Gaia Community: Sol's Blog

The Shift in Human Consciousness (Audio Seminar) & More!

http://sol.gaia.com — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 19:27:06 GMT

Crow Rising News & Notes
July, 2009

Preorder Deadline for the 2nd Edition of CONSCIOUS HEALING!

Dear Reader,

Interest in the newly updated and expanded 2nd edition of Conscious Healing: Book One on the Regenetics Method has been very keen, and I am happy to say that we are on schedule for a July release of this "paradigm-reworking book" (Nexus).

Limited Time! Preorder your 2nd edition today & save $3!

We are now far enough along in the publication process to announce our preorder deadline for those wishing to save $3 off the paperback or ebook versions: Wednesday, July 15. To preorder and save today, visit http://www.phoenixregenetics.org/preorder.html.

You Can Still Read It FREE Online!

The entire text is still available in an eye-friendly, online reading version at http://www.phoenixregenetics.org/page9.html. Enjoy!

Upcoming Radio Show

Please join me online Friday, July 10 at 9:30 PM Eastern (New York) time for a free audio seminar entitled "The Shift in Human Consciousness," adapted from the 2nd edition of Conscious Healing.

During this packed 1.5-hour show, I will elaborate a compelling scientific and philosophical interpretation of 2012 and the "meta-genetic" transformation of consciousness--and physiology--this historic galactic alignment is engendering in our species. To listen live, visit http://www.blogtalkradio.com/CrowRising.

Fall Regenetics Seminar

Please consider joining us for this fall's Regenetics Seminar to be held November 6-9 in the Southwestern United States in Taos, New Mexico.

For detailed information on Facilitator Training in the Regenetics Method, visit http://www.phoenixregenetics.org/page15.html.

Thanks for flying high with Crow Rising Transformational Media today!

Sol
http://www.crowrising.com

"Be willing to walk your talk, speak your truth, know your life's mission, and balance past, present, and future in the now," we read of Crow in Medicine Cards. "Shape-shift that old reality and become your future self. Allow the bending of physical laws to aid in creating the shape-shifted world of peace."

Tags: Regenetics, DNA, DNA activation, healing, consciousness, mind-body-spirit, 2012, Mayan calendar, Law of One, ascension

Preface to the 2nd Edition of CONSCIOUS HEALING

http://sol.gaia.com — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 16:53:23 GMT

by Sol Luckman

When Conscious Healing: Book One on the Regenetics Method first appeared in 2005, my expectations (to the extent I had any) for this unprecedented blending of new science and "new age" spirituality were modest at best. I knew of no book quite like Conscious Healing then, and the same still applies today, so I literally had nothing to go on. And of course, self-publishing, while it can be rewarding, is a step into the unknown, with no support net to catch you if you fall.

So I was greatly surprised when Conscious Healing began putting up very respectable sales numbers indeed, consistently appearing on various bestseller lists at online venues such as Amazon.com, which it continues to do to this day.

I also was tremendously gratified by the enthusiastic editorial reviews Conscious Healing received, to say nothing of reader reviews that often spoke of a book that, by itself, was an "activation of consciousness," profoundly reminding readers of truths about human potential and conscious evolution they already knew but had forgotten, in whole or in part.

Nothing was so inspiring and humbling, however, as seeing so many readers go on to experience personal transformation through the Regenetics Method. While I affirmed from the beginning that Conscious Healing is a valuable book for its informational content alone, it hardly can be overemphasized that the life-changing effects of Regenetics cannot be described fully in words or grasped on a purely intellectual level.

Having been involved in an editorial capacity with the Spanish translation of Conscious Healing, during which I noted some areas of the text I felt could use clarification and/or expansion, I already was considering creating a second English edition--when I was contacted by a European company wanting to release Conscious Healing in German. When our negotiations ended in a publishing contract, I took this as a sign, and immediately set about to update the entire book.

That is the text you have now. To those already familiar with the first edition of Conscious Healing, I propose that if you liked that version, you will love this one. I wish both my loyal and first-time readers to know that a lot of renewed energy has gone into describing and substantiating the Regenetics Method, as well as the evolutionary context that has fostered it, as clearly and accurately as possible.

I have added nearly twenty percent more text to the second edition, much of which incorporates leading-edge scientific and philosophical content. Realizing that readers might benefit from a more detailed explanation of the sequence of Regenetics activations, I also have included a description of the fourth and final phase of the Method, Transcension Bioenergy Crystallization, as well as a brand-new chart showing, at a glance, the progression of the Regenetics Method Timeline.

