.
Although the Gnostic give us some detailed descriptions of these esoteric Christian teachings, it is interesting to note that they are also alluded to in New Testament accounts by Jesus himself:
"To you has been given the secret of the Kingdom of God, but for those outside everything is in parables: so that they may indeed see but not perceive, and may indeed hear but not understand. . . " (Mark 4:11)
The Treasure of Light and the Mystery of the Five Trees
At the turn of the present century Professor GRS Mead summarized a German translation of a surviving Gnostic text, the "Second Book of Ieou". P The text describes Jesus bidding male and female disciples to join him so that he can reveal to them the great mystery of the Treasure of Light.
P One of the few that managed to survive the Catholic Church's editorial flames, without being hidden with the Nag Hamadi codexes.
In order to accomplish this, the candidates have to be initiated by three Baptisms: The Baptism of Water, the Baptism of Fire, and the Baptism of the Holy Spirit, "and thereafter the Mystery of the Spiritual Chrism [anointing]."
Jesus tells his followers that the master-mysteries of the Treasure of Light are involved with the mystery of the Five Trees, which may mean having knowledge of the magical plants that were used in the ceremony.
All of these mysteries Jesus promises to give to His disciples, that they may be called "Children of the Fullness (Pleroma) perfected in all mysteries." The Master then gathers His disciples, and sets forth a place of offering, placing one wine-jar on the right and on the left, and strews certain berries and spices round the vessels; He then puts a certain plant in their mouths, and another plant in their hands, and ranges them in order round the sacrifice.
Continuing with the ritual, Jesus gives the disciples cups, along with other articles, and seals their foreheads with a magical diagram. Then, like shamanistic and magical ceremonies the world over, he turns his disciples to the four corners of the world, with their feet together in an attitude of prayer, and then offers a prayer which is prefixed with an invocation, and continues with a number of purifications and into the Baptism of Fire.
In this rite vine-branches are used; they are strewn with various materials of incense. The Eucharist is prepared...
The prayer [this time, is to] the Virgin of Light. . . Q the judge; she it is who gives the Water of the Baptism of Fire. A wonder is asked for in "the fire of this fragrant incense", and it is brought about by the agency of Zorokothora.R What the nature of the wonder was, is not stated. Jesus baptizes the disciples, gives them of the eucharistic sacrifice, and seals their foreheads with the seal of the Virgin of Light.
Q This offering of "fragrant-incense" to the Virgin of Light is reminiscent of the Old Testament offerings of kaneh-bosm incense to the Queen of Heaven (1 Kings 3:3). The Goddess played a paramount role in Gnostic theology.
R The title Zorokothora is likely derived from Zoroaster, an ancient Persian prophet-shaman. Centuries before the Christian age the Zoroastrian Magi were known for their use of "bhanga" (cannabis), as well as a primordial entheogenic drink known as "haoma" or "soma", now widely identified as anamita muscaria, or fly agaric mushroom. The Zoroastrians had a great influence on Jewish culture during the years of Persian rule. The concept of heaven and hell (conspicuously absent from the Old Testament) is derived from Zoroastrianism. Jesus' apparent knowledge of Zoroaster, and Zoroastrian sacraments, hints that perhaps amanita was identified with the entheogenic "wonder" filled "five trees" which Jesus used in his shamanistic initiation ceremonies. One of the more significant and widespread Gnostic sects, the Manicheans, were known to use anamita mushrooms, and worshipped Jesus right alongside Zoroaster. The Manicheans survived into the twelfth century in parts of Europe and China, and performed ceremonies similar to the one which Jesus is described as presiding over.
Next follows the Baptism of the Holy Spirit. In this rite both the wine-jars and vine-branches are used. A wonder again takes place, but is not further specified. After this we have the Mystery of Withdrawing the Evil of the Rulers, which consists of an elaborate incense-offering.
The "wonder" in the incense which so perplexed Mead was presumably a reference to its undescribable psychoactive effects. It's also likely that the other undefined "wonder" indicates the magical properties of the different plants used in the ceremony.
It would seem to follow that the identity of the different plants, vines, and berries described in the excerpts were identified to the participants as the Mystery of the Five Trees.
At this time we can only speculate what other plants were used in the ceremony. The account of mandrake in Genesis 30: 14-16 and in Solomon's Song of Songs 7: 13, (which seems to indicate its addition to the holy anointing oil), clearly document the long term interest the Hebrews had with these seemingly magical plant angels.
That the use and knowledge of such plants could have been passed down by certain "heretical" branches of the faith such as the Gnostics seems self evident. The addition of such a powerful hallucinatory drug such as mandrake (or belladonna, which was also popular in the Middle East at that time) would help to explain some of the extreme experiences related to the holy anointings and baptisms described in the Gnostic literature. S
S Recipes for medieval witches' "flying ointments" contain cannabis, mandrake, belladonna and other entheogens, and the out-of-body experiences attributed to the Gnostics have many parallels with the Witches Sabat, as do aspects of their cosmology.
The Leaves of the Tree are for the Healing of the Nations
Cannabis is likely the most useful plant medicine in existence, and it has been used to treat a wide variety of ailments throughout history. Few readers will not be aware of the international fight taking place at this time, to get the sick and dying access to the amazing healing and curative powers of the cannabis plant's leaves and flowers.
As such, it should not be surprising to find that there are numerous references to the early Christians healing with the anointing oil, giving further indication that Jesus and his apostles had begun to freely dispense the sacred kaneh-bosm anointing oil, which had previously been under a strictly enforced prohibition, restricting its use to the Hebrew priests and kings.
Knowledge of cannabis' healing powers may account for some of Jesus' healing "miracles".T The Acts of Thomas specifically invokes the healing quality of the sacred plant into the holy oil: "You are the plant of kindness. Let your power come. . . and heal by this unction."
T Like other ancient historians, Biblical authors had a tendency to magnify historical events and make them appear miraculous. The earliest gospel is thought to have been recorded about 60 years after the crucifixion, and such a text cannot be regarded as an accurate, contemporary historical account. With time, imagination and fancy have a tendency to obscure memory. Yet it seems possible that many of the New Testament accounts could have at their basis logically explainable events, which became shortened and glorified into the unexplained miracles of the New Testament Gospels.
The Acts of Peter and the Twelve Apostles demonstrates Jesus' own view of the importance of this rite, when he gives the disciples an "unguent box" and a "pouch full of medicine" with instructions to go into the City of Habitation, and heal the sick. He tells them you must heal "the bodies first" before you can "heal the heart".
"Knowledge and healing were two aspects of the same life-force. If to be rubbed with the 'Holy Plant' was to receive divine knowledge, it was also to be cured of every sickness. James suggests that anyone of the Christian community who was sick should call to the elders to anoint him with oil in the name of Jesus The Twelve are sent out among their fellow-men casting out demons and anointing the sick with oil (Mark 6:13)."
At the time of Christ, no differentiation was made between medical treatment and exorcism or miracles, all three were interrelated. To cure someone of a disease or to relieve them of an injury was paramount to exorcising the tormenting spirit, or miraculously healing them.
Thus it is not so surprising to find that the anointing oil expelled demons and gave protection against them, correspondingly it cured and dispelled the "sickness" of the soul and body. Exorcism (literally "driving out") was performed by means of anointing. The ancient magical texts provide abundant evidence for this application of oil.3
The oldest New Testament Gospel, clearly verifies this use of the holy oil early on in Jesus' controversial ministry:
And they cast out many devils, and anointed with oil many that were sick, and healed them. (Mark 6:13)
cleanse the lepers
One of Jesus' most well known miracles is his healing of lepers, which appears in the first three New Testament Gospels. The term translated as leprosy can actually refer to any number of skin diseases, usually systemic infectious lesions or extreme allergic reactions.
Due to its topical anti-bacterial properties, cannabis has been used to treat a variety of skin diseases such as pruritis, also known as atopic dermatitis an inflammatory skin disorder. The symptoms of pruritis are severe itching, "and patches of inflamed skin, especially on the hands, face, neck legs, and genitals," a description that sounds startlingly similar to the skin disease described in Leviticus 13, called tsara'ath. It is usually translated in the Old Testament as leprosy, but has been noted by a number of scholars to be more likely a reference to a severe form of pruritis rather than true leprosy (Hansen's disease).
In relation to Jesus' curing of the lepers (Matthew 8,10,11 Mark 1, Luke 5,7,17), we could have an example of a disease expelled through the use of the cannabis "holy oil". Besides the anti-bacterial properties of cannabis oil, cannabis has been said to be effective in treating sufferers of Pruritis even when administered through smoking!
A 1960 study in Czechoslovakia concluded that "cannabidiociolic acid, a product of the unripe hemp plant, has bacteriocidal properties." The Czech researchers "found that cannabis extracts containing cannabidiolic acid produced impressive antibacterial effects on a number of micro-organisms, including strains of staphylococcus that resist penicillin and other antibiotics.U
U Evidence of cannabis ointment's topical healing abilities can also be seen in its use as a treatment for the modern "sexual leprosy" of herpes. Sufferers of cold sores and genital herpes have reported succesful treatments by soaking cannabis leaves and flowers in rubbing alcohol and then dabbing the greenish solution on the site of a potential herpetic sore outbreak. "They say it prevents blistering and makes sores disappear in a day or two."Direct contact with THC killed herpes virus in a 1990 research study at the University of South Florida.
"The Czech researchers successfully treated a variety of conditions, including ear infections, with cannabis lotions and ointments. Topical application of cannabis relieved pain and prevented infection in second-degree burns. . . "
heal the wounded
The Gnostic Gospel of Philip makes direct reference to how the holy oil "healed the wounds", and not suprisingly we find that cannabis was used in salves and ointments for burns and wounds throughout the middle-ages. Cannabis resin was also used for other topical applications, especially in relieving the pain of worn and crippled joints.
The Acts of Thomas specifically states "Thou holy oil given unto us for sanctification. . . thou art the straightener of the crooked limbs." This medicinal quality of cannabis oil could account for the miraculous healings of cripples attributed to Jesus and his disciples.
"Cannabis is a topical analgesic. Until 1937, virtually all corn plasters, muscle ointments, and [cystic] fibrosis poultices were made from or with cannabis extracts."
A common and effective home remedy for rheumatism in South America was to heat cannabis in water with alcohol, and rub the solution into the affected areas. In the middle of the 19th century Dr WB O'Shaughnessy claimed to have successfully treated rheumatism (along with other maladies), with "half grain doses of cannabis resin" given orally.
cast out demons
In the ancient world and up until medieval times, the disease now known as epilepsy was commonly considered to be demonic possession, and its victims were outcasts from society. Here again, we could have an explanation for events of demonic exorcism (as in Mark 5, Luke 8), and the demon's expulsion by the use of cannabis.
Dr Lester Grinspoon and other medical marijuana advocates have offered testimonials from modern epilepsy sufferers, who have noted the profound effects of natural marijuana in controlling their seizures. Dr Grinspoon also points to the positive results of cannabis and synthetic cannabidiol in the treatment of epilepsy obtained in a 1975 report, and again in a 1980 study which concluded "for some patients cannabidiol combined with standard antileptics may be useful in controlling seizures. Whether cannabidiol alone, in large doses, would be helpful is not known."
Other ailments of spasmodic muscular contractions such as Dystonias, which results in abnormal movements and postures, have been beneficially treated with the administration of cannabis.
