a fools journey

Mosanami Etal
Book One

Kindle Edition a fools journey - Copyright 2013 by Mosanami Etal

Kindle Edition, License Notes All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author and publisher of this book. Formatting by RikHall.com

Acknowledgements A big thank you to the team who breathes life into this book series: the graphic designer, the editor, the formatter, and the international core beta reader groups one and two.

Book Series Dedication To the living memory of my mother.

BOOK ONE is the first of an ongoing book series where the Author takes pause to reflect upon his life as a jigsaw puzzle. It is a mystery where he begins to fit the pieces of the puzzle together in the hope of achieving greater understanding of why he is here. "I share with Roland Barthes the opinion that the text is formed by the reader rather than by the author." Rain-walker

Author's Introduction
In the story of Tarot, the Fool represents each of us as we begin our life journey. At birth, we willingly play the role of fool because only the purest of Spirit brings forth the innocence and blind faith to trust. The Fool is ready to embrace whatever comes down his or her path to learn the lessons of the world, and is oblivious to the hardships and vicissitudes of life. Newly born, bright, and open to spontaneously venture to adventure; from comfort and joyto pain and suffering. It is in this context that I share with you the stories of my life: a fools journey. So please, if you will "Sit by my side, come as close as the air, Share in a memory of gray; Wander in my words, dream about the pictures That I play of changes." -- Changes by Phil Ochs

The Ring Bearer

It is always the Darkestbefore The Light. That is one of the many life lessons my mother tried to teach me. Yes, I do mean tried. In fact, they all tried. All of my mothers took me to school: my birth mother, surrogate mothers, Mother Earth, Mother Nature, and the Mother of All Creation. And still, here is where I remaina student. My earliest childhood memories go back to when I was five years old, an untried and callow time. That is where my life beganon the day my Aunt Mary was going to teach me how to swim. I needed to learn to swim because that summer I was going to spend four weeks at the Miller familys beach house. Aunt Mary was really not my aunt at all, but she looked after Elizabeth and Jessica Miller, and sometimes me too. My mother considered Aunt Mary to be one of her closest friends. I had a lot of Aunts, but few of them were related to me by blood. They say it takes a village to raise a child, and many of my Aunts lived in my village Greenwich Village. Aunt Mary was engaged to a man named George. George was a very nice man. Coming from me, this is a compliment of the highest order, because I did not care for men at all when I was youngerdidnt trust them, didnt like them. But George was different than the othersthat was why I called him an uncle! Uncle George wasnt there on the day of my swimming lesson, due to his busy work schedule, but Elizabeth and Jessica were going to take the swimming lesson along with me. We were fortunate to have Aunt Mary teaching us, because she was a certified swimming instructor. There were two swimming poolsone was knee-deep and square for wading; the other was long, rectangular, and Olympic-sized. We arrived early, as my mother was never late for anything. She would prefer to patiently wait an hour rather than play beat-the-clock. Me? I did not inherit her unending patience. NopeI gotta move! That day, however, I made a concerted effort. You better keep still BOY, if you know whats good for you! She bellowed at me. I was well aware of what was coming next. There was a consistent pattern. The first warning was the menacing glare out of the corner of one of her squinted eyes, accompanied by a terse, tight, quivering of the lips. There was never a turn of her head, just the sidelong glance. The second warning was always started with, You Better Two warnings were all you were gonna get. And that second one was a gift from her Christian, God-fearing, compassionate side. As far as she was concerned, one warning was more than enough. Mom was Old School. On the third strike, you got what was coming to you. She was gonna knock you straight through Purgatory and into to Hell on that third one. Mom was a maestro toothe maestro of the backhand slap. She was as quick as greased lightning! Impressions of the back of her palm often were emblazoned on my tender cheeks, serving as a reminder. On that day, I had a handprint that was reminding me of a couple of Sundays before. On the way home from an agonizing three-hour Church service during which I had to discipline myself to remain as still as humanly possible, we ran into one of her friends. We were only three city blocks from emancipationthe place we called home. The place where I could shed the skin of the navy blue blazer, bowtie, white shirt, suspenders, navy blue shorts, navy blue knee-high socks, and black shoes. As Mom stood there chatting with her friend, I was terrified my worst nightmare came true that one of my friends would turn the corner and catch me standing there in my Sunday best, with my mother holding my hand. Imagine! I couldnt think of anything worse.

I was fidgety, looking over my left shoulder first, then my right. I needed to buy some time to pull away if need be. And there my mom was, just chitchatting away slowly and calmly, as if I had nothing better to do with my time but hold her hand and listen. Then, in the distance, I caught a glimpse of two familiar figures. It looked like Bernard and his brother Peter. Could it be? Were they coming this way? They were too far away for me to tell for sure, but too close to take any chances. I started to panic, thinking of what I should do. Then it hit meI could bend down real low to pretend to tie my shoelaces; maybe then they wouldnt see me. Yes! Thats it! Suddenly my mothers grip became tighter. This wasnt gonna be easy, but I couldnt think of anything else in the moment. Pull awayNOW! I successfully wiggled my tiny hand free from her grip. At just that moment, with a fluid pendulum motion, she swung her now-free hand upward in a gesture to her friend. With the velocity of a guillotine and the intense ferocity of renowned Italian conductor Arturo Toscanini, she delivered a backhanded slap across my face. Before I could so much as register the shock, that same free flowing hand secured mine once again in an even tighter grip. The cadence of her voice never changed, and not for a blink of an eye did she remove her gaze from her friends. I briefly relived that moment of shock, and felt a little numbness in my right cheek. I kept my body still but allowed the unbridled imagination of my mind to run wild and free, like a massive herd of stampeding wildebeests sweeping across the open African plains. I hitched a ride, and they dropped me off at the edge of the jungle, leaving me alone to call upon the greatest swimmer in the history of swimming: Tarzan, the Ape Man. He was one of my heroes. Not just any of the Tarzans either, as several men played the part. For me, there was only one Tarzan: Johnny Weissmuller. I watched every movie in the Tarzan series on TV over and over as a child. Back at the swimming pool, I peeked over at my mom, who was still sitting quietly, her eyes closed. I felt the urge to nudge her and let her in on my little secret: I already knew how to swim! I had learned by watching the best swimmer in the whole wide world, over and over againI was certain Id take to the water like a fish. Maybe she was asleep; she was tired and had just come off of the graveyard shift. I could not tell for certain but my common sense told me waking her would be a grave mistake. She wouldnt believe me anyway. She was simply going to have to see for herself. And, Oh Boy! Was she ever going to be surprised! In my mind, I replayed images of Tarzan swimming. As soon as I felt I had memorized his technique, I opened my eyes to observe both empty pools. The long, rectangular pool had a super-tall ladder that led to a diving board. Yes, that will substitute nicely for a giant tree in the jungle. But something is missing. What is missing? Yes! Of course! There are no vines to swing from! No worriesIll be Tarzan diving off a cliff. Done! Cliff diving will certainly be a lot easier than swinging from a vine, at least for my very first time. Okay, goodalmost ready. I needed a storyline and a mission. I let my imagination run wild. Cheeta, my faithful chimpanzee and best friend, frees me from the bondage of those diabolical White Hunters. The Hunters have gone to find and kidnap Jane. Their plan is not only to poach the animals that are my friends and family, but also put me in a zoo and return Jane to her family in the far-off modern world. Must find Jane before they do!!! Must find Jane!!! Mom! You are one of the White Hunters assigned to guard me. But you fell asleep, didnt you? You have been awake guarding me all night, and no one came to give you a break.