Readers interested in 2012, the Mayan calendar, ascension and related topics have not been overlooked. In particular, Chapter Nine, "The Shift in Human Consciousness," has been positively packed with new evidence supporting this book's thesis that humanity--individually as well as collectively--is poised on the brink of a thoroughgoing metamorphosis into a far more enlightened way of being.

Needless to say, in my process of revision I have expanded the book's already considerable references, which show up both in the main text and the Bibliography. This has had a measurable impact on the Index, which has grown proportionally. I also saw the need to add several new terms to the Glossary, and to refine the definitions of some preexisting terms to reflect my own evolving understanding of this uniquely empowering form of energy healing.

Finally, all three of the book's Appendices have been updated. Because they are both informative and inspiring, in Appendix A I share nearly twice as many Testimonials from clients. In Appendix B I have added a number of Frequently Asked Questions and clarifications. And as for Appendix C, it is my sincere intention that readers will find the sample Electromagnetic Schematic more comprehensible on all levels.

In November of 2007, I wrote as editor in the introduction to a special issue of my popular free ezine DNA Monthly,

Repeatedly, I've felt my finger to be on the pulse of a global zeitgeist of transformation operating in and through the genetic level of consciousness […] A consistent theme of feedback has been that a more expanded view of science and healing is not only welcome at this time; it is critically needed as we evolve out of a monolithic version of reality into the higher-paradigm understanding that there is no such thing as science--there are ultimately only sciences, any of which can have their strengths and weaknesses based on the strengths and weaknesses of those of who, consciously or not, create them. Now more than ever, it is incumbent upon us as a species to create our science(s) of reality consciously.

In making this expanded and updated second edition of Conscious Healing available even as my novels on the power of the imagination gain greater recognition, I realize the extent to which my life's work has been to articulate both a science and an art of reality as consciously as possible. May Conscious Healing be a catalyst for you, as it has been for so many, in your inner and outer transformation.

[In addition to the bestselling and internationally acclaimed Conscious Healing: Book One on the Regenetics Method (which since its original publication in English in 2005 has been translated into multiple languages), Sol Luckman is author of the groundbreaking Beginner’s Luke Series of six seriocomic novels devoted to exploring--irreverently and often hilariously--the primary role of consciousness and imagination in creating our reality. Sol is also a provocative essayist on literary theory, a visual artist, editor of DNA Monthly, and cofounder of the Phoenix Center for Regenetics. For more information, visit http://www.phoenixregenetics.org and http://www.beginnersluke.com.]

Tags: Regenetics, healing, DNA activation, consciousness, enlightenment, 2012, ascension, Mayan calendar, Law of One, Harvest

That Profound Sound: Sound as a Healing Vehicle

http://sol.gaia.com — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 19:46:52 GMT

Thanks for checking out DNA Monthly, your FREE online resource for cutting-edge news about who you truly are.

Read the current issue (contents below) at http://www.potentiation.net/DNAmonthly/June09.html.

Read back issues from Volumes I-V at http://potentiation.net/DNAmonthly/index.html.

Subscribe for FREE at http://potentiation.net/page13.html.

To your potential!

DNA MONTHLY

your FREE online resource for cutting-edge news about who you truly are

June-July 2009 (Vol. 5, No. 6)

Breaking News: Swine Flu + Mainstream Media = $$$

"Everyone familiar with the conspiracy media is automatically going to ask me if this is a synthetic, man-made virus.

"The bottom line is that it probably is.

"The simple fact that such an anomalous, unprecedented virus, combining material from three different hosts, appeared spontaneously in so many different places around the world--at such a marvelously well-timed moment to divert attention from the imminent downfall of the New World Order--is a very strong sign of wrongdoing [...]

"I have personally spoken to one whistleblower who revealed that--much to the frustration of the negative elite--it has proven to be 'extremely difficult, if not impossible, to kill large numbers of people with biological agents.'

"The reason for this is that viruses are very, very unstable. They mutate so quickly they can lose their lethality very rapidly. There is a fascinating energetic component to why they are not threatening that we will discuss as well.

"Everyone in the alternative media is bringing up the Spanish Flu outbreak of 1918--but that was nearly 100 years ago. Millions of people died at the time. That is true.

"Now think about how long it has been since anything of that scope has happened again, despite the obvious (for some) intent of those who would like to see it happen--up to and including the possible release of manmade viruses to get the job done.

"SARS may well have been one such synthetic, deliberately 'seeded' virus--and despite all the fearmongering ... only 774 people died from it worldwide."