Another of the miracles attributed to Jesus was the healing of a woman from chronic menstruation (Luke 8:43-48). Again we find that cannabis has been used for the treatment of such ailments, as the US Dispensary of 1854 listed cannabis extract as a remedy for "uterine hemorrhage", as well as other maladies. V
V "The complaints to which it has been specifically recommended are neuralgia, gout, tetanus, hydrophobia, epidemic cholera, convulsions, chorea, hysteria, mental depression, insanity." (US Dispensatory of 1854).
Although the Biblical story of Jesus' cure of the menstruating woman describes this event as a faith healing which results from the woman touching Jesus' robe, and him feeling the "power" go out from him, an actual remedy seems more likely. That such a medicinal remedy could be considered a miracle is not at all far-fetched.
Although far beyond the breadth or intent of this article to document, cannabis has also been used successfully to treat glaucoma, arthritis, depression and mood disorders, migraines and chronic pain.
Archaeological Evidence
In an earlier article the use of cannabis among the Jews prior to the Christian period was documented, and a recent archeological dig in Bet Shemesh near Jerusalem has confirmed that cannabis medicine was in use in the area up until the fourth century. Thus it would seem to stand to reason that it was used for these purposes throughout the intervening Christian period.
In the case of the Bet Shemesh dig, the cannabis had been used as an aid in child bearing, both as a healing balm and an inhalant. Scientists commenting on the find noted that cannabis was used as a medicine as early as the 16th century BC, in Egypt.
This find garnered some attention, as can be seen from the Associated Press article, "Hashish evidence is 1,600 years old", that appeared in Vancouver newspaper The Province, on June 2, 1992:
Archaeologists have found hard evidence that hashish was used as a medicine 1,600 years ago, the Israel Antiquities Authority said yesterday.
Archaeologists uncovered organic remains of a substance containing hashish, grasses and fruit on the abdominal area of a teenage female's skeleton that dates back to the fourth century, the antiquities authority said in a statement.
Anthropologist Joel Zias said that although researchers knew hashish had been used as a medicine, this is the first archeological evidence. (Associated Press 1992).
Although the idea that Jesus and his disciples used a healing cannabis ointment may seem far-fetched at first, when weighed against the popular alternative (one that is held by millions of believers) that Jesus performed his healing miracles magically, through the power invested in him by the omnipotent Lord of the Universe, the case for ancient accounts of medicinal cannabis seems a far more likely explanation.
Indeed, it was through the dawning of the Spirit, provided by the entheogenic and healing anointing oil, that the early followers of Jesus came to consider themselves Christians, or Anointed-Ones! Ironically, many modern day Christians zealously persecute marijuana culture, unaware that the name of their faith makes reference to a psychoactive topical ointment that was rich in cannabis.
FICTION: November 12, 2006
BY PONCHO FABULASH
Authors Introduction:
Smoking pot always turned me into a zombie. Pack-flick-rip. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I was gonna do my homework, I was gonna work out, I was even gonna call my mom. But I got high instead and listened to Bob Dylan all afternoon. I watched sixteen episodes of South Park. Pack-flick-rip. I ate four Snickers ice-cream bars before I fell victim to the old bong-water-in-my-coke-can trick and passed out on my futon for a three and half hour weed nap. This isn’t the exception, this is the rule. This was the way things have to be, because, well, I love smoking pot.
I deal, too. That’s why I can smoke so much. I couldn’t afford to buy weed every other day, so I struck up this deal with a friend and he eventually just gave me his connection. Ten simple numbers get to be pretty important when the guy on the other end of the phone needs to get rid of a pound every week. But sometimes, your regular dealer runs out or gets busted or just quits. It gets tough sometimes, so you have to branch out and find another guy for a month or so before you get another regular. This time was not regular.
The story:
It was a rainy night when we showed up at Bali’s Hookah Bar. We walked in and sat down. It smelled like weed. A waitress came over and asked us something. The minute she stared to speak, I forgot what she said, but I remembered why we were there. I told her that we needed to speak with Kahlil. She hesitated, peered at us through glazy eyes and said that he would be right out. I was getting hungry, so I asked her to bring something—anything!—from the kitchen. She smiled and said Bali’s always keeps something special for friends of Kahlil. I could smell the curry in her teeth. A few minutes later, a fat, young Arab man waddled out of the kitchen carrying a steaming bowl of what looked like grey chicken broth. He placed it on our table and handed each of us a spoon, keeping one for himself. Sitting down, he said, “Gentlemen, my name is Kahlil. What can I do for you?”
I’d never even been to a hookah bar in my life, let alone hash out a drug deal inside of one. I was shocked and I guess Kahlil picked up on that. He continued, “Don’t worry, my father owns this place, it’s safe.”
Jerry glanced at me across the table, then back at Kahlil. He cleared his throat and stammered, “You’re not like…a cop or anything, are you?”
Kahlil chuckled, but didn’t seem offended. “No, I’m not a cop. Let’s get down to business; I’m sure you’ve got a lot on your plate tonight, as I do.”
“Okay.” I wanted to get this over with and make it back to my place. I always felt uneasy every time I made a new deal with someone I didn’t know. I looked around at the empty hookah bar and decided that we would be okay. I kept going, “We need a pound, maybe more. Your nephew told me that you probably have a few different kinds. What kind of prices?” He listed a few names I recognized and reasonable prices, and then pulled out a bunch of plastic baggies with samples of a few of them. Jerry and I talked it over, and as we were about to make a choice, he pulled out another bag and said, “Oh, I almost forgot about this. This stuff is cheaper.”
We tilted our heads to the bag and asked him what it was. “Like I said, it’s cheaper, but it’s really weird. I haven’t even smoked it yet.” He paused and took a breath before he continued. He loved to gesture with his hands, criss-crossing them over his body every other word for emphasis. “All this other stuff I get from guys I know around here. But this stuff,” he said using two hands to point at the bag, “comes from across the ocean. My cousin in Turkey works for an international shipping company. He got sent to Annapolis a few weeks ago and brought over a duffel bag half full of it. He just gave it to me.”
I took the baggie from him. It looked like pretty standard weed, if not a little dry. But under the blue light of my cell phone I could see that it was covered in little white-pink crystals. It almost glowed in the dim room and I smelled it through the plastic. I was excited. I had never seen weed like this and I wanted it. I wanted as much as I could have.
I tried to maintain my composure and asked him how much he wanted for it. He stumbled over his words a little, but managed to spout out a number about as half as much as all the others. We matched eyes for a few seconds. I stared him down and could tell that he was keeping something from us. I wetted my lips and asked, “Why such a low price?”
“Well…I know this is going to sound stupid to you guys and I shouldn’t even say this but what the hell! You can decide for yourselves. My cousin told me this weed is under some kind of curse. He didn’t want it and all he said when he gave it to me was to be careful, because some witch doctor in Turkey did something to it. It’s crazy, but I dunno, I guess I still believe in that kind of stuff. I just don’t want to…it needs to…I just want to get rid of it.”
He looked embarrassed and stared at the ground waiting for our response. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This was hands-down the strangest drug transaction I’d ever been part of. I didn’t know what to say, but before I could even think, Jerry almost yelled, “We’ll take it. Two pounds.” He was really excited, smiling stupidly, broadly, shaking in his chair. They both looked at me, so I just nodded my head and shrugged my shoulders. It looked pretty sweet to me.
One and a half pounds were for me, the rest was for a dealer friend of mine, Tom. He doesn’t have a solid connection, so when I pick up sometimes, he asks me to pick up for him too. He lives pretty close to me, so on the way home, I stopped by his house and dropped off his stuff. He opened the door as soon as I rang the bell and started grinning when he saw who it was. I gave him the half and a bunch of his money back. He was shocked.
“Don’t look so surprised, Tommy. We got a deal tonight. It’s some dank shit, only half the price. Let me know what you think.”
He stood there speechless for several seconds. He looked down at the bag, then up at me, then at the bag again. His mouth was wide open. He replied in wonder, “I love you man. I seriously fucking love you. I feel like I’ve already broken even. This is the best night of my life. Pot and money.” I left him standing in the doorway and made my way back to the car.
We always wait to get home before we sample a new bag. I have a small apartment in a large complex a few blocks away from a big university. About half of my neighbors are college kids so I rarely have to leave my house to sell. I pulled into the spot next to my roommate’s car. His windows were all fogged up; he had fallen asleep in the drivers seat with a bowl in his hand. This wasn’t the first time this has happened. It wasn’t even the second. This happened a lot. I got out of my car and headed for the front door as I said, “Jerry, get Bobby’s ass the fuck up. He’s gonna want to see this.”
We keep the bong on a shelf in the family room. Most people have their furniture facing the T.V., but we have ours in a circle in the corner of the room surrounding a low table. I went upstairs and immediately took out a handful of weed and put it in a ziplock bag. I stashed the rest in a safe under my bed.
When I got back downstairs Jerry and Bobby were sitting on one of the couches. Bobby had the bong in his hand and Jerry was methodically flicking a lighter. They were staring at me, bright eyed and bushy tailed. They were ready to smoke. I tossed the bag to Bobby and said, “Let her rip, buddies.” We all smiled.
Bobby packed a bowl and handed me the bong. I held it up to my eyes and looked at the crystals for a few seconds.
Pack, flick, rip. It hit so hard. The smoke stung the back of my throat then zipped into my lungs. It burnt everything in its path and swam through my body like a shark at night. Sneaky. I would have coughed, but I was already so fucked up that I couldn’t remember how. A head rush. This was some killer weed.
I exhaled, carefully handed the bong back to Bobby and stumbled towards the kitchen for a glass of water. I was walking to the rhythm of music that only I could hear. I was smiling. I passed a mirror on the way and paused to look at myself. My face was pale. There were veiny little blood rivers all over my eyeball. I kept on touching my right cheek bone just to make sure it was there. I turned around and headed back for the couch, completely neglecting my water. I had only taken one hit and I was higher than I had been in years. This was going to be an awesome night.
I flopped onto the couch and smiled when I realized that one of them had put on some music. It was some band Bobby kept on trying to tell me about, but I didn’t care about the group or what city it was from. The music coming out of my speakers was the best thing I had ever heard. It sounded like there were a thousand layers of sound in every note. It was too complex to even try and understand, so I just sat there and let it fill me up. My toes were bouncing to the beat but the rest of my body was a statue. I only moved when someone passed me the bong, and then only my arms.
The night turned into a blur. The entire room moved around my motionless body. Every action but my own happened in super-speed, everything was faster than it should have been. I was confused and feeling nauseous, but then it hit me: Jerry and Bobby aren’t moving really fast, I’m just moving really slow. “I must look pretty funny to them,” I thought.
“Hey guys, lets smoke more weed.” It was the only thing I could think of and I guess it happened, because soon enough the bong was in my hand filled with more white-pink crystals. I smoked and then just opened my mouth as wide as I could, watching the thick, white, smoke billow out. I put the bong on the floor and slowly toppled over onto a pile of pillows. You know that feeling when you’re really drunk, and you know if you take another shot than you’re going to throw up? That happens with weed too, but when you take that shot, that hit, your entire brain just shuts down. It hurts, but differently than you’ve ever had any kind of pain. It makes you feel like your brain isn’t even there; just an empty, stoned skull where something can bounce around like a Superball on asphalt.