Cheeta? Is that you? Im over here! Quick! Untie my wrists and ankles. Thank you, Cheeta! Do you know where Jane is? Swimming? Where? In the Crocodile River? But I told her to never swim in that river without me! Dont you worry Cheeta -- I know a short cut up a cliff! Wait! Whats that noise? Hush. Be quiet. I hear something. Once more, I surveyed the surrounding area. No adults yet, which meant the Hunters had not yet returned. There was still time to rescue Jane! Okay, Cheeta, follow me. But be very, very quiet. We made it to the bottom of the cliff without waking the guard and drawing attention to ourselves. Cheeta, wait here and keep a lookout. I know you want to go, but you cant swim, and I dont have the time to teach you now. Im sorry, Cheeta, but I promise to teach you when I return. Okay? Carefully, I climbed up to the top of the cliff. I crawled along the long board, imagining it as log sticking out of a rocky wall. I looked over the edge. It was a long way down. Suddenly, a commotion of voices caught my attention. Aunt Mary had arrived with Elizabeth and Jessica! Just in time! My mother was awake! I could see that they were looking around for me. Up there was the last place they would look. I figured I had better let them know where I was before they worried too much. I looked down into the water, and I saw herJane! Jane, andCROCODILES! Not another moment to spare! Im coming for you, Jane! Here goes! I bounced up and down on the log then sprung up into the air. I beat my scrawny chest with my tiny fists, and let out a Tarzan yodel. Aaaaaaah-Uh-aaaaaah-uh-AAAAAAAAH! For sure, everyone knew where I was now! SPLASH! I hit the water! I was going down, down, down. I opened my eyes and felt the sting of chlorine. My nostrils were burning, too. My eyes were on fire, but I needed to keep them open to see where in hell I was going. Suddenly, I remembered what to do! Blow up my cheeks like that famous man who plays the trumpet with his eyes bulging out of his head. Now swim! Kick your legs out like a frog! Flap your arms about like the wings of a Butterfly, and swim! IM DOING IT! Yes! Im swimming! I had mastered the Tarzan technique. But there was one thing that I could not understand. Why was I still going down, down, down? I was doing everything right! What did I forget? And then a feeling came over me that I will never, ever forget. EVER! It was an empty feeling without any emotional attachment. Oh, wellI tried. This was followed by an act of complete and absolute surrender. There was no fear or panic whatsoever; there was no sadness, not even remote disappointment. I was calm and collected. I tried and it just didnt work out, but this is okay. I relaxed my body and opened my mouth to release whatever air was left, and to permit passage of the water. To this day, I remember the surrender as the most serene, tranquil, and euphoric feeling I have ever felt. As if it just happened this morning. I didnt share this experience with anyone until I was an adult. I chose to let people believe that I was afraid of the water, afraid of drowning. But this was not the case, not at allit was the exact opposite. In my late teens, I read about others who have had what experts refer to as a near-death experience. Most of these so-called experts have studied others who have had such experiences. But as far as I am concerned, an expert is only someone who has endured the experience him or herself, many, many, many times.

Just like others have described, I could feel myself leave my body, though there wasnt any significant emotion attached to my response. I found the experience interesting more than anything else. Hey! Im leaving me! Wow! Isnt this interesting? And yes, there was the whole vision of white light that is commonly shared by people who come close to death. But I dont remember a tunnel of any kind. I just remember everything being so bright. Then, I paused and turned around to look down to observe Aunt Mary diving into the water to rescue me. I watched as she pulled me out of the water, gave me mouth-to-mouth, and pumped the water from my chest. I remember thinking. There is a reason I came here. I came here to experience something I have not yet experienced, and I can only experience ithere. This thought was in my own voice. My Voice and My Choice. In a fraction of a second, I returned back to my body. After the last few ounces of pool water were pumped out of my body, and the first breath of oxygen expanded into my lungs, I recall what was without a doubt, absolutely, and positively, to this very day by far THE MOST PAINFUL EXPERIENCE THAT I HAVE EVER ENDURED! When I became an adult, I reflected on this pain. I arrived at the conclusion that this must be why no one remembers being born. I have never heard of any person who remembers what it is like to be born. And when I heard Annie Lennox sing for the first time, Dying is easy, its living that scares me to death, I laughed out loud. Aint that the truthYou got that right! Anyway, I figured out later on that one of the things that I must have wanted to experience was being a ring bearer in a wedding, because Aunt Mary asked me if I would perform the honor when she married Uncle George. Elizabeth and Jessica were to be the flower girls. I accepted, and was excited and nervous at the same time; I took the role very seriously. The way that I saw it, there was not a single duty of greater importance than that of The Ring Bearer. I wore my Sunday bests to the ceremony, even though the wedding was on a Saturday: black shoes, navy blue knee-high socks, navy blue shorts, suspenders over a crisp white shirt, bow tie, and a navy blue blazer. I was the proudest little boy to have ever lived on that Holy Day of Matrimony.

The Magic of Butterflies and The Glow

I never did learn to swim that summer, but I still was invited to spend four magical weeks at the Millers Beach House in Amagansett on the far eastern end of Long Island. It was indeed a long islandit seemed like it took us forever to get there. There was only one more town after Amagansett, after that it was all about the reach of the ocean, all the way to Europe I think. Anyway, whatever piece of land was on the other side, I knew it was too far away for me to swim. Their house was on Bluff Road, not too far from A&B Snowflake, which is where we got our ice cream cones and root beer floats. They also carried other stuff, but what else would a kid want besides ice cream cones and root beer floats at the beach? The house was a real beach house tooright on the beach, surrounded by sand and surf. The best part was, you could drag the sand into the house with you, and the adults wouldnt even yell at you. The furniture was made of things that one would find on the beach, like sunbleached driftwood, and the Miller family created the coolest pieces of artwork using seashells. Every night there was a cook out, with people playing musical instruments, singing, and dancing. There was no television, and no one missed it. It was summernothing but re-runs anyway! When I was older, I would visit the beach homes of my schoolmates. The houses were mostly furnished like New York City apartments or townhouseslike museums. You were always afraid to sit on anything for fear you would break or damage it in some way. And God forbid if you so much as dragged a grain of sand inside the houseyou would never be invited back! I could never understand why these people didnt buy a house in the mountains where there was no sand. Of course, many of them had homes in the mountains as well. I suppose they believed children were not made to feel comfortable. The only the children who were comfortable, we called young fogies. And they were not much fun. My mother raised me to show respect toward adults. I always said, please and thank you. I never spoke unless spoken to first, and I made certain that my answers were brief, because adults were rarely genuinely interested in anything I had to say anyway. For the most part, adults only truly cared about what they have to say. That was great preparation for lifea valuable lesson! Thanks Mom! When you are silent but present, the only thing left for you to do is observe and listen carefully. And thats exactly what I did, which explains why I did not care for adults. They say one thing, then turn around immediately and do something else. Any child who pays attention will see that adults are most often an uptight, self-important, know-it-all, bossy, and downright stupid lot, no matter how intelligent and successful that they believe themselves to be. The Miller parents, however, were an exception to the rule. They were gentle, kind, patient, and respectful to children and adults alike. They were cool! Both were professors at the University, and they enjoyed most of the summer free from work. One night over dinner, I shared with them my desire to catch a butterfly. I told them I wanted to catch it the following morning. After we finished eating, they unearthed about a dozen empty glass jars with fitting lids, and I spent the rest of the evening selecting the perfect jar. Then I brought it to bed with me and slept with it. The morning was bright and sunny. I was the first in the house to get out of bed. I rummaged about downstairs until I found a screwdriver to pierce holes in the lid so the butterflies could breathe fresh air. It took me a lot of time to decide on the number of holes. First I needed to figure out how many butterflies I wanted to catch. One would be too lonely. Two might be good. I didnt think three was a good number, and four seemed like too many. So, two it was! Eight air holes! Four holes per butterfly should be the perfect amount.