David Wilcock, Blog, http://www.divinecosmos.com

FEATURED IN THE JUNE-JULY 2009 ISSUE OF DNA MONTHLY

1. "Preface to the 2nd Edition of Conscious Healing," by Sol Luckman

2. "That Profound Sound: Sound as a Healing Vehicle," by Zacciah Blackburn

Nueva Columna en Español ... 3. "Responsabilidad celular: volviendo a empoderarte," por Gabriella Kortsch

Also, Also ... DNA-related Definition of the Month & Did You Know

Click here to read the current issue of DNA Monthly ...

[DNA Monthly is sponsored by the Phoenix Center for Regenetics, facilitating conscious personal mastery as a bio-spiritual healing path through integrated DNA activation. For information on our cutting-edge services, visit http://www.phoenixregenetics.org.]

Tags: DNA, DNA activation, Regenetics, wave-genetics, electrogenetics, healing, consciousness, enlightenment, Mayan calendar, 2012

La Biología de la iluminación

http://sol.gaia.com — Sun, 17 May 2009 02:07:10 GMT

Sol Luckman

La evolución de la conciencia humana a conciencia divina implica sanar la dualidad, el legado del "karma" y de la enfermedad tanto a nivel celular como a nivel atómico.

No hay enfermedad que no pueda ser sanada a través del ejercicio correcto de la intención. Miles de las así llamadas curaciones milagrosas documentadas demuestran sin lugar a dudas el impacto de la conciencia sobre el bienestar físico, emocional, mental, y espiritual.

La medicina de mente-cuerpo, la cual tiene un valor estadístico suficientemente importante como para ser parte de las enseñanzas en las Facultades de Medicinas modernas, brinda la prueba adicional de nuestra habilidad de curarnos a nosotros mismos. La investigación de biólogo molecular Bruce Lipton indica que las personas pueden modificar su ADN y superar las enfermedades terminales tan sólo cambiando su conciencia.

Deepak Chopra ha comentado que "la semejanza entre una idea y un fotón es muy profunda". Un fotón es una partícula de luz o quantum, o de cualquier otra radiación electromagnética. El Dr. Chopra está implicando una conexión entre la idea y la luz.

En muchas costumbres chamánicas, la idea (la intención) es considerada una forma o función de la luz de una dimensión superior. La mente es "la energía esclarecedora" la cual 'ilumina el sendero' de una idea o forma a ser transmitida y recibida", Alice Bailey escribió. "Sobre un rayo de luz la energía de la mente puede materializarse."

Luego de esta línea de razonamiento, podemos imaginarnos a nosotros mismos no sólo como "luz congelada" (citando al Dr. Richard Gerber) sino también como un "pensamiento congelado".

Esta manera de ver al cuerpo humano como un pensamiento congelado, idea que puede sorprender al lector como un principio muy extraño, es en el análisis final, profundamente vigorizante.

Los físicos cuánticos han demostrado repetidamente que un científico siempre afecta el resultado de un experimento observándolo, una noción ahora aceptada universalmente en la comunidad científica como el Principio de Incertidumbre de Heisenberg.

Todavía mas sorprendente es el descubrimiento que modifica paradigmas, que aumenta la dualidad de las ondas-partícula: la probabilidad de que el físico en realidad cree las partículas quánticas en de la ondas-partícula al efectuar la observación, ya que en estado inadvertido estas partículas parecen existir solamente como ondas.

Una verdad fundamental y revolucionaria surge de esta información: el conocimiento crea. Como seres humanos imbuidos por el libre albedrío, podemos usar el poder de nuestro conocimiento para recrear nuestra realidad: incluyendo pero no limitada a un cuerpo, mente y espíritu libres de enfermedades.

Hago hincapié en "volver a crear" porque, evidentemente, ya habitamos una creación. El mundo como lo conocemos está basado en el principio de la dualidad. Otra forma de decirlo es que una conciencia dividida o dualizada, que ya se ve separada de otras conciencias, incluyendo la unidad o conciencia divina, dio origen al universo como los seres humanos lo experimentan a menudo: un campo de batalla entre el bien y el mal, luz y oscuridad, correcto y malo, "nosotros" y "ellos".

Pero la dualidad no es simplemente una filosofía; es un estado de ser físico también. Los mismísimos átomos que componen nuestras células están basados en cargas positivas y negativas cuya oposición sostiene en cierta forma el flujo de la vida.

Dr. Lipton ha acuñado la frase "biología de la conciencia" para resumir la idea transformacional de que los organismos vivientes, incluyendo a los seres humanos, en lugar de ser donantes empíricos, son en realidad formas de pensamiento maleables.

En otras palabras, asumiendo una perspectiva cuántica, somos básicamente ondas que solamente son coherentes como partículas a través del acto de la conciencia. Cambiando nuestra conciencia, cambiamos nuestra forma física y su funcionamiento.