So I laid on the couch and thought about everything going on inside my head. I thought about t.v. shows and I thought about music. I thought about America and I thought about people. I thought about how much everybody dreams at night and that if everybody always remembered all of their dreams then what kind of world we would have. I thought about revolution. I thought about believing in something. I thought about writing a movie about me sitting at my desk writing a story. I thought I lost my mind. I thought about so many more things.
“Yo dudes, I got crazy drymouth. Who wants a glass of water?” It was Bobby and his question smacked me away from myself.
“Yea,” I answered, “I want some. Get me chips and shit too, I’m real hungry.”
“Yea,” Jerry droned from the corner, “I want some chips and a hot fudge sundae and like four or five slices of cantaloupe. And find something I can like munch on too.” He slowly closed his eyes and stopped talking. Bobby had left room before he even opened his mouth. I started laughing, and just like that, I forgot about everything. I needed to eat—that was all I could think.
I felt my stomach pang in emptiness, telling my brain to make me eat. I had the hunger but was too stoned to actually do anything about it—Jerry popped up from the couch and looked at me. He seemed lost, unsure of where he was. I was entranced. He continued to stare at me, and then slowly, but heavily said, “I kind of feel a little strange right now.” His words drooled all over the room. Seeping into the couches and chairs, they took shape in mid air, then slowly hovered to the floor. He was slightly swaying back and forth, but continued to slur, “I feel like I’m not really myself…but a different kind all together? No…more like I’m completely bare on the inside. I’m in more basic form.”
I had no fucking clue what he was talking about, but he could have told me the time and I wouldn’t have understood. I just sat back and laughed and said, “Yea man, I know it.”
I suddenly felt a slight buzz on my thigh; just the tiniest, littlest vibration moving a little part of my leg. I felt it twice more, then reached my hand under my leg, and pulled out my cell phone. It was flashing all kinds of colors and lights at me, but through the blurry fireworks display I could make out, “TOM”S CELL.” I picked it up, “What up…Tommy boy?”
“Hey buddy! I wanted to tell you that I already sold like a lot of that weed.” He was almost as high as I was, but coherent. “A bunch of guys from your building are throwing a party tonight, so they bought like two ounces from me. They wanted to buy from you, but just saw me first I guess.” I really didn’t care what he had to say. I was too high to even hear him. I answered, “Yea, cool Tom. Whatever. I’ll see you later.” I hung up the phone and threw it onto the floor.
It felt like a few hours, but Bobby returned with water and chips and bread and cookies and anything else that was in our fridge. We all silently sat up and crowded around the food in the middle of the table. Without speaking, we ate straight for what must have been an hour and a half. After a session like that, we usually just groan and fall asleep for a while. But we finished, and no one look satisfied. I broke the ice, “Man, I’m still really hungry you guys.”
“Yea, I could definitely eat some more,” Bobby said. “I want a burrito with a shit load of meat in it. And tons of cheese and peppers and guacamole and stuff.” He looked satisfied, “Yea, that’s it.”
“Nah man, fuck burritos, a burger, right now. No, a double cheeseburger, with bacon in my hands right now. I’d kill a man for that. I swear, I would.” Jerry was drooling all over his sweatshirt, but I had him beat. I said confidently, “Fuck burritos?! Fuck double cheeseburgers! I want a steak right now. A huge fucking steak really rare. And when you cut into it there’s just blood everywhere and it’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten. I’d kill a man for that right now.”
“Yea, that would be sweet dude.” Bobby agreed. Jerry just drooled more. I started laughing uncontrollably, but managed to squeeze out between breaths, “I’m gonna go in the kitchen…and see if we have any steaks to eat now.”
I rose on unsteady legs and walked into the hallway, leaving their laughter in the family room. The lights were off and I was in too much of a hurry to bother with the switch on the wall, so my only illumination came from the freezer. I ferociously dug through piles of frozen corn and peas. I shoved my hand into the back, scraping my fingernails on the ice. I reached around a pint of ice cream and felt a frozen hunk of something wrapped in plastic. I pulled it out. A huge t-bone steak left over from our bar-b-q a few weeks ago. A motherfucking goldmine.
I was too excited to grill it, and in a stoned frenzy I threw it into the microwave for fifteen minutes.
I sat down at a kitchen chair in the dark, listening to the drone of the microwave. The circular, waving drone of the plate spinning and the microwaves emitting…a microwave…a micro wave. Two words, one word. Micro…wave. Wave. One word. As sure as I heard the sound, I could now see the waves. Huge microwaves drifting through the air, gliding through me, pushing around energy in the kitchen. But within the microwaves, I felt another beat. It was stronger and more powerful. It was internal, the beat of my heart, the rhythm of my body. I could feel every thud. Every single movement of my ventricles altered me to the fact of my existence. My breath was shortened, my chest tightened. I felt my entire body moving as an independent, self-sustaining being—
But then, I felt something else. It was a primal click, even deeper than the heart beat. A solid, constant, ancient click coming from the very base of my skull. It was a primitive feeling, and for some reason, I could tell it wanted blood.
I smelled the steak before it was done. Meaty vapors running through the air, brushing by my nose every time they crossed the room. After a few more grueling minutes of anticipation, the microwave beeped. I opened it and grabbed the meat with my bare hands. I paused for second, then tore into with my whole face. It wasn’t nearly cooked thoroughly, so the warm blood ran down my chin. It was the most delicious thing I’d even eaten.
I carried it to the couches like you would an egg—with two hands in front of you. The second I stepped into the room, Bobby and Jerry immediately stood up in front of me. They saw the steak, looked at me, and then devoured it in a four bite freak show, eating it out of my hands. I cackled.
We stood silently, not making eye contact with each others blood covered faces. It was good, but we needed more. We were still hungry.
Bobby spoke first, lowering his voice and almost growling: “Hey guys, let’s go to the grocery store and buy some more steaks.” His eyes were so sunken that all I could really see were two dark shadows on his face. We all decided it was a good idea, but needed to smoke more before we left. Pack-flick-rip. One more bowl, just for the road.
We poured into the hallway fifteen minutes later, bloodstains and all. Bouncing against the walls, we almost made it to the first staircase without running into a sober neighbor. It was Ross, a college kid who lived a few doors down. He buys from me every now and then, but I wouldn’t call him a pot smoker. He was a pretty big guy, not that muscular. He looked meaty and thick. He called after us, “Hey Poncho, I was wondering if you’re selling right now.”
Click…click…click…
I turned around and said, “Yeahhhhhh man.” I was starving. The worst munchies I had ever had. I couldn’t think of anything but satisfying this craving. I needed something to fill my stomach. I looked over at Jerry and Bobby and could tell that they were feeling the same. Their eyes seemed even more sunken and their mouths were slightly open. They were breathing heavily.
“Uhhhh, guys?,” Ross brought us back from the trance, “Can we go to your place then?”
“Sure Ross.” We lumbered home.
By the time we got back inside my apartment, it felt like my stomach was caving in on itself. Nothing mattered except getting something to eat. I grabbed my gut with my right hand and edged over to a futon. I felt like I was going crazy.
Click…
Click…
Click…
Ross was confused. He glanced between Jerry, Bobby, and I and said, “Ummmm, maybe I should go. You guys don’t look so good. I was going to go upstairs to Nick’s party, I heard he has some weed—”
“No!” I shouted from the futon. “I just need to get something to eat, then I’ll be okay.”
I stood up and walked towards Ross, my eyes fixed on his. “I just need to get some food. We were gonna get some steaks to eat,” I said monotonously, trudging toward the uneasy boy. “I want some steaks!” He put up his arms to cover his face as we converged on him, crying, he pleaded, “What are you guys doing, stop!”
Across the room, I heard Bobby groan “Brai…n…s.”
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For some people, smoking is a weekend thing. For some people, it’s not a thing at all. For me, it’s the only thing. It dulls the world and rounds off all of the sharp edges so that you can ingest reality one piece at a time. Just zoned out space in front of your face. A hazy cloudy mess punctuated with adventures into the real world to buy more Doritos from the sober saps at Stop n Shop. Zombies.
Authors Introduction:
Smoking pot always turned me into a zombie. Pack-flick-rip. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I was gonna do my homework, I was gonna work out, I was even gonna call my mom. But I got high instead and listened to Bob Dylan all afternoon. I watched sixteen episodes of South Park. Pack-flick-rip. I ate four Snickers ice-cream bars before I fell victim to the old bong-water-in-my-coke-can trick and passed out on my futon for a three and half hour weed nap. This isn’t the exception, this is the rule. This was the way things have to be, because, well, I love smoking pot.
I deal, too. That’s why I can smoke so much. I couldn’t afford to buy weed every other day, so I struck up this deal with a friend and he eventually just gave me his connection. Ten simple numbers get to be pretty important when the guy on the other end of the phone needs to get rid of a pound every week. But sometimes, your regular dealer runs out or gets busted or just quits. It gets tough sometimes, so you have to branch out and find another guy for a month or so before you get another regular. This time was not regular.
The story:
It was a rainy night when we showed up at Bali’s Hookah Bar. We walked in and sat down. It smelled like weed. A waitress came over and asked us something. The minute she stared to speak, I forgot what she said, but I remembered why we were there. I told her that we needed to speak with Kahlil. She hesitated, peered at us through glazy eyes and said that he would be right out. I was getting hungry, so I asked her to bring something—anything!—from the kitchen. She smiled and said Bali’s always keeps something special for friends of Kahlil. I could smell the curry in her teeth. A few minutes later, a fat, young Arab man waddled out of the kitchen carrying a steaming bowl of what looked like grey chicken broth. He placed it on our table and handed each of us a spoon, keeping one for himself. Sitting down, he said, “Gentlemen, my name is Kahlil. What can I do for you?”
I’d never even been to a hookah bar in my life, let alone hash out a drug deal inside of one. I was shocked and I guess Kahlil picked up on that. He continued, “Don’t worry, my father owns this place, it’s safe.”
Jerry glanced at me across the table, then back at Kahlil. He cleared his throat and stammered, “You’re not like…a cop or anything, are you?”
Kahlil chuckled, but didn’t seem offended. “No, I’m not a cop. Let’s get down to business; I’m sure you’ve got a lot on your plate tonight, as I do.”
“Okay.” I wanted to get this over with and make it back to my place. I always felt uneasy every time I made a new deal with someone I didn’t know. I looked around at the empty hookah bar and decided that we would be okay. I kept going, “We need a pound, maybe more. Your nephew told me that you probably have a few different kinds. What kind of prices?” He listed a few names I recognized and reasonable prices, and then pulled out a bunch of plastic baggies with samples of a few of them. Jerry and I talked it over, and as we were about to make a choice, he pulled out another bag and said, “Oh, I almost forgot about this. This stuff is cheaper.”
We tilted our heads to the bag and asked him what it was. “Like I said, it’s cheaper, but it’s really weird. I haven’t even smoked it yet.” He paused and took a breath before he continued. He loved to gesture with his hands, criss-crossing them over his body every other word for emphasis. “All this other stuff I get from guys I know around here. But this stuff,” he said using two hands to point at the bag, “comes from across the ocean. My cousin in Turkey works for an international shipping company. He got sent to Annapolis a few weeks ago and brought over a duffel bag half full of it. He just gave it to me.”
I took the baggie from him. It looked like pretty standard weed, if not a little dry. But under the blue light of my cell phone I could see that it was covered in little white-pink crystals. It almost glowed in the dim room and I smelled it through the plastic. I was excited. I had never seen weed like this and I wanted it. I wanted as much as I could have.