I knew theyd need food, too. What do Butterflies eat? I didnt know. This was becoming much more difficult than I thought it would be. Let me seewhere do butterflies like to hang out? Of coursearound flowers! Not so difficult after all! Ill pick up some flowers along the way. What about to drink? Hmmm Thats easy! Every living thing drinks water! When it rains, I will put jar the outside. And if it doesnt rain for a long time, like five days or more, Ill put the jar in the shower! Whats next? The net! Where did I put it? Underneath the bed. I went to retrieve the net and checked it thoroughly for rips and big holes. None. I was good to go! It was a gorgeous day. I left the beach house armed with the jar and net, in search of flowers, but I couldnt find any to my liking near the house. So I paused momentarily to take note of the tall grass on the sand dunes in the distance, blowing gently with the wind against the big, blue sky. It was so quiet and calm that I swear I could hear the blades of grass whistling to each other. Ready or not butterflies, here I come! I climbed up and crept into the tall grass on the sand dunes. Right away, I noticed a beautiful monarch fluttering about. Oh Man! Shes SO big! Her wings were larger than my ears. I began the pursuit. I chased her, and I chased her, and I chased her, and I chased her until I was completely out of breath. I was fast, too. I was the fastest little boy in my class, but that butterfly was a lot faster. And she could fly, too! I had not learned how to fly yet. After I learned how to swim, then I would learn how to fly! But that day, I became stuck and did not know what to do. At some point during the great chase, I lost my jar. I stood dumbfounded in the tall grass. I found myself in a place in which I did not desire to benot knowing what to do next. I thought about how to get out of that place. Finally, I dropped to my knees and raised the Butterfly net high above my head, as far as my arms would stretch. Camouflaged by the tall grass, where no one could see me, I knelt in silence and stillness, eyes closed. You better be still, boy, if you know whats good for you. The sounds of the Atlantic ocean waves thrashing and rolling up on the shore, flies and bees buzzing, seagulls chitchatting, were all layered over an unfamiliar hum. I could feel the slowly rising sun grace the crown of my head with a warm, tender, loving massage. Salty air and the ever-present scent of wet seaweed filled my nostrils. My lips became dry, so I stuck out my moist tongue to lick them. When I opened my eyes, lifted my chin, and tilted my forehead to the bright blue sky, I saw that the Monarch Lady was in the net! I stood up, nice and slow. Then I reached into the net and cradled the butterfly in my hand. I opened my hand to have a closer look at her. The bright colors! I felt her tickling the palm of my hand. And she did not fly away! Hey! How about that? She likes me! We spent a good part of the early morning strolling on the beach, just the two of us. She stayed in my open palm for the longest time, and then flew off to flutter about my head as we wandered along the shoreline. On the return walk to the beach house, she rested on my shoulder for most of the way. When I arrived at the steps leading to the front porch, I paused for a moment, and then she fluttered away. I shot a cheerful and contented smile her way while waving goodbye. That was a gift, that magical experience. Its another story I chose not to share with anyone until I grew older. I didn't believe that anyone else believed in real magic. I was sure they would think it was nothing more than a tall tale from the tall grass of the sand dunes. This lovely Monarch Lady taught me the true value of Stillness and Patience, and made me a firm Believer in Magic too! And now, I had two secrets. But there were three major lifealtering events that occurred during my fifth year. The final one of these events was my first indication that there was "something more," her name was Becky.

We were schoolmates. I did not consider her a friend, but we did say hello to each other every day. There was only one girl in my group of friends, Marianne, a tomboy. We played Johnny Quest on the playground during recess, a cartoon television show we all loved. There was Johnny Q, Dr. Q, Race, Hadji, and Bandit, the dog. Because I was the only person of color, I had to be Hadji, the Indian character, every time. I didnt mind so much, because he was Johnny's best friend. But Marianne was the only girl, so if she wanted to play, she had to be Bandit the dog. There were simply no other roles for girls. One day, Marianne decided she didn't want to be the dog anymore. She wanted to be Hadji! What the f? No way! Hadji is all I have! There is no way Im giving him up. Not gonna happen! Not today! Not tomorrow, or the next day either! Well, Marianne threw a tantrum and delivered a swift and powerful, unexpected kick to my balls, which put me out of the game for a couple of days. That's how long it took for my balls to complete the return journey from the bottom of my throat to my ball sack. For those two days, Marianne got to play Hadji. I did not care much for girls after that experience, though I didn't really care for them before then, either. But one day, Becky's mother called my mother to invite me over to their apartment for milk and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies to celebrate the expected birth of their cat's kittens. "Yes. Next Wednesday. Becky stubbornly believes that next Wednesday is the day. After school. You know children and their vivid imaginationslet's not promise him delivery upon demand." My mom passed along the invite. And I said, Yes. Cool with me. I was never one to turn down milk and freshly baked cookies. Yum! Yum! Eatem up! I was all about those cookies! Deal me in! I don't even think I heard about the kittens. Didnt really want to hear about that at all. The following Wednesday rolled around, and there I sat at Becky's kitchen table, chomping down on those cookies. Oh, Yeah!!! Let me dip another one of them into my glass of milk. Dang! These cookies are jammin delicious! Warm, crunchy, and gooey, all at the same time. Got to lick my fingers while nobody is looking and get me some of that runaway chocolate. I wasnt even looking at Becky. Becky? Becky Who? Is she talking to me? Hell if I know, I am all about these cookies! Suddenly, Becky rose from the table and snatched a cookie from my hand. What tha? Really? What is UP with the girls at my school? They all just wanna take over! "C'mon! Now is the time! We must hurry, or we're going to miss it! Come ON!" Miss what? Come where? This was a bad idea! I want to go home now! She grabs a hold of my hand, yanks me out of the chair, and drags me into her mother's bedroom. Less than a minute later, I was blown away! A magnificent sight to behold! The Miracle of Birth! Its a Miracle! Becky and I smiled gleefully as we gazed back and forth from the newborns to each other's eyes. I believe that this was the very first time that I saw Becky, when I looked into The Glow of her eyes. I could really see who she was, and damn! She was beautiful! When I returned home, I asked my mother if I could have one of the kittens. Becky and her mom said they would love for me to have one. But not my momshe wasn't having any part of it. My mother grew up on a farm where cats and dogs lived outside with the rest of the animals, or inside the barn. There was no way that she was going to share an indoor space with a cat and its kitty litter. Right before I fell asleep that night, I remember thinking about how Becky knew exactly when those kittens were going to be born. She predicted the exact day and time. How was it

possible, and why did she choose me to share the experience? We never spoke, other than to say hello. So, how did she know? I didnt even know I had such a natural connection to animals. I only knew that I loved butterflies! And there was no way she could have known that about me. How in the world could she possibly know I loved animals before I knew that myself? How was that possible? And what was going on with that "glow" thing in her eyes? Maybe she was an alien from outer space. That was the only explanation that made any sense to mean alien, like the ones on The Outer Limits! But maybe she was a nice alien, from a nice alien family who escaped from a bad alien planet. Does that mean the kittens were aliens, too? HmmmmmmmI wonder. I returned to Beckys home once a week to enjoy milk and freshly baked cookies. And, of course, to play with the kittens, gaze into the glow of Becky's eyes, and look for where her family was keeping their spaceship uniforms. Maybe the glow was an alien secret, because she never had it at school. I felt honored that she let me see her eyes glow like that. We still didn't talk much at school, but we still said hello when we crossed paths. The kittens, milk and cookies, and the glow? Well, that was our little secret. Now, I had three secrets. I definitely didnt want the other boys to find out about my relationship with Becky, but Marianne looked at me funny after she saw the two of us greet each other. She always looked at me as if she knew something I didnt want her to know. But I was ready for her. I would move my hand over my crotch area and kept an eye on her right foot. A few weeks later, a woman who lived on our floor asked my mother if I could take care of her cat for a week while she went away on a trip. She was going to pay me, too! Mom was cool with that. It was my first job, and I did really well with it. That's what the lady told my mother, and she referred me to all of the other cat owners in the building. Some had cats and dogs, and I took care of both. That year, I got all kinds of pet-sitting offers to care for cats and dogs in our building. Word that I was good with animals was outand people also knew I was very responsible. I was making good money, enough to build up my kickass comic book and costume collection! And all the candy, pizza, and ice cream I could ever wish for. I was able to treat my friends, too! Oh, Boy! How sweet is this? Getting paid big money for loving animals! So instead of having one kitten, I was blessed with more than a dozen cats and dogs in my life, all of whom were so happy to see me. They loved me! Every time I had a dog to take care of, I would swing by Becky's home to see if she wanted to walk with us. Most of the time she did! We would take the dogs to the village dog run and watch them play. Sometimes we would run with them! We were delighted to see dogs running freethey were so happy, always smiling! We would smile too! And then we would gaze into each other's eyes and smile. And, do you know what else? Becky also showed me her glow when we were smiling. After Becky and I became close, I always searched for the magical glow in the eyes of other people. But I guess there weren't too many other aliens living in the village at the time, because I never did see the glow from anyone else. I changed schools and made different friends, and Becky and I drifted apart, because our lives became very busy. We tried to get together every now and then, but at the end of the day, it just didnt work. Years later, in the decadent period of my early twenties, I was dancing in a crowded, underground after hours club in SoHo. Across the dance floor, I recognizedBecky! All grown up! Damn! She looked good too! Sure enough, as soon as I said that to myself, she lifted her head and looked up at me. It was like she heard me say how good she looked. Then, we began to dance and move in the direction of each other. Over a period of about three songs or so, we met in the middle. We danced together past daybreak and into the morning. And, we never said one word to each other. Not even "Hello."