Curar significa volverse un todo. La curación resulta en la unificación y iluminación e implica la expiación, que en este contexto debe ser interpretada como "at-one-ment" (del inglés "atonement", expiación, y al que se le da el doble sentido de volverse Uno).

En un mundo en el cual se crea la idea y la biología es un producto de la conciencia, y no al revés, la mente tiene el poder de forjar una nueva biología, una basada de la dualidad pero sobre los principios de la unión y la armonía.

En Return of the Bird Tribes, donde un tema principal es el reencuentro del cuerpo humano con el alma en los años cruciales que estamos actualmente experimentando, Ken Carey resume con nitidez cómo debemos continuar, tanto por separado como colectivamente: "En el afán de la curación, la conciencia humana es la que debe cambiar primero".

Nuestro desafío, que es al mismo tiempo una oportunidad inmensa, es abrirnos a una forma, literalmente revolucionaria, de pensamiento que nos coloque en la existencia.

La iluminación se trata de elevar la conciencia y dejar a la luz al punto donde nos convertimos en eso. La iluminación verdadera sigue un sendero de dominio personal consciente que resulta en la transformación e involucra la creación de un Cuerpo de Luz estable, por definición. El Cuerpo de Luz es un vehiculo físico "Trinitizado" (equilibrado y armonioso) que ha resuelto la dualidad, el "karma" y la enfermedad a nivel celular y atómico.

Podemos conceptualizar el cambio evolutivo actual en nuestro ADN como un cambio de "sistemas operativos" de un archivo binario a una clave "trinaria" sobre la base "ener-genética" de la forma de tetraedro compuesta por tres partes. Podríamos ir mas lejos y afirmar que los seres humanos estamos evolucionando de la biología a la "triología".

Bajo esta óptica es más interesante que algunos en la comunidad científica alternativa hayan aludido a una investigación suprimida sobre una tercera cadena de ADN que se estaría activando en muchos seres humanos.

Una forma esclarecedora de visualizar cómo la metamorfosis de la fisiología unificada basada en la luz de hecho ocurre es fijarnos en una partícula cuántica conocida como positrónio.

El positrónio está compuesto de un electrón, que tiene una carga negativa, y un positrón, que tiene una carga positiva. El positrónio es un ejemplo perfecto de la dualidad. También nos ilustra de forma estupenda en cómo es creado el Cuerpo de Luz.

Debido a que los electrones y positrones son antipartículas opuestas, después de combinarse para moldear el positrónio, se cancelan mutuamente y decaen en dos partículas o cuantos de luz (fotones). Un tercer elemento estable y unificado, que no es ni positivo ni negativo, es creado entonces del dualismo preexistente.

Barbara Hand Clow ha escrito que este proceso de combinación y decadencia en el átomo del positrónio, reflejado en la activación del Cuerpo de Luz, "resuelve la dualidad inherente en luz… [siendo] el electrón la unidad básica de la activación--vida--provoca la transmutación del positrón--karma".

A diferencia de la idea popular, pero errónea, el karma no tiene nada que ver con el castigo y la recompensa. Existe como parte del archivo binario de nuestro universo holográfico o sistema operativo dualístico solamente para enseñarnos la responsabilidad sobre nuestras creaciones--y todas las cosas que experimentamos son nuestras creaciones.

Cuando estas creaciones están fuera de sintonía de la Fuente, se manifiestan a menudo en la falta de armonía conocida como enfermedad. Esto puede ocurrir no sólo en personas individuales sino también en civilizaciones enteras. En ambos los casos, la enfermedad, que es considerada típicamente una crisis, sirve simultáneamente como un estímulo poderoso para la transformación y la trascendencia.

En el proceso de elevar nuestra conciencia y activar nuestro Cuerpo de Luz, nos damos cuenta de que somos nuestra propia obra creadora, o nos hacemos a nosotros mismos, a imagen y semejanza de un creador. Efectivamente, debido a que en un holograma una parte contiene el todo, somos el Creador.

Aprendiendo esta lección profundamente transformativa, volvemos a la unidad de conciencia mientras dominamos a la fisicalidad. En otras palabras, conseguimos la iluminación cuando la luz desciende a un divino cuerpo sanado de la dualidad y liberada del círculo instructivo del karma.