I tried to maintain my composure and asked him how much he wanted for it. He stumbled over his words a little, but managed to spout out a number about as half as much as all the others. We matched eyes for a few seconds. I stared him down and could tell that he was keeping something from us. I wetted my lips and asked, “Why such a low price?”
“Well…I know this is going to sound stupid to you guys and I shouldn’t even say this but what the hell! You can decide for yourselves. My cousin told me this weed is under some kind of curse. He didn’t want it and all he said when he gave it to me was to be careful, because some witch doctor in Turkey did something to it. It’s crazy, but I dunno, I guess I still believe in that kind of stuff. I just don’t want to…it needs to…I just want to get rid of it.”
He looked embarrassed and stared at the ground waiting for our response. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This was hands-down the strangest drug transaction I’d ever been part of. I didn’t know what to say, but before I could even think, Jerry almost yelled, “We’ll take it. Two pounds.” He was really excited, smiling stupidly, broadly, shaking in his chair. They both looked at me, so I just nodded my head and shrugged my shoulders. It looked pretty sweet to me.
One and a half pounds were for me, the rest was for a dealer friend of mine, Tom. He doesn’t have a solid connection, so when I pick up sometimes, he asks me to pick up for him too. He lives pretty close to me, so on the way home, I stopped by his house and dropped off his stuff. He opened the door as soon as I rang the bell and started grinning when he saw who it was. I gave him the half and a bunch of his money back. He was shocked.
“Don’t look so surprised, Tommy. We got a deal tonight. It’s some dank shit, only half the price. Let me know what you think.”
He stood there speechless for several seconds. He looked down at the bag, then up at me, then at the bag again. His mouth was wide open. He replied in wonder, “I love you man. I seriously fucking love you. I feel like I’ve already broken even. This is the best night of my life. Pot and money.” I left him standing in the doorway and made my way back to the car.
We always wait to get home before we sample a new bag. I have a small apartment in a large complex a few blocks away from a big university. About half of my neighbors are college kids so I rarely have to leave my house to sell. I pulled into the spot next to my roommate’s car. His windows were all fogged up; he had fallen asleep in the drivers seat with a bowl in his hand. This wasn’t the first time this has happened. It wasn’t even the second. This happened a lot. I got out of my car and headed for the front door as I said, “Jerry, get Bobby’s ass the fuck up. He’s gonna want to see this.”
We keep the bong on a shelf in the family room. Most people have their furniture facing the T.V., but we have ours in a circle in the corner of the room surrounding a low table. I went upstairs and immediately took out a handful of weed and put it in a ziplock bag. I stashed the rest in a safe under my bed.
When I got back downstairs Jerry and Bobby were sitting on one of the couches. Bobby had the bong in his hand and Jerry was methodically flicking a lighter. They were staring at me, bright eyed and bushy tailed. They were ready to smoke. I tossed the bag to Bobby and said, “Let her rip, buddies.” We all smiled.
Bobby packed a bowl and handed me the bong. I held it up to my eyes and looked at the crystals for a few seconds.
Pack, flick, rip. It hit so hard. The smoke stung the back of my throat then zipped into my lungs. It burnt everything in its path and swam through my body like a shark at night. Sneaky. I would have coughed, but I was already so fucked up that I couldn’t remember how. A head rush. This was some killer weed.
I exhaled, carefully handed the bong back to Bobby and stumbled towards the kitchen for a glass of water. I was walking to the rhythm of music that only I could hear. I was smiling. I passed a mirror on the way and paused to look at myself. My face was pale. There were veiny little blood rivers all over my eyeball. I kept on touching my right cheek bone just to make sure it was there. I turned around and headed back for the couch, completely neglecting my water. I had only taken one hit and I was higher than I had been in years. This was going to be an awesome night.
I flopped onto the couch and smiled when I realized that one of them had put on some music. It was some band Bobby kept on trying to tell me about, but I didn’t care about the group or what city it was from. The music coming out of my speakers was the best thing I had ever heard. It sounded like there were a thousand layers of sound in every note. It was too complex to even try and understand, so I just sat there and let it fill me up. My toes were bouncing to the beat but the rest of my body was a statue. I only moved when someone passed me the bong, and then only my arms.
The night turned into a blur. The entire room moved around my motionless body. Every action but my own happened in super-speed, everything was faster than it should have been. I was confused and feeling nauseous, but then it hit me: Jerry and Bobby aren’t moving really fast, I’m just moving really slow. “I must look pretty funny to them,” I thought.
“Hey guys, lets smoke more weed.” It was the only thing I could think of and I guess it happened, because soon enough the bong was in my hand filled with more white-pink crystals. I smoked and then just opened my mouth as wide as I could, watching the thick, white, smoke billow out. I put the bong on the floor and slowly toppled over onto a pile of pillows. You know that feeling when you’re really drunk, and you know if you take another shot than you’re going to throw up? That happens with weed too, but when you take that shot, that hit, your entire brain just shuts down. It hurts, but differently than you’ve ever had any kind of pain. It makes you feel like your brain isn’t even there; just an empty, stoned skull where something can bounce around like a Superball on asphalt.
So I laid on the couch and thought about everything going on inside my head. I thought about t.v. shows and I thought about music. I thought about America and I thought about people. I thought about how much everybody dreams at night and that if everybody always remembered all of their dreams then what kind of world we would have. I thought about revolution. I thought about believing in something. I thought about writing a movie about me sitting at my desk writing a story. I thought I lost my mind. I thought about so many more things.
“Yo dudes, I got crazy drymouth. Who wants a glass of water?” It was Bobby and his question smacked me away from myself.
“Yea,” I answered, “I want some. Get me chips and shit too, I’m real hungry.”
“Yea,” Jerry droned from the corner, “I want some chips and a hot fudge sundae and like four or five slices of cantaloupe. And find something I can like munch on too.” He slowly closed his eyes and stopped talking. Bobby had left room before he even opened his mouth. I started laughing, and just like that, I forgot about everything. I needed to eat—that was all I could think.
I felt my stomach pang in emptiness, telling my brain to make me eat. I had the hunger but was too stoned to actually do anything about it—Jerry popped up from the couch and looked at me. He seemed lost, unsure of where he was. I was entranced. He continued to stare at me, and then slowly, but heavily said, “I kind of feel a little strange right now.” His words drooled all over the room. Seeping into the couches and chairs, they took shape in mid air, then slowly hovered to the floor. He was slightly swaying back and forth, but continued to slur, “I feel like I’m not really myself…but a different kind all together? No…more like I’m completely bare on the inside. I’m in more basic form.”
I had no fucking clue what he was talking about, but he could have told me the time and I wouldn’t have understood. I just sat back and laughed and said, “Yea man, I know it.”
I suddenly felt a slight buzz on my thigh; just the tiniest, littlest vibration moving a little part of my leg. I felt it twice more, then reached my hand under my leg, and pulled out my cell phone. It was flashing all kinds of colors and lights at me, but through the blurry fireworks display I could make out, “TOM”S CELL.” I picked it up, “What up…Tommy boy?”
“Hey buddy! I wanted to tell you that I already sold like a lot of that weed.” He was almost as high as I was, but coherent. “A bunch of guys from your building are throwing a party tonight, so they bought like two ounces from me. They wanted to buy from you, but just saw me first I guess.” I really didn’t care what he had to say. I was too high to even hear him. I answered, “Yea, cool Tom. Whatever. I’ll see you later.” I hung up the phone and threw it onto the floor.
It felt like a few hours, but Bobby returned with water and chips and bread and cookies and anything else that was in our fridge. We all silently sat up and crowded around the food in the middle of the table. Without speaking, we ate straight for what must have been an hour and a half. After a session like that, we usually just groan and fall asleep for a while. But we finished, and no one look satisfied. I broke the ice, “Man, I’m still really hungry you guys.”
“Yea, I could definitely eat some more,” Bobby said. “I want a burrito with a shit load of meat in it. And tons of cheese and peppers and guacamole and stuff.” He looked satisfied, “Yea, that’s it.”
“Nah man, fuck burritos, a burger, right now. No, a double cheeseburger, with bacon in my hands right now. I’d kill a man for that. I swear, I would.” Jerry was drooling all over his sweatshirt, but I had him beat. I said confidently, “Fuck burritos?! Fuck double cheeseburgers! I want a steak right now. A huge fucking steak really rare. And when you cut into it there’s just blood everywhere and it’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten. I’d kill a man for that right now.”
“Yea, that would be sweet dude.” Bobby agreed. Jerry just drooled more. I started laughing uncontrollably, but managed to squeeze out between breaths, “I’m gonna go in the kitchen…and see if we have any steaks to eat now.”
I rose on unsteady legs and walked into the hallway, leaving their laughter in the family room. The lights were off and I was in too much of a hurry to bother with the switch on the wall, so my only illumination came from the freezer. I ferociously dug through piles of frozen corn and peas. I shoved my hand into the back, scraping my fingernails on the ice. I reached around a pint of ice cream and felt a frozen hunk of something wrapped in plastic. I pulled it out. A huge t-bone steak left over from our bar-b-q a few weeks ago. A motherfucking goldmine.
I was too excited to grill it, and in a stoned frenzy I threw it into the microwave for fifteen minutes.
I sat down at a kitchen chair in the dark, listening to the drone of the microwave. The circular, waving drone of the plate spinning and the microwaves emitting…a microwave…a micro wave. Two words, one word. Micro…wave. Wave. One word. As sure as I heard the sound, I could now see the waves. Huge microwaves drifting through the air, gliding through me, pushing around energy in the kitchen. But within the microwaves, I felt another beat. It was stronger and more powerful. It was internal, the beat of my heart, the rhythm of my body. I could feel every thud. Every single movement of my ventricles altered me to the fact of my existence. My breath was shortened, my chest tightened. I felt my entire body moving as an independent, self-sustaining being—
But then, I felt something else. It was a primal click, even deeper than the heart beat. A solid, constant, ancient click coming from the very base of my skull. It was a primitive feeling, and for some reason, I could tell it wanted blood.
I smelled the steak before it was done. Meaty vapors running through the air, brushing by my nose every time they crossed the room. After a few more grueling minutes of anticipation, the microwave beeped. I opened it and grabbed the meat with my bare hands. I paused for second, then tore into with my whole face. It wasn’t nearly cooked thoroughly, so the warm blood ran down my chin. It was the most delicious thing I’d even eaten.
I carried it to the couches like you would an egg—with two hands in front of you. The second I stepped into the room, Bobby and Jerry immediately stood up in front of me. They saw the steak, looked at me, and then devoured it in a four bite freak show, eating it out of my hands. I cackled.
We stood silently, not making eye contact with each others blood covered faces. It was good, but we needed more. We were still hungry.
Bobby spoke first, lowering his voice and almost growling: “Hey guys, let’s go to the grocery store and buy some more steaks.” His eyes were so sunken that all I could really see were two dark shadows on his face. We all decided it was a good idea, but needed to smoke more before we left. Pack-flick-rip. One more bowl, just for the road.
We poured into the hallway fifteen minutes later, bloodstains and all. Bouncing against the walls, we almost made it to the first staircase without running into a sober neighbor. It was Ross, a college kid who lived a few doors down. He buys from me every now and then, but I wouldn’t call him a pot smoker. He was a pretty big guy, not that muscular. He looked meaty and thick. He called after us, “Hey Poncho, I was wondering if you’re selling right now.”