I walked her home in silence. She didn't ask me to come inside, but she shot me an inviting look and held the door open. We spent the day in bed together. We didn't say much, if anything at all. Didn't eat either. The entire time, I was searching for the glow in her eyes, but I never saw it. I had the suspicion that something unspeakable had happened in her life that forced her to drop a black veil over her glow. I felt sad for Becky, and I could feel her sadness inside of me. But I wasn't going to ask her anything. I just held her in my arms all day long. As I prepared to leave that evening, we gazed into each other's eyes for one last time. No glow, no goodbye, only a sad smile and a warm hug. We never saw each other again. I still look for that glow in the eyes of peopleespecially women whom I'm attracted to. It's a rare, magical sight. But now I know it's not an alien genetic trait like I once thought. However, it is alien to most of us, even though we all have the capacity for it. Occasionally Ill see the glow flash in someones eyes, but I have found that people usually don't sustain it for very long. I'm not sure if they just don't want to or, they simply aren't capable. I do not know. All I know is that the sexiest and most exciting thing in the whole wide world is seeing the glow in the brightest pair of eyes! Five years of life. Three secrets. Many life lessonsthe grace of sweet surrender, life perception through an altered state of awareness, the pain and suffering of re-birth and change, the power of stillness and quiet, the expressive nature of freedom, the joy of birth, and the mystery of life. My life is indeed a mystery. And the many life lessons learned during my fifth year have appeared again and again throughout my life. Fortunately or unfortunately, I am a slow learner. However, slowly but surely, I am beginning to recognize those patterns of behavior, and ways of seeing that ultimately lead me back to the beginning of the end, up on the end of that high diving board.

OMary
She was a homely and dumpy young lady, nondescript. She frequented a tiny cafe where I used to hang my hat at least three times a week, called The Rosy Lee. It was smallonly eight to ten tables in the whole joint. This Greenwich Village eatery was owned & operated by pistol of a woman, Vicky Turnbull, the only Brit in the city who served proper English grub. It was really the best damn food, and she made everything herself from scratch. Vicky's claim to fame, before she came into her own, was that she was number one on the roster of Band-Aids of the popular, new wave British band Squash. Nicki was very proud of her status. We'd be backstage after a concert, and suddenly she'd announce to the Band-Aid wannabes, "Oym bloody fucking numba one Oy am! Numba fucking one! And Oy say it's time for all of yuze ta go home! Be Gone! The lot of you! And if any of you cows who have the balls to call yerselves ladies have a problem with that, we can just take that problem outside right now, and I'll rip your balls off and shove them down your bloody throat!" No one ever had a problem. Vicky was a friend who nurtured me back to health during an emotionally troubled time. The entire staff took exceptionally good care of me. The cafe had a solid group of regulars, especially this one woman, Mary. She was an aspiring actor from farm country, Pennsylvania, who had been trying to land an acting job for ten years. She never landed one gig. Not even a cameo. In fact, she couldn't even score an acting role as a volunteer. She wanted to continue her acting studies at the Actors Studio but couldn't afford the tuition. Her family refused to help her out. They believed she was a total basket case and completely disowned her. We all thought her to be a little off as well. She used to sit for hours, drinking her pot of tea and sharing her story with anyone who would listen. Of course, that story was about her failure at her acting careerand how she was unable to hold down any other job. Since moving to the city, shed every menial job imaginable, and had either, quit or been fired or arrested. Her stories were hilarious, and she really came alive when spinning a tale. The first time she told her story, it was so funny that one could not help but roll over into belly aching laughter, but after the twentieth time or so... Vicky had a strict set of enforced rules every customer had to abide by if they wanted to dine in her establishment. They were listed on the entrance door, the bathroom door, and the menus. If someone broke one of those rules, shed come over, whisk their plates off the table, kick them out, and ban them from ever returning. One of the rules addressed harassing other customers. Vicky would determine what was constituted harassment, not the customers. One day, Mary started up again when the restaurant was full. Vicky had had enough. She was beet red. We all saw it coming, the storm brewing from the window of the open kitchen. But then this one woman whom no one had ever seen before got up and approached Mary's table just as Vicky was coming out of the kitchen. Mary was wearing out her welcome. She was, you know, kind of loud. One day, Mary started up again when the restaurant was full. Vicky had enough. She was beet red. We all saw it coming, the storm brewing from the window of the open kitchen. But then this one woman whom no one had ever seen before, got up and approached Mary's table just as Vicky was coming out of the kitchen. "Excuse me, can you do that again?" Do what? Mary asked. "Exactly, what you just did." You mean tell my fucking life story? Its hell, sweetheart and I'm living it!

"What I'm asking you is, could you tell it again just like you did?" In this moment, The Rosy Lee regulars were all looking at each other thinking the same thing: Here's another bird that's fallen out of her tree. And the expression on Mary's face was priceless, it said, "Get the hell out of my face, you whacko!" Mary tried to ignore the woman. Who woulda thunk that the way to get Mary to shut up was to ask her to speak up. "Im talking about on stage. I'm a theatrical producer, and I am very interested in producing a standup, one-woman, off-Broadway show of you telling your storyjust like you did just now." We were in shock. "Look here's my card. Think about it. If you're interested, give me a call. What's your name young lady?" Mary remained speechless, but Vicky spoke up. "Her name is Mary. She looked at Mary with a wry smile. "Isn't it, dahlin'?" Mary nodded as she passively stared into her spot of tea. The woman paid her bill and left the restaurant. Vicky approached Mary's table and said, "I was just about to throw yer ass outta here, young lady!" Mary's standup show was sold-out for one solid year. The producer gave Vicky a dozen tickets to opening night. We all went. It was brilliant! The show received stellar reviews from all of the theater critics, including the ones who make a living from being brutally harsh. Mary was on all of the morning television programs. She achieved local celebrity status overnight. And yet she asked for none of this. She never wanted her own show or celebrity status. All Mary wanted was to land enough small roles so that she could do what she loved and pay her bills. How was Mary to know that not being able to hold a job and land an acting gig was fodder for her one-woman show? And how was she supposed to know that repeating her story over and over to anyone and everyone who would listen would be preparation for her upcoming success? How was she supposed to know that when she came to the Tea Shop that day, a theatrical producer was going to be present to listen to her ranting and raving? Life is a mystery. We're not supposed to know everything. The mystery is part of the adventure. All of our lives are mini-adventures, and all of our life experiences prepare us for something, though none of us know what that something is. Everyone is on a journey to their heart of hearts, whether they're conscious of it or not. And, if they are not aware of it, then they are not supposed to be.

The Pretender
In the corner of my space lived a simple black trunk with silver closing latches and lock and two carrying handles. It was the kind of trunk that many kids took with them when they went to camp. But I didnt go to camp, so my trunk didnt need to be carried anywhere. It didnt look like much from the outside, but the inside told a different story. Inside of my trunk was my treasure. I never needed to use the lock, because I was an only child, so I didnt have to worry about any brothers or sisters pillaging through my loot. The treasure was also of no value to my mom, so everything was always exactly as I left it. Inside were my treasured costumes: Diver Dan, Infantry Man, Tarzan the Ape Man, Superman, Batman, the Three Musketeers, a swashbuckling pirate, and my prized Cowboy outfit with a quick-draw, cross-draw, Western gunfighters double rig. I even had the sword from one of my favorite movies of all time, The Sword in the Stone! Get BACK Jack! I was the man of the house! And, at the bottom of the black trunk, hidden by the weight of costumes, were my gold nuggets. These were the most precious of my precious Marvel & DC comic book collection. All of my other comic books were on display, but I didnt want anyone to know that I owned these babies, so I made certain they remained hidden. My mom believed that comic books were evil and part of a conspiracy to keep kids of color stupid, so I only left out in the open the ones that I was certain I could replace. Because I had this feeling that if I ever received one unsatisfactory grade from school, they were gonna be gone! My mother always tucked me into bed before her nighttime power nap. She was a pediatric nurse who worked the graveyard shift. Like clockwork, I would wake up somewhere between three and four oclock in the morning, when my mom was at work. Id get out of bed and immediately turn on the television to see what was on. I was only permitted to watch an hour of television a week. That was the deal. The year before it was a half hour. When I turn eight years old, I would be awarded another half hour. But I could watch anything I wanted with my hour. Anything! So I would listen to what the kids were talking about at school and then check it out for myself the following week. There were free programs I was allowed to watch. They did not count as part of my hour. They included anything considered to be educational, as well as news programs. We were a CBS News only household. The television night ended with the Father of News, Walter Cronkite, signing off with, And thats the way it is. My mom would always repeat him, and then click, it was bedtime for the television set. But at three oclock in the early morning, it was my time! And who was going to tell on me? Nobody, thats who! Not another living soul was around! There was always the Late Show, followed by the Late, Late Show. There was even a Late, Late, Late Show, too. I was good for at least one to two full movies, and on rare occasion I would stay awake through Modern Farmer to make it to the early morning cartoons, then sneak back into bed before I heard the key slip into the apartment door lock and the dead bolt turn. There were usually great westerns, gangster, or war movies on late at nightsometimes a pirate movie. I had costumes for them all! I would put on the proper costume and play pretend along with the actors in the movie. I had a good thing going for many moons, until one morning I got busted! I fell asleep in my full cowboy outfit on the floor in front of the loudly blaring television set, and when my mom entered the apartment, there I was. I had no idea what my punishment was going to be. She didnt say anything to me for the longest time. She didnt even say goodbye when she dropped me off at school or hello when