Click…click…click…
I turned around and said, “Yeahhhhhh man.” I was starving. The worst munchies I had ever had. I couldn’t think of anything but satisfying this craving. I needed something to fill my stomach. I looked over at Jerry and Bobby and could tell that they were feeling the same. Their eyes seemed even more sunken and their mouths were slightly open. They were breathing heavily.
“Uhhhh, guys?,” Ross brought us back from the trance, “Can we go to your place then?”
“Sure Ross.” We lumbered home.
By the time we got back inside my apartment, it felt like my stomach was caving in on itself. Nothing mattered except getting something to eat. I grabbed my gut with my right hand and edged over to a futon. I felt like I was going crazy.
Click…
Click…
Click…
Ross was confused. He glanced between Jerry, Bobby, and I and said, “Ummmm, maybe I should go. You guys don’t look so good. I was going to go upstairs to Nick’s party, I heard he has some weed—”
“No!” I shouted from the futon. “I just need to get something to eat, then I’ll be okay.”
I stood up and walked towards Ross, my eyes fixed on his. “I just need to get some food. We were gonna get some steaks to eat,” I said monotonously, trudging toward the uneasy boy. “I want some steaks!” He put up his arms to cover his face as we converged on him, crying, he pleaded, “What are you guys doing, stop!”
Across the room, I heard Bobby groan “Brai…n…s.”
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For some people, smoking is a weekend thing. For some people, it’s not a thing at all. For me, it’s the only thing. It dulls the world and rounds off all of the sharp edges so that you can ingest reality one piece at a time. Just zoned out space in front of your face. A hazy cloudy mess punctuated with adventures into the real world to buy more Doritos from the sober saps at Stop n Shop. Zombies.
FICTION: From the Rooftop of a Ruin, pt. 1, "It"
BY DENNIS SINNED
“You have a cloak;
you shall be our leader,
and this heap of ruins
shall be under your rule.”
Isaiah 3:6
Ricky Rivera never asks his mother permission to go play outside 63 TenEyck Street on warm summer days when school is out. He begs. He screams. He follows Ruth around the apartment, slaps his thighs, thumps his chest, jumps over furniture, wrenches open then slams shut the refrigerator door without so much as peeking inside. He speaks unkindly about her fashion sense, insults her cooking, shreds blank sheets of paper he loudly claims contain poems written for her. He pretends to hit her—risking una pela. He sticks his finger in every unguarded bowl of food or cup of water and petitions for justice from lo’ santos stationed around the house. Failing all else, he lifts his arms, falls on his knees, and implores God to strike her down or otherwise intercede. She relents with the caveat that he play “in the block”—within TenEyck Street’s four corners, between Leonard and Lorimer.
“However,” she leans towards Ricky, “The moment you turn any of those corners and decide you want to go roam the world, pause for just a second and remember that—eventually—I will find you. I will smash the stairs with my stomping feet racing down to get you. I will lift up every loose stone and brick, and peek under cars, to find you where you hide. I will stalk every neighborhood nook and cranny until all your friends tell you in school the next day how I visited them searching for you, banging on their doors with that crowbar I keep locked up in my bedroom closet—just for you. I will spot you from a distance before you notice. I’ll hide up in the bushes. I’ll camouflage, disappear into the walls. I’ll lunge at the last moment; strike from the shadows. Without warning, I’ll run right upside yo’ head. And I will, I promise you, brain damage your disobeyin’ ass ‘til you can’t read or write no more.”
Ruth sits up at the kitchen table where these negotiations always end. “Then I will drag you by the hair back home, laughin’ my ass off in front of everyone, including that little girl across the street—that’s right, Almita. And don’t think I don’t know about that big stack of undelivered love letters piling up behind your closet.” She draws closer, huffs on Ricky’s face. “I will make copies and send them to everyone on the block.”
She leans back on the groaning chair, flipping through one of the magazines stacked at the table. Ricky risks his chances by taking his eyes off her to stare at the clock above the stove, calculating the summer hours’ rapid dwindling. She sighs, pretends to read a page. “If you got any doubts about my willingness or ability, I suggest you remember those occasions where I have, in fact, slapped the taste right outta your mouth.”
Ricky ignores the mocking postponement of his manhood. “Ok. Gracia’ mommy, I love you. I’ll be back for dinner.”
She smiles and tousles his hair with a callused hand. “Be back for a bath before dinner. Way before. Who knows? I might have to burn your clothes. Don’t want your stinky lil’ ass contaminating the air, food and water.”
“Ok, mommy. We’re having chuletas tonight?” His eyes open. His smile widens. He rubs his shirt over his tummy. “Mmmmmm.”
She rushes to the door before it closes. “I love you, hijo. Be careful. I’ll watch you from the window.”
The door closes. He whispers back, “Of course.” He climbs down the stairs.
Bucktooth Felix, Fat Frankie, Cross-Eyes and Church Josie are already outside playing poison ball when Ricky charges out the front door. They stand in a circle in the middle of the street, each with his head down, staring at the radial they formed with their extended right feet. Ricky jumps down the front stoop in a single bound. He cries, “Not it!” Their heads perk up, and they happily greet him, “Sigh!”
Fat Frankie, Ten Eyck’s de facto master of ceremonies, quickly gets over his initial jubilation and stomps a few feet away, breaking the huddle. “You can’t do that! You can’t just call ‘not it.’ The game hasn’t even started yet. You gotta put your foot in.” He grows hysterical. “Nah, fuck that. I’m not gonna play if Sigh’s gonna start cheatin’ already, before the game even!” He crosses his arms with a wicked shoulder shrug that can only be performed with a child’s elasticity, and pouts.
Bucktooth Felix leans on a parked Mustang, refreshing his warm butt on its cool fender. “C’mon Sigh. We go through this shit everyday. Put your foot in, or we’re gonna have to hear his fuckin’ bitchin’ all day. You know how he is.”
Fat Frankie runs up close to Bucktooth Felix. “Fuck you, asshole!”
Bucktooth Felix shoves Fat Frankie, bares his teeth soaked in spittle. “Fuck you!”
Fat Frankie doesn’t budge even to wipe his face. “C’mon Sigh, can we just put our feet in?”
Sigh extends his right foot, plants it firmly on the ground. The others follow, each foot pointing towards Ricky’s. They enter poison ball, phase one: determining the first to be ‘it’ through eternal and simple puzzles and riddles even stupid adults can understand. When they were really young it was ‘guess a number between one and ten,’ but that soon gave way to the ever-controversial ‘enie, menie, mynie, mo.’ Eventually they graduated to ‘Odds and Evens.’ Of course, they never completely ceased practicing the classics. Every now and then someone suggests doing ‘one of the baby ones,’ for old times sake. However, over the past year older puzzles and riddles have by and large receded in favor of ‘There’s a Man In the Grass With a Bullet Up His Ass.’
Sigh sighs. “I don’t even know why we’re doing this. You know Felix is gonna be ‘it.’”
Errant spittle hurtles towards Sigh. “Fuck you! I defended you against Fat Frankie, fucking asshole!”
Sigh wipes his face. “Bucktooth muthufucka! Look some other way when you talk!”
Behind them they hear a squeak, worn brakes struggling on old tires, a short skid, a back tire bouncing off asphalt, gum loudly chewed, blown then popped, and the sucking of sharp teeth. Cross Eyes hears booing somewhere off in the heavens. Shake, formerly known as Thousand Shakes Angel, glowers at them. He leans onto his chrome dirtbike’s handlebars and whispers, “Whattup bitches?”
The gang lower their heads, and dejectedly mutter back, in unison, “Whattup Shake?”
They break the huddle, but don’t scatter. They stare at their toes, look up to the sky, pretend to observe everything but Shake, hoping he won’t discern their current intentions. In poison ball, whoever’s it at any given moment must launch his ‘it-ness’ with all his might at whoever’s not it, with a hard rubber ball that is purchased—usually by Fat Frankie—for twenty-five cents at Church Josie’s father’s bodega. It is widely suspected the ball is also used in games that other people play, but it is equally held that Church Josie’s father is secretly a bandido who occasionally knocks over military trucks and steals as much rubber hardware he can get his hands on while discarding the big metal guns because he can’t fit them in his five year old busted-ass jalopy Chevy Nova trunk. Whichever way, whatever’s looted gets booted at la Bodega en Nudo, where Church Josie’s father routinely conducted business wrapped in a towel in those early summers before he could afford an air-conditioner.
It doesn’t count if the ball first bounces off the ground before striking a player. It has to be a straight line of injurious nastiness hurled between whoever’s it and whoever’s not it. The muthufucka who really likes to get down will call “Heads only!” But Shake takes games to another level altogether. He deliberately and specifically aims for faces—forget heads—at brain-damaging velocities even when “Heads only!” hasn’t been called. It’s why he went from Thousand Shakes Angel to Shake in a shorter period than Sighin’ Ricky went to Sigh. He’s a real muthufucka. The gang long vowed never to play with him.
Shake looks at them. They look at Shake. They all observe each other observe themselves. Sweat accumulates. Throats clear. Cross Eyes coughs. Fat Frankie struggles to contain a fart. Shake sneers, “Were you guys about to get into a game?”
Bucktooth Felix, bigger than Shake but not as skillful or infamous, turns to answer. Sigh stretches out his arm and blocks him. The drenching sweat of Bucktooth Felix’s tongue could have dire consequences. Bucktooth Felix, anxious to graduate into any nickname other than the dreadful ‘Bucktooth,’ was aware of all the potentialities but the unanimity of his peers’ cautious position: Bucktooth Felix could, and likely would, get his big buckteeth knocked right the fuck out his big bucktooth mouth. Sigh does a slight jiggling strut, playing it cool. “Nah Shake. We juss’ chillin’. Whach’a doin’?”
Shake grins, baring sharp incisors flanking two shiny gold crowns. “I’m doin’ what I feels like doin’. Fuck it looks like? I’m riding my bike! Why you all up in my shit?”
Sigh nervously laughs. The others follow. He stammers, “Oh, right. Yea.”
The universe is deep and profound. The cosmos turns inexplicably. The sun rises and sets and no one really knows why. Some days one smiles at death incarnate and walks away with a busted lip or black eye, pants pulled down, shirt stolen right off the back in broad daylight. Today, however, out of character, Shake’s unusual taste for cruel public humiliation is quickly slaked. He goes on his way, peddlin’ his busted-ass ten year old bicycle held together by copious adhesive tape, disdaining to mutter anything more than a “Wack pussy bitches!” to be remembered by. He brakes at the corner, clumsily turns behind him, defiantly raises his fist, and says out loud in no small terms to any who can hear, something about returning someday. He turns the corner.
Somewhere off in the heavens, Cross Eyes hears a faint collective sigh, then faint and light applause.
Church Josie asks, “Does he even live on this block?”
Fat Frankie answers, “Who knows, who cares? Hurry up, put your foot in.”
They huddle again, stick their right feet in. Fat Frankie crouches, his rapid counterclockwise hand taps each foot to the syllabic chant of
There’s a man in the grass
with a bullet up his ass.
Stick it in, stick it out,
do you want to be a scout?
N-o spells no (or ‘y-e-s spells yes’)
And that’s why my mother told me
To pick this one.
Celebratory “alrights!” and “oh, snaps!” follow each disqualification. Fat Frankie taps his own foot and the possibilities whittle down to a certainty. Bucktooth Felix stands last.