she picked me up. I didnt get a beating, not even after we returned home from school. I had no idea what my punishment was going to be, never believed that I would ever get caught. Usually, the beating came in the heat of the moment, but she had just returned from work when she found me, so maybe she was too tired to swing that heavy, wide, black leather belt with the over-sized silver buckle. I dont think she ever wore that belt; it was only set aside for those special occasions when I crossed the line, or when there was a line that I wasnt crossing fast enough. That belt taught me how to ride a two-wheel bicycle. One day, mom decided it was time for the training wheels to come off, so she removed them and brought the bike, the belt, and me to Washington Square Park. I learned to ride on two-wheels in two tries. The night after she had found me, she still said nothing except, And thats the way it is! I lay awake in bed wondering about my fate. There was the usual punishments: no going outside to play, no play dates, and additional household chores. She couldnt exactly punish me by banning television, unless she threw the set out the window. I figured she was struggling to come up with something she felt would work. But I must say that the suffering and pain of the wait was punishment enough. What is my worse-case scenario? What is the most awful thing that could happen? If I was gonna punish myself, what would I do? Lets see What would IOh no! NO! What if she decided to throw out my costumes? And then shed discover my gold nuggets, my hidden treasure! That would be the absolute worst thing imaginable! Now, I was nervous. I didnt believe I would survive that loss. I thought it might be wise to relocate my most precious comic books to a new location. I better get on top of that as soon as I wake up. The following morning, when she returned from work, once again without greeting me she walked directly over to the television set and felt it all over. Up and down. And she shot me with the evil, hairy eyeball while she was doing it, too. Hmmmmnow what is she doing? I thought to myself. Is she reminding me that this is her television? But I already know that! She must be telling me something that I dont already know. What dont I know? Of course! Shes feeling it to see if its warm or hot. But the television was still cold, because I was not going to get myself busted two nights in a row for the exact same thing. Comic books hadnt kept me stupid. I didnt read Archie, and I was no Jughead. Nope! I had planned on lying low for a little while anyway. And now I knew I need to turn off the television with enough time for it to become cold again. Only the Late Show! Later in the day, after school, we walked a different way home, on unfamiliar streets. We stopped in front of a building that looked very much like another school, but I did not see any other kids around. There were only adults without books going in and out of the red brick building. We passed through the revolving doors, then through the lobby to a bank of elevators, and rode them up to the second floor. When the doors opened, we were met by an adult sitting behind a desk. She wore black-framed glasses and her hair was pulled back into a bun behind her head. There were many black-framed posters hanging on the walls, but I didnt recognize the images inside them. There was a leather couch and two over-sized leather chairs. My mother walked me to the couch then released my hand. She nodded. I sat. She approached the woman behind the desk, and they shared a few soft words, but I did not hear them. Afterwards, my mom took her place on the couch next to me. We didnt have wait too long before another adult arrived in the waiting room to greet us. He was taller than my mom, but not by much. His face was hidden by a full, bushy, black beard, and black-framed glasses. He wore a jacket and tie, just like Professor Miller. My mother stood up, and they also exchanged a few soft words that I could not hear. She motioned for me to rise from the couch, and we followed the adult into a big room with a long oval-shaped table. There were many more black-framed posters on the walls, as this was a much bigger room than the waiting room.

The man directed my mom to a chair on one side of the table, and me to one on across from her. He sat in the middle at the head of the table where adult men like to be seated. I studied his hands; they were soft and relaxed. I wondered if he was going to talk at me, to me, around me, or with me. Hello, little fella! He tried to force a smile underneath his black beard. His teeth were bright yellow as the sun. Little fella? God! I hated that! But I responded immediately and looked him squarely through the frames of his eyeglasses, like I was taught. I understand that you like to dress up in costumes, and play acting? Please, will you tell me a little more about what it is that you do? This is it? This is my punishment? Who is this man? How did my mother find him? Why is he asking me trick questions? What is he going to do to me? Andwhen is he planning on doing it? I looked across the table at my mother for permission to continue. She nodded. I remembered how important it was to answer the exact question an adult asked. Give them nothing more and nothing less. Hold your chin up, shoulders up and back, and look directly into their eyes. Speak slowly and clearly to be understood. Well, sir, yes. I do like to wear costumes and play pretend, and make believe. That was a good answer, I thought. Dress up was what you did for church services, weddings, and funerals. I was not going to use those words. And acting I associated with my mother scolding me to stop acting up! I wasnt going to use that word either, because I would be admitting that I did something bad. Playing pretend is not a bad thing at all. And make believe was the a little bit more he was asking me for. It was a good answer. He chuckled and laughed. What was he laughing about? Nothing I said was funny, but hes laughing anyway. Maybe he was laughing about what he was planning on doing to me. Is my mother really going to leave me here alone with this strange man? I shot her a quick glance. She nodded, so I returned my attention to the man with the hair on his face. Haha! Yes! You are right! Its all pretend and make believenothing more grand than that! Whoa! Is this really happening? An adult telling a kid that he is right about something and possibly suggesting that the adult is wrong. That the adult didnt know everything that there is to know about everything there was to know? I closed my eyes for a moment and relaxed my body, prepared myself to listen carefully to what he had to say. We grownups have a tendency to complicate things when they are really not all that complicated. Oh, Im sorry! Here I am running my mouth, using words that you probably dont understand. Allow me to put in another way Excuse me. Sir? I had interrupted an adult, which I knew was a big no-no, unless you needed to use the bathroom. But I felt that it was okay to do this one time. He agreed and nodded permission. I understand the meanings of both tendency and complicated, and how you are using them. So I do understand what you are telling me. He looked confused, because he probably thought that I didnt understand what acting meant, which would mean I also didnt understand bigger words. But I never said I didnt understand, and he never asked me. If somebody wants to know something about me, they need to ask me. I knew what acting meant, I just didnt want to use that word. I know many words that I never put in practice, because I want people to understand what I am saying. If I use words that

I am not absolutely sure that the person I am addressing will understand, then I am the stupid one. I like to read Sir, and I read a lot! Oh, yes, I see. And what is it that you like to read, young man? Ah, I have been promoted in his eyes from little fella to young man. No adult had ever asked me what I like to read. They were usually too busy telling me what I should read. Maybe we can now continue with what adults refer to as conversation. I thought. I could feel myself beginning to warm to this man. He wasnt like the others. I did not know if he was as nice as Uncle George, but he appeared to be open and understanding, like Professor Miller. I like to read Marvel & DC comic books, the Encyclopedia Brown series, The Hardy Boys, some Nancy DrewI like to read mysteries! I also read the newspaper that my mom brings home from work, the World Book & Americana Encyclopedia sets, and Mr. Websters dictionary. Can you tell me why those two sets of encyclopedia, as opposed to others? Because those are the two sets that we have at home. My mother got them because I was always asking too many questions, and she said it made her head spin, and then she would get dizzy. So now, when I have questions, there are three places where I can go to find the answers: the two encyclopedia sets and the dictionary. I dont have to dance on my mothers last nerve anymore. And what about the books they give you to read at school? You forgot to mention them. What about them? You asked me to tell you what I liked to read, and I did. You dont like the books they give you to read at school? No, I dont. Will you share with me why you dont? Because the textbooks they give us to read at my school are not written for me. Adults write the textbooks. And like you said, adults have a tendency to complicate things. So they are really writing for themselves. Also, these same adults do not teach kids. All they do is force teachers to translate their textbooks for them. Did I say that correctly? I hope he understands what I was trying to say. I think that maybe I was speaking too fast. Speak slower. What I am trying to say, sir, is just maybe if the teachers wrote these textbooks, they wouldnt be so boring. The textbooks are boring, and the teachers who force kids to read them are boring too. So you dont like teachers? I did not say that I didnt like them. I said that they are boring. Some I like more than others, but I usually just dont care about anything they have to say. How do you feel about the school books that are not textbooks? Some are okay. The teachers tell you that they are all important to read, but not one of them can tell you why they are all so important. Probably because they dont know why themselves. Okay. I think I understand what you are telling me. Now, I would like to return to what it is that you do like. When you are in costume and play pretend, what do you enjoy the most? Thats an easy question. I like the movement the mostthe action! Very interestingvery interesting indeed. Will you kindly tell me a little more about how the movement leads to action? Sothis is it? This is my punishment? To talk with an adult about what I like to do and why I like to do it? I got off pretty easy! Well, its like the foil versus King Arthurs Sword. The foil is light and can bend. The sword is heavy and cannot bend. How much the weapon weighs, how it can be moved, and what you are wearing tells you how you need to move and act in order to

My heart was beating too fast. I was too excited! I was advancing too quickly! Retreat! Now! Bend my attention, like the foil, to the black-framed posters on the wall, then the ceiling lights. Please, please continue. In order to what? Wow! This man is really listening to me! Its like he doesnt have anything else on his mind other than being here and listening to what I have to say! Shazaam! In order tolive, sir. After I said what I said, I stared with my head down at the table. Did I make a mistake to trust this man? I dont know why, but I felt something strange moving inside of my stomach. I felt as though I had just shared one of my biggest secrets with a stranger, a secret that I didnt know I had. I could hear silence for a long time; it seemed like forever. I was uncomfortable with it, and suddenly I felt like I just wanted to cry. But I didnt want to give my tears to a stranger. I could feel the tears climbing up from deep inside of me to fill my eyes. I didnt know how to stop them from coming up. I couldnt stop them from coming up, because it was too late. But I could stop them from pouring out of me! Yes I can! And I will! I will do it! But I need help! Then I swallowed has hard as I could and summoned Zeus to help me. Please Zeus, the Father of Gods and all menhelp me! Now I must concentrateconcentrateconcentrate Yes! I believe you would fit very well in our program here. And I will enjoy very much working with you. The tears were in retreat, backing down from the great power of Father Zeus. What? What did he just say? Program? Here? Work? I could feel myself breathe once again. I lifted my chin and turned my face to meet his smiling face, looking at his thick beard and yellow teeth. And then, I spoke slowly and clearly as I peered into the pupils of his eyeballs. Whereis here? And who are you, anyway? He flashed a peek at my mother, then cleared his throat as he returned his attention back to me. Please forgive me for becoming carried away with the assumption that you knew how you came to be here. We are presently seated in an administrative conference room of Hills College of Education. I am Professor Dodge of the Dramatic Arts Department. Professor Miller is a dear friend, and he recommended that I meet with you. Professor Miller? Okay. I felt much better now. I did not make a mistake. Dodge? Do you mean like dodge ball and Dodge City? Yes. Just like dodge ball. He smiled again. I was excited! But I remembered that I needed to learn how to become more careful about getting too excited. I did not like that feeling in my stomach or the tears that came up inside of me when I thought I had made a mistake. I like dodge ball, too! Its another thing that I like to do, because I get to move! You also said something about a programwhat kind of program? He cleared his throat once more. It is a dramatic arts program. I direct college students in the finer exploratory and expository aspects of pretend and make believing. Explore like Christopher Columbus? Yes. And what exactly do you direct the students to expose? Themselves. I let this thought settle in my mind for a moment.

Okay. So its like you are Christopher Columbus and you have this boat called aspects. And even though, all of the other adults in your world say the world is flat, you dont know that its true just because they say so. Maybe it is, maybe it isnt. So, you invite anyone who wants to come along on this journey to what is not yet known, on your boat called aspects, where you are the navigator. But the journey is not to explore and discover new worlds outside of the world, as we know it, but to explore, uncover, and expose new frontiers hidden deep inside of each journeyman! But this would mean that the boat would have to change form and become a submarine! Surprise! Cmon! How cool is that? And the voyage is now to the very bottom of the deepest part of the ocean! Something like that, Professor? Precisely like that! Why, its just like one gigantic mystery! Isnt it, Professor Dodge? We both laughed out loud. Yes! It is! One gigantic mystery where all of the dragons, demons, sharks, bad guys, and good guys are all alive and well, kicking inside of you. Tell medoes any of this interest you? I like mysteries a lot! And, yes! I am very interested! One more thingplease try not to see me as a teacher. I consider myself to be more of a guide, and a director, and a student also, as I am constantly learning new things all the time. How can I see you as a teacher when you are not? You are a Professor like Professor Miller! I mean, you dont teach kids in grade school, do you? No, I cant say that I have, nor do I have any plans to do so in the foreseeable future. Now, fortunately, we are still early in the semester, so you have not missed terribly much. We look forward to seeing you this Saturday in the theater. I had only missed three weeks of the program. This was a good thing, because all of the missed sessions were lectures given by a well-known village theatrical director, a theatrical actor, and the professor. More adults talking at you, I thought. I believed I had received enough lecturing at home and in church service, so I would have been bored restless. The program was held in a small theater, nothing like Radio City Music Hall. My first day, I was instructed to sit still and observe the group. This session was devoted to blocking, the positioning of the players body on stage. I studied every single player carefully when they appeared solo on stage to demonstrate their assignment from the previous week. I wondered if I could do what they were doing. There was a small group of us, thirteen players including myself. I was the only kidthe rest were young adults who appeared to be holding out before surrendering to become full adults. Half of these were female, just like in grade school. At the end of the morning session, the professor passed out assignments for the following week. Each player received an individual assignment sheet. My sheet only had four lines, which read: Role: Theatrical Actor Costume: None Props: None Question of Exploration: From the beginning, what compels your character to act? The very first thing I will do when I get home is ask Mr. Webster what the word compel means. I thought. I will study the definition over lunch. I thought of actors as adults who like to play pretend. I was but a child. I wasnt quite sure about how to approach this challenge. I peered between the bread at the peanut butter and jelly in my sandwich for guidance. I worried for a moment that this was too great a challenge for me. But then, I re-read the Question of Exploration over and over again. Hmmokay, so where do I begin?

The answer to my question was boldly staring right back at me off of the assignment sheet yelling at the top of its lungs! Here I Am! Over here! Why cant you see me? The corners of my mouth lifted, and I enjoyed a belly laugh at myself. Of course, you ding-a-ling! I begin at the beginning! When the theatrical actor was a child! This is what I know! Begin with what I know! Again, I re-read the Question of Exploration: What compels Why does this Theatrical Actor do what he does? This is a Question of Exploration, there is no concrete answer to find only the question to explore. Good, Im gonna begin with the what to explore the why, because the what does not changeit stays the same all the time. A theatrical actor acts. He pretends that he is something or someone other than who he is. And this is what I do when I play pretend. I put on my costume and become somebody else. All of the super heroes in my comic books were similar. They change into costumes to become other people. But the theatrical actor on my assignment sheet does not wear costumes. That year, there was a new super hero character that DC Comics introduced that didnt wear a costume: Metamorpho, the Element Man. Before he became a super human, he was an adventurer, and then he was exposed to a radioactive meteorite in an Egyptian pyramid. This exposure changed him into The Element Man. Adventurer. Exposure. Change. To me, an adventurer and an explorer were one in the same. Metamorpho could transform his body or any body part into any element or combination of elements. Explorer. Exposure. Change. Isnt this what an actor does? Yes, it is. The what. Well, that was easy! Now, I will explore the why. I know I dont have much life experience, as I have only been on Earth for a very short period of timeeight years in December. And I can only remember three of those eight years. But I have had some experiences, and I dont have much choice other than to use what I have gained. My exploration of the what has led me to focus on: change, Metamorpho the Element Man, metamorphosis, and the elements of change. And then, my mind drifted to my intimate experience with the butterfly. The butterfly was my favorite living thing. But the butterfly was not always a butterfly. Before it was a butterfly, it was in a cocoon, and before that, it was a caterpillar. It changed from a caterpillar to a butterfly without a costume. I could feel my heart beat. It was beginning to pick up its pace. It felt like I was getting closer. What did the Butterfly teach me? There is the importance of freedom. Okay, what else? Talk to me Lady Butterflywhat else? I closed my eyes and opened my mind to relive the experience with Lady Butterfly in my head. I could feel myself smiling again. Yes! Of course! The power of stillness! Thats it! Thats the place is where I need to begin my exploration of the why! The greatest mystery of all mysteries: the cocoon. What goes on inside that cocoon? I must create a cocoon and remain still inside of it! I was so happy with the progress that I made over a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a tall glass of chocolate milk! I went into the kitchen to wash my plate and glass. It was then that I realized I had been exploring backwards. The Question of Exploration was more about what compels the caterpillar. I needed to really begin with the caterpillar, but at that point in my life, I hadnt spent much time with the insects. It was the autumn, and caterpillars arent around that time of year. I thought about what I had that could help me? The encyclopedias! The next drama session was Wednesday, and I wasnt expected to perform until Saturday; there was plenty of time for exploration. When I woke up early the following morning, I did not turn on the television set. I browsed through my mothers record collection: Glen Miller, Sentimental Journey, instrumental. Perfect; no words. I had already begun my own record collection. My first two albums were The Beatles