The others quickly scatter, each calling out, “Bucktooth is First It!” Fat Frankie tosses him the poison ball and flees. First It vengefully returns the poison ball hissing towards the left cheek of Fat Frankie’s legendary buttocks. “Fat Frankie’s It!”
Fat Frankie straightens squealing, grabs his ass, grimaces heavenward, and spots the poison ball ricochet towards the sky. He wobbles chasing it down the block. “Fuck! I’m always the first to get It after being Not It!”
Somewhere indiscernible, behind a window on the block, a finger rakes a turntable needle on high-powered speakers. A crackling hiss like eggs being fried in heaven follows. Sigh skips, shouts, “Pause muthufuckas, pause.” The boys freeze in their tracks. The gang crane to and fro across the multitude of windows above them, seeking MC Invisible. Frenzied, they whisper guesses on DJ Unknown’s upcoming selection. The intro to Gran Combo’s “Tú Me Hiciste Brujeria” swells over the block.
A gravelly old but earnest voice calls out from behind a window, “Weeeeeeepa!” The scattered drug dealers palm their products to dance in place. The celebration of sadness and the sadness of celebration stirs all hearts, lifts arms, spins heels, shakes hips, coolly nods heads and twists necks.
Que me habra echado esa chica
que me tiene arrebatado
que me tiene medio loco
que ya estoy enamorado
quizas seran sus ojitos
o tal vez su caminao
o quizas esas cositas que nunca se me ha dado
Distant voices swell behind open windows and parted curtains. The men sing,
Que tu me tienes temblando de noche y de dia
And the women,
tu me hiciste brujeria
The pavement rhythmically cracks. The ground rumbles with each collective stomp, and la memoria de la gente dances like the palpitating heartbeat of God buried alive.
Me quiere mandar para la tumba fria (tu me hiciste brujeria)
Brrrrrrrruuuuuja, bruuuuuja, brujita (tu me hiciste brujeria)
Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu, demonio (tu me hiciste brujeria)
Me echaste, no se que en la comida (tu me hiciste brujeria)
Siento una cosa fria (tu me hiciste brujeria)
Que baja por aqui se sube por alla si (tu me hiciste brujeria)
Y vuelve toda esa brujeria (tu me hiciste brujeria)
The gang gyrate their hips, puff their chests and cheeks, and swing their arms sans cohesion or pattern, pantomiming more a scuba-diving disaster than an actual dance. Ricky calls,
Me quiere mandar para la chocha fria
And the gang responds,
Tu me hiciste puteria!
And the little reckless ones sing along,
Puuuuuuuuuta, puuuuuta, putita (tu me hiciste puteria)
Puuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu, cabrona (tu me hiciste puteria)
Me echaste, no se que en la camita (tu me hiciste puteria)
Siento una chocha fria (tu me hiciste puteria)
Que baja por las bollas se sube pa’ tragar si (tu me hiciste puteria)
Y vuelve toda esa puteria (tu me hiciste puteria)
Several voices hidden behind windows and parted curtains break off singing to laugh. Even the drug dealers, scattered along the four corners, relax their criminal scowls.
Thunder. “Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiicky!”
The turntable needle scratches. The music abruptly ends. The Ineffable MC groans in the distance. The hidden singers continue a cappella for a split-second more, ending in groans and awkwardly muttered syllables. The drug dealers stop dancing and return to business, earnestly hawking their wares, beckoning potential victims passing by. The gravelly old but earnest voice whispers, “¡Ay dios! ¿Vamos pa’ la mierda otra ve’?” The gang slowly turns and spiral their glances upward 63 TenEyck Street’s eight floors. They—and half the neighbors—freeze upon seeing Ruth Rivera. She leans out the window atop the tallest building on the block. Her locked arms rest on the windowsill. Her long black hair—Church Josie calls it ‘the cape’—flutters in the wind like an errant angel’s magnificent wings chained to the invisible will of something entirely more powerful. Lightning flashes above, syncing to her words. Felix snottily whispers, “She sounds like an ambulance siren.” Ricky is too afraid to move to slap him.
The wind blows downward from Ruth to Ricky. Her furious eyes peek out from behind her menacingly undulating hair. “Ricky, what were you saying? ¿‘Decía malas palabra’?”
Ricky fidgets. “No mommy! Of course not.”
“Are you lying to me?”
“No mommy! I’m not lying. Of course I’m not lying. I’m not cursing. I didn’t say no bad words. I’m just playing poison ball. Can’t I just play poison ball? Why can’t I just play poison ball? Why do I always get blamed for something? Why am I getting punished for something I didn’t do?”
“Oh, reeeeeeeeeeally, Riiiiiiiiiicky?”
Felix leans towards Ricky, “She thinks she’s Queen Mother of the Block, or somethin’!”
“Stop talking about my mommy like that, bucktooth muthufucka!”
A thousand-fold ambulance siren almost cracks the firmament separating the Earth from the heavens. “Riiiiiiiiiiickyyyyyy!” Windows shutter. A car alarm goes off. The gang cowers, shield their heads. Ricky instinctively prostrates. “Ricky! What do we say?”
Ricky looks to his friends for moral support. The Queen Mother of the Block sighs, laments the unsuccessful years of hard rearing with intermittent near-coma inducing beatings that had yet to breed instant and favorable responses from her son.
“Aw, c’mon, mommy!”
“Say it.”
“Mommy, please!”
“Say it!”
Ricky’s head droops back. He closes his eyes, and whispers, “Thank you God for delighting me along my path.”
Someone chuckles from a nearby window.
The Queen Mother of the Block stands straight behind the windowsill, her head almost bumping the lifted windowpane. “What? I can’t hear you.”
Ricky’s head droops forward. “Thank you God for delighting me along my path.”
The windows shake with laughter.
Lightning flashes. “Out loud, pendejito!”
The windows across the block almost dislodge from their cheap wooden panes. Garbage cans rattle. Dogs howl in the distance. Far away ambulance sirens swell into barely audible levels, then quickly recede into the normal buzz of things.
“THANK YOU GOD FOR DELIGHTING ME ALONG MY PATH!”
Raucous laughter swells from behind windows. The gang cackles at Ricky under the gaze of the Queen Mother of the Block. She points at them, electric sparks crackling under her fingernail. The wind’s direction suddenly shifts, swirling around the gang. She warns, “Funny, ha? I’ll make you say it, too!”
Everyone recoils, turns from her glare and shuts the fuck up. The wind pushes litter along the curb. A sad and faint whistle blows in the distance. They watch Ricky cautiously look up, then they all straighten and look. The cheap curtains of apartment 8L flutter in the open window.
Church Josie spins on them, “Stop sayin’ bad words so loud. If my mother hears or finds out, she’ll make me go to church on Sunday.”
Fat Frankie, “She makes you go anyway.”
Cross Eyes observes someone approach from the block’s northeastern corner. Silently, he raises his finger towards the purple-haired being.
Bucktooth Felix follows Cross Eyes’ raised finger, gulps, then spits out, “Oh, shit! Look!”
The gang step onto the sidewalk to better look at the young explorer with red glistening eyes. He treks confidently over the cracked pavement and blasted curb. He observes everything around him with amazement and wonder. He briefly pauses to analyze an open trashcan’s contents. The strip of hair comprising his flaccid mohawk alternates bouncing off the left and right sides of his face with his every stride. Bleach stains pattern his tight blue Levi’s like clouds on a denim sky. His jeans end in cuffs slightly above his burgundy ten-eyelet Doc Marten boots, white laces squeezing them tight onto his ankles like sullied surgical stitches. Shirtless, he sweats under an ornately studded black leather motorcycle jacket. His chest is heavily tattooed. His jacket is densely decorated with various band names, separated by various anarchy symbols and slogans. The gang hones in on one thick-lettered phrase, “I COULD GIVE A FUCK ABOUT PATTI SMITH’S SINS.” Eyes wide, mouths open, the gang gawks at him. Bucktooth Felix wipes his chin.
The drug dealers momentarily suspend their petty but despicable rivalries. They quickly huddle at the block’s south end. Occasionally, a head pops up to check the status of the white man’s approach whenever comments are punctuated. One breaks the huddle to retrieve something in a nearby car. The neighbors, having stepped outside for a smoke and chat or to feel the sun, retreat back inside. Men are rustled out of bed. Women check on their children. Faces emerge from behind curtains, peek out windows.
Ricky looks straight up and spots wayward locks of black hair lilting in the breeze. “Mommy?”
Ruth pops her head out. “¿Qué?”
The young white man passes Ricky.
“Mira, mommy. ¡Un blanco!”
She gnashes her teeth and squints her eyes, but rumbles barely louder than a stomach growl. “¡Cayate pendejo! ¡Que no te oyes!”
The punk almost stumbles as he turns to Ricky, unable to mask his American accent, “Si, soy blanco, pero tambien soy amigo.” He smiles. His teeth are perfect but dirty. Ricky smiles back. The punk slows to look up at Ruth. He smiles again.
A fog rolls in, swallowing the children, trash cans, parked cars, street, front stoops and doors to tenements. Ruth nervously smiles. “Perdon, mister. My son habla mas than he should, you know?”
“No se preocupe, señora.” He grabs his leather jacket’s lapels. “Hací son los niños.” He laughs, salutes her and Ricky and continues walking. He passes the amassed drug dealers quietly and intensely observing him. He turns the corner.
Suddenly, nearly incoherent with rage, “¡Aaaaaahhhhh! ¡Por favor, Dios! ¡Aaaaahhhh!” A fully clothed, filthy, gold-skinned, foul smelling full-grown man climbs out a broken window slightly above the surface of the fog at the abandoned 72 TenEyck Street building. Panadin scatters the fog as he lands on the ground with outstretched arms and howls again.
One of the drug dealers turns towards him. “Ah, solid. Thanks Panadin. Just what we needed. Thanks for showin’ up now.”
Panadin runs up close to the drug dealer, nearly kissing him. “¡Aahhh! ¡Por favor, Dios! ¡Aaahhh!”
The other drug dealers scatter, laughing. The offended dealer trips trying to strut away. “Damn! Dirtbomb muthufucka! Go take a bath, get a job, get a woman, get a home, get a life!”
Panadin continues howling, receiving no further challenges.
The fog completely recedes. The woken men go back to sleep, and the women go about their business. Neighbors go back outside to smoke and chat.
“¡Sube arriba!”
Ricky strategizes avoiding subiendo. He could beg. He could scream. He could raise his arms to the gathering clouds above and implore having Ruth struck down.
“Why, mommy?”
“¡Almuerzo!”
“But I just came downstairs. How can it be lunchtime already?”
She glares at him.
“But mommy, if I go upstairs, then the guys will go around the corner to play, and when I come back downstairs, they’ll be gone. I’ll have no one to play with. It’ll be just me, and Panadín.”
Panadin turns towards his name. He stares at Ricky, then looks up at Ruth. Ricky imagines their eyes shooting laser beams that nullify in cataclysm above him. He considers taking shelter under the awning of Church Josie’s father’s bodega, underneath where it says “Finest Puerto Rican and American Goods For Sale.” Ruth and Panadin break off contact, rolling their eyes in mutual contempt.
“I don’t care if they go play around the corner. You’re comin’ upstairs right now to eat lunch.” She withdraws from the window, her undulating black hair snapping as it follows behind.
Sigh turns to the gang, “You guys are gonna stay outside, right? I’ll be back in a few minutes, I swear.”
They nod their heads and Church Josie lies, “Sure, Sigh. We’ll wait for you.”
Sigh goes back upstairs.
Returning to business off in the distance, DJ Inscrutable puts Bad Brains’ “Pay to Cum” on the turntable. Ricky hears it from the stairway inside,
I make decision with precision lost inside this manned collision
Just to see that what is to be perfectly my fantasy
I came to know with now dismay that in this world we all must pay
Pay to write, pay to play
Pay to cum, pay to fight
And all in time, with just our minds, we soon will find what's left behind
Not long ago when things were slow we all got by with what we know
The end is near. Hearts filled with fear. Don't want to listen to what they hear
And so it's now we choose to fight to stick up for our bloody right
The right to sing. The right to dance. The right is ours... We'll take the chance
A peace together, a piece apart.
A piece of wisdom from our hearts
The song ends when Ricky reaches his door.
“You have a cloak;
you shall be our leader,
and this heap of ruins
shall be under your rule.”
Isaiah 3:6
Ricky Rivera never asks his mother permission to go play outside 63 TenEyck Street on warm summer days when school is out. He begs. He screams. He follows Ruth around the apartment, slaps his thighs, thumps his chest, jumps over furniture, wrenches open then slams shut the refrigerator door without so much as peeking inside. He speaks unkindly about her fashion sense, insults her cooking, shreds blank sheets of paper he loudly claims contain poems written for her. He pretends to hit her—risking una pela. He sticks his finger in every unguarded bowl of food or cup of water and petitions for justice from lo’ santos stationed around the house. Failing all else, he lifts his arms, falls on his knees, and implores God to strike her down or otherwise intercede. She relents with the caveat that he play “in the block”—within TenEyck Street’s four corners, between Leonard and Lorimer.
“However,” she leans towards Ricky, “The moment you turn any of those corners and decide you want to go roam the world, pause for just a second and remember that—eventually—I will find you. I will smash the stairs with my stomping feet racing down to get you. I will lift up every loose stone and brick, and peek under cars, to find you where you hide. I will stalk every neighborhood nook and cranny until all your friends tell you in school the next day how I visited them searching for you, banging on their doors with that crowbar I keep locked up in my bedroom closet—just for you. I will spot you from a distance before you notice. I’ll hide up in the bushes. I’ll camouflage, disappear into the walls. I’ll lunge at the last moment; strike from the shadows. Without warning, I’ll run right upside yo’ head. And I will, I promise you, brain damage your disobeyin’ ass ‘til you can’t read or write no more.”
Ruth sits up at the kitchen table where these negotiations always end. “Then I will drag you by the hair back home, laughin’ my ass off in front of everyone, including that little girl across the street—that’s right, Almita. And don’t think I don’t know about that big stack of undelivered love letters piling up behind your closet.” She draws closer, huffs on Ricky’s face. “I will make copies and send them to everyone on the block.”
She leans back on the groaning chair, flipping through one of the magazines stacked at the table. Ricky risks his chances by taking his eyes off her to stare at the clock above the stove, calculating the summer hours’ rapid dwindling. She sighs, pretends to read a page. “If you got any doubts about my willingness or ability, I suggest you remember those occasions where I have, in fact, slapped the taste right outta your mouth.”
Ricky ignores the mocking postponement of his manhood. “Ok. Gracia’ mommy, I love you. I’ll be back for dinner.”
She smiles and tousles his hair with a callused hand. “Be back for a bath before dinner. Way before. Who knows? I might have to burn your clothes. Don’t want your stinky lil’ ass contaminating the air, food and water.”
“Ok, mommy. We’re having chuletas tonight?” His eyes open. His smile widens. He rubs his shirt over his tummy. “Mmmmmm.”
She rushes to the door before it closes. “I love you, hijo. Be careful. I’ll watch you from the window.”
The door closes. He whispers back, “Of course.” He climbs down the stairs.
Bucktooth Felix, Fat Frankie, Cross-Eyes and Church Josie are already outside playing poison ball when Ricky charges out the front door. They stand in a circle in the middle of the street, each with his head down, staring at the radial they formed with their extended right feet. Ricky jumps down the front stoop in a single bound. He cries, “Not it!” Their heads perk up, and they happily greet him, “Sigh!”
Fat Frankie, Ten Eyck’s de facto master of ceremonies, quickly gets over his initial jubilation and stomps a few feet away, breaking the huddle. “You can’t do that! You can’t just call ‘not it.’ The game hasn’t even started yet. You gotta put your foot in.” He grows hysterical. “Nah, fuck that. I’m not gonna play if Sigh’s gonna start cheatin’ already, before the game even!” He crosses his arms with a wicked shoulder shrug that can only be performed with a child’s elasticity, and pouts.
Bucktooth Felix leans on a parked Mustang, refreshing his warm butt on its cool fender. “C’mon Sigh. We go through this shit everyday. Put your foot in, or we’re gonna have to hear his fuckin’ bitchin’ all day. You know how he is.”
Fat Frankie runs up close to Bucktooth Felix. “Fuck you, asshole!”
Bucktooth Felix shoves Fat Frankie, bares his teeth soaked in spittle. “Fuck you!”
Fat Frankie doesn’t budge even to wipe his face. “C’mon Sigh, can we just put our feet in?”
Sigh extends his right foot, plants it firmly on the ground. The others follow, each foot pointing towards Ricky’s. They enter poison ball, phase one: determining the first to be ‘it’ through eternal and simple puzzles and riddles even stupid adults can understand. When they were really young it was ‘guess a number between one and ten,’ but that soon gave way to the ever-controversial ‘enie, menie, mynie, mo.’ Eventually they graduated to ‘Odds and Evens.’ Of course, they never completely ceased practicing the classics. Every now and then someone suggests doing ‘one of the baby ones,’ for old times sake. However, over the past year older puzzles and riddles have by and large receded in favor of ‘There’s a Man In the Grass With a Bullet Up His Ass.’
Sigh sighs. “I don’t even know why we’re doing this. You know Felix is gonna be ‘it.’”
Errant spittle hurtles towards Sigh. “Fuck you! I defended you against Fat Frankie, fucking asshole!”
Sigh wipes his face. “Bucktooth muthufucka! Look some other way when you talk!”
Behind them they hear a squeak, worn brakes struggling on old tires, a short skid, a back tire bouncing off asphalt, gum loudly chewed, blown then popped, and the sucking of sharp teeth. Cross Eyes hears booing somewhere off in the heavens. Shake, formerly known as Thousand Shakes Angel, glowers at them. He leans onto his chrome dirtbike’s handlebars and whispers, “Whattup bitches?”
The gang lower their heads, and dejectedly mutter back, in unison, “Whattup Shake?”
They break the huddle, but don’t scatter. They stare at their toes, look up to the sky, pretend to observe everything but Shake, hoping he won’t discern their current intentions. In poison ball, whoever’s it at any given moment must launch his ‘it-ness’ with all his might at whoever’s not it, with a hard rubber ball that is purchased—usually by Fat Frankie—for twenty-five cents at Church Josie’s father’s bodega. It is widely suspected the ball is also used in games that other people play, but it is equally held that Church Josie’s father is secretly a bandido who occasionally knocks over military trucks and steals as much rubber hardware he can get his hands on while discarding the big metal guns because he can’t fit them in his five year old busted-ass jalopy Chevy Nova trunk. Whichever way, whatever’s looted gets booted at la Bodega en Nudo, where Church Josie’s father routinely conducted business wrapped in a towel in those early summers before he could afford an air-conditioner.
It doesn’t count if the ball first bounces off the ground before striking a player. It has to be a straight line of injurious nastiness hurled between whoever’s it and whoever’s not it. The muthufucka who really likes to get down will call “Heads only!” But Shake takes games to another level altogether. He deliberately and specifically aims for faces—forget heads—at brain-damaging velocities even when “Heads only!” hasn’t been called. It’s why he went from Thousand Shakes Angel to Shake in a shorter period than Sighin’ Ricky went to Sigh. He’s a real muthufucka. The gang long vowed never to play with him.
Shake looks at them. They look at Shake. They all observe each other observe themselves. Sweat accumulates. Throats clear. Cross Eyes coughs. Fat Frankie struggles to contain a fart. Shake sneers, “Were you guys about to get into a game?”
Bucktooth Felix, bigger than Shake but not as skillful or infamous, turns to answer. Sigh stretches out his arm and blocks him. The drenching sweat of Bucktooth Felix’s tongue could have dire consequences. Bucktooth Felix, anxious to graduate into any nickname other than the dreadful ‘Bucktooth,’ was aware of all the potentialities but the unanimity of his peers’ cautious position: Bucktooth Felix could, and likely would, get his big buckteeth knocked right the fuck out his big bucktooth mouth. Sigh does a slight jiggling strut, playing it cool. “Nah Shake. We juss’ chillin’. Whach’a doin’?”
Shake grins, baring sharp incisors flanking two shiny gold crowns. “I’m doin’ what I feels like doin’. Fuck it looks like? I’m riding my bike! Why you all up in my shit?”
Sigh nervously laughs. The others follow. He stammers, “Oh, right. Yea.”
The universe is deep and profound. The cosmos turns inexplicably. The sun rises and sets and no one really knows why. Some days one smiles at death incarnate and walks away with a busted lip or black eye, pants pulled down, shirt stolen right off the back in broad daylight. Today, however, out of character, Shake’s unusual taste for cruel public humiliation is quickly slaked. He goes on his way, peddlin’ his busted-ass ten year old bicycle held together by copious adhesive tape, disdaining to mutter anything more than a “Wack pussy bitches!” to be remembered by. He brakes at the corner, clumsily turns behind him, defiantly raises his fist, and says out loud in no small terms to any who can hear, something about returning someday. He turns the corner.
Somewhere off in the heavens, Cross Eyes hears a faint collective sigh, then faint and light applause.
Church Josie asks, “Does he even live on this block?”
Fat Frankie answers, “Who knows, who cares? Hurry up, put your foot in.”
They huddle again, stick their right feet in. Fat Frankie crouches, his rapid counterclockwise hand taps each foot to the syllabic chant of
There’s a man in the grass
with a bullet up his ass.
Stick it in, stick it out,
do you want to be a scout?
N-o spells no (or ‘y-e-s spells yes’)
And that’s why my mother told me
To pick this one.
Celebratory “alrights!” and “oh, snaps!” follow each disqualification. Fat Frankie taps his own foot and the possibilities whittle down to a certainty. Bucktooth Felix stands last.
The others quickly scatter, each calling out, “Bucktooth is First It!” Fat Frankie tosses him the poison ball and flees. First It vengefully returns the poison ball hissing towards the left cheek of Fat Frankie’s legendary buttocks. “Fat Frankie’s It!”
Fat Frankie straightens squealing, grabs his ass, grimaces heavenward, and spots the poison ball ricochet towards the sky. He wobbles chasing it down the block. “Fuck! I’m always the first to get It after being Not It!”
Somewhere indiscernible, behind a window on the block, a finger rakes a turntable needle on high-powered speakers. A crackling hiss like eggs being fried in heaven follows. Sigh skips, shouts, “Pause muthufuckas, pause.” The boys freeze in their tracks. The gang crane to and fro across the multitude of windows above them, seeking MC Invisible. Frenzied, they whisper guesses on DJ Unknown’s upcoming selection. The intro to Gran Combo’s “Tú Me Hiciste Brujeria” swells over the block.