and The Supremes, and I owned about thirty singles on forty-fives. But all of my records had words in the songs, and the only words that I wanted to hear that morning were the words in my head. I studied the descriptions of the caterpillar in both of the encyclopedias. Then I lay down on the carpet on my stomach and tried to move like oneagainand then againover and over. Finally, I collapsed on my stomach. The record was over. All I could hear was the needle scratching the end of the album. I got up to take the needle off and return the album to its sleeve and put it back in its proper place. It was quiet, and this is where the thought came to me. The caterpillar was not the proper place to begin the exploration. No, the caterpillar was something else before it became a caterpillar. Okay, back to the encyclopedias. What is it? Look! There it is! An embryo. The beginning. I lay down on the carpet once again and curled up into a tiny ball on my side, then stuck my thumb into my mouth. The week ahead was to be eventful, and though I had done lots of thinking and planning, I was still not prepared. At the close of the last school year, there was a big Parents Teacher Association (PTA) meeting. My mother said she had to go, because there were going to be big changes. The association had decided that there were kids who were slow learners and kids who were faster learners. They reached a decision to create two classes for each grade made up of only the fast learners. They named these classes the IGC classes, for Intellectually Gifted Children When the year began, my mother was heartbroken that I was not included in this group. She never said anything to me, but I would hear her talking on the phone to Aunt Mary. She was so upset and sad. And I felt so sad for her. One day, out of the blue, I said, Mom, you dont need to worry. Please dont worry. I will get into that IGC class if its the very last thing I do. I promise! I had absolutely no idea what I was talking about; I just wanted for her to not be so sad. I think it worked, because she smiled after I said that. Well, wouldnt you know, that coming Monday they asked my mother into the principals office and made me wait outside in the front area. It was torture for me! I tried so hard to remember all the things that I had done wrong that year, all the reasons my mother could have been called into that office. But I didnt do anything! I swear to God! My mother came out with a big ol smile on her face. The principal followed her out of his office and led me to my new class, the class for faster learners. I had absolutely no idea how this had happened. I figured that maybe it was because of all the praying my mom did. Because this had nothing to do with me, I was only trying to help her feel better. Maybe she prayed so hard that God finally heard her and then he told the principal that the school had made a mistake and that it was up to him to correct it. All I know is this: When I walked into that classroom, all of my friends were there. The entire Johnny Quest crew, the twins, Jessica Miller, and Becky. And in this sense, I felt that I belonged in this class, because they were all very happy to see me there. And I was happy to see them, too! After school, the teacher told me to stay late so she could tell me that I had a lot of catching up to do. She also told me that from what she had seen that day, my math skills were not as strong as the others. At first I was a little confused when she said this, because I could add, subtract, multiply, and divide, even without a pencil and paper. I was okay at fractions too. This is just the beginning of second grade! What else do I need to know about math? What else could there possibly be? But then I remembered what we did in math class that day. We were doing something I had never seen before; I didnt even believe it was math. She had us working with miniature wooden

blocks of different shapes, colors, and sizes. It had something to do with geometry, a word I needed to look up when I got home. She decided she would assign one of my classmates to tutor me until I caught up with the rest of the class. And whom did she assign? The best math student in the class, the fastest of the fastMarianne, the girl who had kicked me in the balls so hard that every time I looked at her I could feel two lumps stuck in my throat. My mother was smiling during the entire walk home, saying Hello! and Have a nice day! to every person we passed along the way. The only thing that I felt was the urge to throw up, and that my knapsack had become twice as heavy. When we got home, the telephone rang non-stop, and my mom was just chatting away about me getting into this IGC class after promising her that I would. She was so proud! The first thing I did was look up geometry. What? Why? Why do I need to learn this now? Then I reviewed my list of homework assignments for the next day. Are you kidding me? When am I supposed to do all of this? I was in the class for faster learners, but I was quickly learning that we would be using the same textbooks as the slow learners but moving through them twice as fast. The slow class gets through half of each bookif thateach semester. And the only way of getting through entire textbooks for the semester was to do twice the work in the same amount of time. This was really four times the homework! There is nothing more that I hate as much as homeworkI HATE IT! There were too many other things that I would rather be doing. Household chores, okay, no problem! Thats what I call real homework; classwork should only be done in the classroom. Why must we bring it home? I had far more important things to do away from school; there was my animal care business, which was helping to build my comic book, costume, and record collection. Then, I needed the time to read the comic books, play in my costumes, and listen to my music. And what about play dates with my friends? And cub scouts? I didnt want to be a wolf forever; how was I going to make it to bear? There were also the martial arts classes that I was saving up to join. And now, there is this drama program on Wednesdays afterschool and Saturday mornings. I also needed to create time to prepare at home for the following weeks assignment. Plus church service and Sunday school! I became exhausted just thinking about all of the work I didnt have the time to finish. I did homework the entire afternoon, evening, and night until bedtime. I didnt even finish it all, but that killer math assignment was done. This was the most miserable that I could remember feeling, but I had never seen my mother happier. The next day in school, Marianne sat beside me in her new assigned seat. She kept her eyes on every move I made, everything I did. I felt embarrassed, but at the same time, I was desperate to show her that I could do this geometry thing without any assistance from her. But I would learn during my second day that this was a lie, I needed her help. Over time, the more I surrendered to the reality that I truly needed her help, the more I realized I had developed a serious crush on her. How serious? It was very, very serious serious enough to become my fourth secret. It was so serious that I fantasized about being stupid and slow for the rest of my days so she could tutor me through life. On the one hand, Becky was probably the nicest and cutest girl in the entire grade. She liked to hold my hand, have me bathe her glow, and delighted in serving me freshly baked chocolate chip cookies in the privacy of her home. I associated Becky with joy, freedom, and the celebration of Life. We enjoyed countless memorable moments together. On the other hand there was the non-descript girl who was the bearer of brutal physical pain, who had lasers for eyeballs, wore ugly eyeglasses, and had freckles all over her face. Marianne scared the living daylights out of me! And this girl would become my first crush?