A gravelly old but earnest voice calls out from behind a window, “Weeeeeeepa!” The scattered drug dealers palm their products to dance in place. The celebration of sadness and the sadness of celebration stirs all hearts, lifts arms, spins heels, shakes hips, coolly nods heads and twists necks.
Que me habra echado esa chica
que me tiene arrebatado
que me tiene medio loco
que ya estoy enamorado
quizas seran sus ojitos
o tal vez su caminao
o quizas esas cositas que nunca se me ha dado
Distant voices swell behind open windows and parted curtains. The men sing,
Que tu me tienes temblando de noche y de dia
And the women,
tu me hiciste brujeria
The pavement rhythmically cracks. The ground rumbles with each collective stomp, and la memoria de la gente dances like the palpitating heartbeat of God buried alive.
Me quiere mandar para la tumba fria (tu me hiciste brujeria)
Brrrrrrrruuuuuja, bruuuuuja, brujita (tu me hiciste brujeria)
Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu, demonio (tu me hiciste brujeria)
Me echaste, no se que en la comida (tu me hiciste brujeria)
Siento una cosa fria (tu me hiciste brujeria)
Que baja por aqui se sube por alla si (tu me hiciste brujeria)
Y vuelve toda esa brujeria (tu me hiciste brujeria)
The gang gyrate their hips, puff their chests and cheeks, and swing their arms sans cohesion or pattern, pantomiming more a scuba-diving disaster than an actual dance. Ricky calls,
Me quiere mandar para la chocha fria
And the gang responds,
Tu me hiciste puteria!
And the little reckless ones sing along,
Puuuuuuuuuta, puuuuuta, putita (tu me hiciste puteria)
Puuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu, cabrona (tu me hiciste puteria)
Me echaste, no se que en la camita (tu me hiciste puteria)
Siento una chocha fria (tu me hiciste puteria)
Que baja por las bollas se sube pa’ tragar si (tu me hiciste puteria)
Y vuelve toda esa puteria (tu me hiciste puteria)
Several voices hidden behind windows and parted curtains break off singing to laugh. Even the drug dealers, scattered along the four corners, relax their criminal scowls.
Thunder. “Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiicky!”
The turntable needle scratches. The music abruptly ends. The Ineffable MC groans in the distance. The hidden singers continue a cappella for a split-second more, ending in groans and awkwardly muttered syllables. The drug dealers stop dancing and return to business, earnestly hawking their wares, beckoning potential victims passing by. The gravelly old but earnest voice whispers, “¡Ay dios! ¿Vamos pa’ la mierda otra ve’?” The gang slowly turns and spiral their glances upward 63 TenEyck Street’s eight floors. They—and half the neighbors—freeze upon seeing Ruth Rivera. She leans out the window atop the tallest building on the block. Her locked arms rest on the windowsill. Her long black hair—Church Josie calls it ‘the cape’—flutters in the wind like an errant angel’s magnificent wings chained to the invisible will of something entirely more powerful. Lightning flashes above, syncing to her words. Felix snottily whispers, “She sounds like an ambulance siren.” Ricky is too afraid to move to slap him.
The wind blows downward from Ruth to Ricky. Her furious eyes peek out from behind her menacingly undulating hair. “Ricky, what were you saying? ¿‘Decía malas palabra’?”
Ricky fidgets. “No mommy! Of course not.”
“Are you lying to me?”
“No mommy! I’m not lying. Of course I’m not lying. I’m not cursing. I didn’t say no bad words. I’m just playing poison ball. Can’t I just play poison ball? Why can’t I just play poison ball? Why do I always get blamed for something? Why am I getting punished for something I didn’t do?”
“Oh, reeeeeeeeeeally, Riiiiiiiiiicky?”
Felix leans towards Ricky, “She thinks she’s Queen Mother of the Block, or somethin’!”
“Stop talking about my mommy like that, bucktooth muthufucka!”
A thousand-fold ambulance siren almost cracks the firmament separating the Earth from the heavens. “Riiiiiiiiiiickyyyyyy!” Windows shutter. A car alarm goes off. The gang cowers, shield their heads. Ricky instinctively prostrates. “Ricky! What do we say?”
Ricky looks to his friends for moral support. The Queen Mother of the Block sighs, laments the unsuccessful years of hard rearing with intermittent near-coma inducing beatings that had yet to breed instant and favorable responses from her son.
“Aw, c’mon, mommy!”
“Say it.”
“Mommy, please!”
“Say it!”
Ricky’s head droops back. He closes his eyes, and whispers, “Thank you God for delighting me along my path.”
Someone chuckles from a nearby window.
The Queen Mother of the Block stands straight behind the windowsill, her head almost bumping the lifted windowpane. “What? I can’t hear you.”
Ricky’s head droops forward. “Thank you God for delighting me along my path.”
The windows shake with laughter.
Lightning flashes. “Out loud, pendejito!”
The windows across the block almost dislodge from their cheap wooden panes. Garbage cans rattle. Dogs howl in the distance. Far away ambulance sirens swell into barely audible levels, then quickly recede into the normal buzz of things.
“THANK YOU GOD FOR DELIGHTING ME ALONG MY PATH!”
Raucous laughter swells from behind windows. The gang cackles at Ricky under the gaze of the Queen Mother of the Block. She points at them, electric sparks crackling under her fingernail. The wind’s direction suddenly shifts, swirling around the gang. She warns, “Funny, ha? I’ll make you say it, too!”
Everyone recoils, turns from her glare and shuts the fuck up. The wind pushes litter along the curb. A sad and faint whistle blows in the distance. They watch Ricky cautiously look up, then they all straighten and look. The cheap curtains of apartment 8L flutter in the open window.
Church Josie spins on them, “Stop sayin’ bad words so loud. If my mother hears or finds out, she’ll make me go to church on Sunday.”
Fat Frankie, “She makes you go anyway.”
Cross Eyes observes someone approach from the block’s northeastern corner. Silently, he raises his finger towards the purple-haired being.
Bucktooth Felix follows Cross Eyes’ raised finger, gulps, then spits out, “Oh, shit! Look!”
The gang step onto the sidewalk to better look at the young explorer with red glistening eyes. He treks confidently over the cracked pavement and blasted curb. He observes everything around him with amazement and wonder. He briefly pauses to analyze an open trashcan’s contents. The strip of hair comprising his flaccid mohawk alternates bouncing off the left and right sides of his face with his every stride. Bleach stains pattern his tight blue Levi’s like clouds on a denim sky. His jeans end in cuffs slightly above his burgundy ten-eyelet Doc Marten boots, white laces squeezing them tight onto his ankles like sullied surgical stitches. Shirtless, he sweats under an ornately studded black leather motorcycle jacket. His chest is heavily tattooed. His jacket is densely decorated with various band names, separated by various anarchy symbols and slogans. The gang hones in on one thick-lettered phrase, “I COULD GIVE A FUCK ABOUT PATTI SMITH’S SINS.” Eyes wide, mouths open, the gang gawks at him. Bucktooth Felix wipes his chin.
The drug dealers momentarily suspend their petty but despicable rivalries. They quickly huddle at the block’s south end. Occasionally, a head pops up to check the status of the white man’s approach whenever comments are punctuated. One breaks the huddle to retrieve something in a nearby car. The neighbors, having stepped outside for a smoke and chat or to feel the sun, retreat back inside. Men are rustled out of bed. Women check on their children. Faces emerge from behind curtains, peek out windows.
Ricky looks straight up and spots wayward locks of black hair lilting in the breeze. “Mommy?”
Ruth pops her head out. “¿Qué?”
The young white man passes Ricky.
“Mira, mommy. ¡Un blanco!”
She gnashes her teeth and squints her eyes, but rumbles barely louder than a stomach growl. “¡Cayate pendejo! ¡Que no te oyes!”
The punk almost stumbles as he turns to Ricky, unable to mask his American accent, “Si, soy blanco, pero tambien soy amigo.” He smiles. His teeth are perfect but dirty. Ricky smiles back. The punk slows to look up at Ruth. He smiles again.
A fog rolls in, swallowing the children, trash cans, parked cars, street, front stoops and doors to tenements. Ruth nervously smiles. “Perdon, mister. My son habla mas than he should, you know?”
“No se preocupe, señora.” He grabs his leather jacket’s lapels. “Hací son los niños.” He laughs, salutes her and Ricky and continues walking. He passes the amassed drug dealers quietly and intensely observing him. He turns the corner.
Suddenly, nearly incoherent with rage, “¡Aaaaaahhhhh! ¡Por favor, Dios! ¡Aaaaahhhh!” A fully clothed, filthy, gold-skinned, foul smelling full-grown man climbs out a broken window slightly above the surface of the fog at the abandoned 72 TenEyck Street building. Panadin scatters the fog as he lands on the ground with outstretched arms and howls again.
One of the drug dealers turns towards him. “Ah, solid. Thanks Panadin. Just what we needed. Thanks for showin’ up now.”
Panadin runs up close to the drug dealer, nearly kissing him. “¡Aahhh! ¡Por favor, Dios! ¡Aaahhh!”
The other drug dealers scatter, laughing. The offended dealer trips trying to strut away. “Damn! Dirtbomb muthufucka! Go take a bath, get a job, get a woman, get a home, get a life!”
Panadin continues howling, receiving no further challenges.
The fog completely recedes. The woken men go back to sleep, and the women go about their business. Neighbors go back outside to smoke and chat.
“¡Sube arriba!”
Ricky strategizes avoiding subiendo. He could beg. He could scream. He could raise his arms to the gathering clouds above and implore having Ruth struck down.
“Why, mommy?”
“¡Almuerzo!”
“But I just came downstairs. How can it be lunchtime already?”
She glares at him.
“But mommy, if I go upstairs, then the guys will go around the corner to play, and when I come back downstairs, they’ll be gone. I’ll have no one to play with. It’ll be just me, and Panadín.”
Panadin turns towards his name. He stares at Ricky, then looks up at Ruth. Ricky imagines their eyes shooting laser beams that nullify in cataclysm above him. He considers taking shelter under the awning of Church Josie’s father’s bodega, underneath where it says “Finest Puerto Rican and American Goods For Sale.” Ruth and Panadin break off contact, rolling their eyes in mutual contempt.
“I don’t care if they go play around the corner. You’re comin’ upstairs right now to eat lunch.” She withdraws from the window, her undulating black hair snapping as it follows behind.
Sigh turns to the gang, “You guys are gonna stay outside, right? I’ll be back in a few minutes, I swear.”
They nod their heads and Church Josie lies, “Sure, Sigh. We’ll wait for you.”
Sigh goes back upstairs.
Returning to business off in the distance, DJ Inscrutable puts Bad Brains’ “Pay to Cum” on the turntable. Ricky hears it from the stairway inside,
I make decision with precision lost inside this manned collision
Just to see that what is to be perfectly my fantasy
I came to know with now dismay that in this world we all must pay
Pay to write, pay to play
Pay to cum, pay to fight
And all in time, with just our minds, we soon will find what's left behind
Not long ago when things were slow we all got by with what we know
The end is near. Hearts filled with fear. Don't want to listen to what they hear
And so it's now we choose to fight to stick up for our bloody right
The right to sing. The right to dance. The right is ours... We'll take the chance
A peace together, a piece apart.
A piece of wisdom from our hearts
The song ends when Ricky reaches his door.
Primero, una Pela a Comenzar
Ever wonder if any of these guys blaze while training or during a fight?
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