Great! I sure know how to pick em! I chose the girl who carried pain, suffering, and humility, and who served as a daily reminder that I am geometrically obtuse. By the time Wednesday rolled around, I was feeling relieved to go to Drama class. It was a great escape from the madness of my world, which had suddenly turned upside down and was tumbling and collapsing on top of me. The session was divided into two parts, the first of which was a demonstration from a fashion photographer, a man with lights, and a rail-thin female model. The photographer demonstrated the importance of lighting, shading, and shadows when telling a story on stage. The second part was designated for the players to take the stage, all thirteen of us at the same time. The professor asked us to block out the portions of the stage that we would need for Saturdays performance. I was ahead of the game, as I had blocked out the stage in my head during the demonstration. I counted six paces from the stage left curtain toward the center of the stage, but a lot closer to the side curtain. This is where I would open. Now I was trying to figure out how to open my performance as an embryo because I needed to be lying down on the stage floor curled up on my side. I came up with a couple of ideas, but they just didnt feel right. I could see that it was going to be difficult to tell my story of exploration as I intended. However, it did occur to me that I could tell the story as I explored the questionbackwards. Yes! Thats it! Backwards! When I walk up the side stage stairs, as soon as I am on the stage landing, I will jump and flap about like a Butterfly to the six pace spot on the stage, and then make a U-turn to the curtains. Okay, this will work. What am I gonna use to mark the sixpace spot? The seats in the audience! Good! Back into the cocoon of the curtains, spin out into a caterpillar, crawl to the six-pace spot, and curl into an embryo. Very good! During this walkthrough, although I wasnt supposed to find an answer, I found one: evolution. What compels a theatrical actor to act was his inner most desire to evolve. That made perfect sense to me. Somehow, I made it through Thursday and Friday and managed to pass three nasty pop quizzes. During this time, it occurred to me that all of the kids in my class had parents who were surgeons, scientists, lawyers, architects, professors, well-known artists, and authors, important people because they were well-known. After all, the Father of News knew who they were. These parents must be helping their kids with all of this homework! How else could they get it all done? Or maybe they were just smarter and faster than I was, and I didnt really belong in the same class with these IGC kids. Maybe it was that simple. Yes, this was most likely the case. In any event, I knew that I would never have the courage to say to my mom, Sorry, Mom, but Im just a regular kid. I mean, I know you really want me to be special, but I am not special. There is nothing special about me. Im regular. I like waffles and crispy bacon for breakfast. When I have cereal and milk, I like to read the back of the cereal box. I dont like to eat the cereal after it loses its crunch. So when you leave the room, Im gonna sneak into the bathroom, pour the soggy cereal into the toilet, and then flush. And Im sorry that there are starving children in Africa and parts of America that would love to eat my soggy leftover cereal. I am really sorry for them, and I would send it to them if I knew how but I dont. I love pizza, and I would have it every day for the rest of my life if I couldand chocolate too! See, mom? I am just regular. I hate church and Im not sure I believe in God. I didnt see him back in the pool, but I did see an Angelmy Aunt Mary, whos not even really my aunt. Sometimes I think adults made God up, just like they did with Santa Claus, I only like Sunday school because I have friends my age there, but I do believe that Jesus Christ is the best teacher of all time. And, I hate homework! But I love comic books, wearing costumes, and playing pretend. But I love my growing music collection, and kittens, puppies, cats, dogs, and butterflies. And I enjoy playing outside with my friends. Im sorry, but I dont believe that I will ever grow up to be someone important like a doctor or a lawyer, even though I know you really want me to be. I

dont believe that I am special enough to be that important. And I dont believe Walter Cronkite will ever know who I am! See, Mom? Im only a regular kid, but I love you even though you are an adult. Anyway, I just wanna return to the class for the slower learners, so I can have more time to do the things that I enjoy most. This confession would break her heart, and my entire comic book collection would be tossed into the incinerator. So I didnt have a choice but to find a way to stay in the IGC class, and pass. The weekend homework assignments were killer. And there were going to be tests on Monday in every subject. The surprise quizzes that week were not easy, but they were not too hard, either. I expect the teachers were going to make the tests very, very difficult to pass. All because of that damn PTA meeting! The parents probably made the teachers angry when they said, If our children are not being challenged enough in this school, we will take them elsewhere. Whatever they said to those teachers must have lit a fire under their seats. And there I was, caught in the middle. How will I manage the weekend? Friday afternoon, evening, night until bedtime, I will work on the assignments. Early Saturday morning when I wake up, Ill rehearse my performance. Saturday afternoon Ill work on the drama assignment for the following week. Saturday evening and night, Ill study for tests coming Monday. Sunday churchhey! Maybe I can get out of church service and Sunday school! Unfortunately, I overslept on Saturday morning. When I finally dragged my body out of bed, all I wanted to do was climb back in and fall back into sand land. I still felt tired. All of the life changes that week had worn me out. But I still had a little over an hour before my mom came home to rehearse without distraction. Before I began, I made my bed so I didnt get yelled at first thing when she got home. There was a full-length mirror behind the dressing room door that I used to rehearse. Now lets see if I can fly like a butterfly. No, it is not happening. No matter how hard I try, I simply cannot replicate the fluttering rhythm of the flight pattern. Whatever I do, I look like a wounded pterodactyl in flight. There is no way, that anyone will be able to guess that Im a Butterfly. I needed more time to explore, which I did not haveI was just going to have to wing it on the stage. I still had time to decide what I will wear. The stage curtains were a rich burgundy color. I removed a maroon turtleneck from my drawer and tossed it on the bed. The stage floor is wooden, not too light or dark, somewhere in the middle. To the encyclopedias to find a color match! Got it! It falls somewhere between maple and cherry. Whats the closest pair of pants that I have to blend in with the floor? My light honey brown corduroyslooking good. Almost done. What happens inside the cocoon? Change. I need to take something off, because Im moving backwards. Something colorful. I had a canary yellow and navy blue argyle sweater, which was hideous, but it was bright and would do just fine. Sneakers for caterpillar crawl are good to go. I was the last of the group to be called upon. The professor read aloud my assignment. I still hadnt figured out how to properly portray a flying butterfly without looking like an idiot. As I made my way up the side stage stair steps, I could feel movement in my stomach. It wasnt gas or that strange feeling I had in my first meeting with the professor. It was a new, strange feeling, like butterflies fluttering about in my stomach. Haha! The Butterflies were with me! Everything was going to be okay!

Please help me, teach me how to fly like you do. What did I learn from my butterfly experience? What was I taught? Stillness, andfreedom! Yes! Thats it! All I need to do is dance freely and be happy, just like the butterfly! Smile all the time that I am dancing. Freedom is happiness! I began with a jump into the air and a huge smile on my face. At once, I realized that I had to dance backwards, which I did, but this was not easy. So I spun around a lot and kept the smile. I backed slowly into a fold of the heavy curtain and spun myself inside my cocoon. The next part was gonna be tricky. Removing my sweater took some work, because I had no time to practice how I was gonna do it. I spun out of the cocoon and then dropped to the stage floor. Facing the curtain, I began the caterpillar crawl backwards. I crawled uncomfortably until I was tired of crawling, then curled up into a ball while lying on my side. My face was now fully exposed to the audience. I stuck my thumb into my mouth, and closed my eyes. The next thing I did, I had no idea that I was going to doI jumped up! And then I stretched my arms up high over my head, lifted my chin, and pointed the tip of my nose to the sky, to the place where I began. The silence in the theater was broken by the sound of hands clapping together. I was frozen in my posture. The Professor interrupted loudly, Please, please do remember that there is no applause for performers! This is a workshop! I have your assignments for next Saturday. I lowered my head and retrieved my sweater from behind the curtain. I made my way down the stairs and waited. I was the last name to be called. Here is your assignment. He handed me a handful of torn and ripped paper. You have a choice. You can put together the pieces of paper to find out the assignment I prepared for you, or you can come up with an assignment for yourself. You must decide by Wednesdays session. On the way home, I ran into the twins, and they asked if I wanted to meet in the park after lunch. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny fall day, so I agreed. I remembered over lunch that I had created a schedule for myself and was supposed to prepare for next weeks Drama assignment. I thought about how long it was going to take me to put all of those pieces of paper together. Too long, no matter how curious I wasit was not time worth spending. Okay, Ill make the assignment. Im going to explore what happened before my mother came home from work and busted me in my cowboy costume. How did the Indians finally get to me? Ill explore backwards, because I like exploring that way. But this time, Ill tell the story forwards, because backwards was too uncomfortable. Done! Now I can spend the afternoon outside playing with Bernard and Peter. We were in the park, playing and free, enjoying the glorious freedom from all of the responsibilities adults had introduced to the world, when a thought came over me. I suddenly remembered the applause I heard while on stage. At the time, I believed that the group was clapping because the session was over, and finally everyone could spend the rest of Saturday outside in the glory of the sun. But it occurred to me that maybe the applause was for the butterfly performance. It had felt good to hear that applausereally good. Maybe thats another reason why theatrical actors enjoy playing make-believe, to feel connected. They evolve from where they began to where they are, and then connect to a living audience by pretending theyre someone else. Question of Exploration: From the beginning, what compels your character to act? It feels safe to play pretend. And thats my final answer.

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BOOK TWO, The Element Of Change

NOTE TO READERS: Positive word-of-mouth is vital for a book to reach a larger audience. If you enjoyed BOOK ONE, please leave a review at Amazon, even if its only a sentence or two. Third party endorsement is how other readers will find this books series! Your positive reviews will make a ton of difference and are warmly appreciated. Also, please feel free to email me at mailto:foolsjourneyauthor@gmail.com. I will answer each and every email.

Contents Author's Introduction The Ring Bearer The Magic of Butterflies and The Glow OMary The Pretender BOOK TWO, The Element Of Change