[Sol Luckman es el autor de Conscious Healing: Book One on the Regenetics Method (Sanación Consciente: Libro Primero del Método de la Regenética), de una serie de novelas intituladas Beginner’s Luke, editor de la revista Internet DNA Monthly, y co-fundador del Phoenix Center for Regenetics. Sus artículos acerca del Método de la Regenética se han destacado en varios sitios impresos y en línea, incluyendo Atlantis Rising, Renaissance, Odyssey, Sedona Journal of Emergence, Kindred Spirit y Metamorphosis, y también se han presentado en las antologías de medicina alternativa Message of Spirit: A Manual for Your Mind y Heal Yourself with Breath, Light, Sound and Water. Conscious Healing, que recientemente fue traducido a su tercer idioma, recibió cinco estrellas del Midwest Book Review, y en Nexus New Times se mencionó como "un libro que rompe paradigmas" y presenta "una ciencia de sanación revolucionaria que expande los límites del ser." Para más información, visite http://www.phoenixregenetics.org.]

Tags: iluminación, biología, ADN, evolución, conciencia, medicina de mente-cuerpo, dualidad, curación, Cuerpo de Luz

New 2nd Edition of CONSCIOUS HEALING

http://sol.gaia.com — Fri, 08 May 2009 17:27:58 GMT

Crow Rising News & Notes
May, 2009

Announcing the Updated & Expanded 2nd Edition of CONSCIOUS HEALING!

Dear Reader,

It is my pleasure to announce the second edition of my bestselling and internationally acclaimed Conscious Healing: Book One on the Regenetics Method.

Updated and expanded with a wealth of empowering new information, now more than ever Conscious Healing is far more than the inspiring story of the development of a "revolutionary healing science that's expanding the boundaries of being" (Nexus).

An ambitious synthesis of modern and ancient healing wisdom, this leading-edge text is for anyone interested in alternative medicine, energy healing, consciousness research, quantum biology, human evolution, personal enlightenment, 2012, or the Mayan calendar.

Read It FREE Online!

I have made the entire text available in an eye-friendly, online reading version at http://www.phoenixregenetics.org/page9.html. To your potential!

Preorder the Paperback!

For a limited time, preorder the paperback and save $3. To take advantage of this special offer, click here.

You can also download the ebook for your offline reading enjoyment, and save $3, here.

Thanks for flying high with Crow Rising Transformational Media today!

Sol
http://www.crowrising.com

Tags: Regenetics, DNA, DNA activation, wave-genetics, healing, consciousness, enlightenment, 2012, Mayan calendar, ascension

Illuminated Physiology & Medical Uses of Light

http://sol.gaia.com — Mon, 04 May 2009 18:35:49 GMT

Thanks for your interest in DNA Monthly, your FREE online resource for cutting-edge news about who you truly are.

Read the current issue (contents below) at http://www.potentiation.net/DNAmonthly/May09.html.

Read back issues from Volumes I-V at http://potentiation.net/DNAmonthly/index.html.

Subscribe for FREE at http://potentiation.net/page13.html.

To your potential!

DNA MONTHLY

your FREE online resource for cutting-edge news about who you truly are

May 2009 (Vol. 5, No. 5)

Notable & Quotable: "Ancient traditions viewed time as a never-ending dance of cycles--great waves of energy that pulse across the universe, linking the past and the future in their journey. Modern science seems to agree. In the language of physics, time merges with the space it travels through to create space-time, ripples in the quantum ocean that [make] the universe possible.

"A growing body of evidence suggests that time's waves, and the history within them, repeat as cycles within cycles. As each new cycle begins, it carries the same conditions as the past, but with a greater intensity. It's this fractal time that becomes the events of the universe and life.

"Using a code that we're only beginning to understand, the ancient Maya charted fractal time on a series of calendars unlike anything the world has seen since. Because they understood the cycles, they knew that the conditions of the future are also etched into the record of the past. This includes the mysterious end date of the present world-age cycle: December 21, 2012. The key to understanding 2012 and what it means for us today is to know how to read the map of time."

Gregg Braden, Fractal Time: The Secret of 2012 and a New World Age (Hay House, Inc., 2009)

FEATURED IN THE MAY 2009 ISSUE OF DNA MONTHLY

1. "Illuminated Physiology & Medical Uses of Light," by David Jernigan

2. "Darkness & Light," by Toni Elizabeth Sar'h Petrinovich

Nueva Columna en Español ... 3. "La Biología de la iluminación," por Sol Luckman

Also, Also ... DNA-related Definition of the Month & Did You Know?

Click here to read the current issue of DNA Monthly ...

Tags: light, light therapy, DNA, DNA activation, 2012, Mayan calendar, Braden, fractal, biología, iluminación

Follow Crow Rising on Twitter!

http://sol.gaia.com — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 17:45:28 GMT

Tags: Twitter, Sol Luckman, writing, free, fiction, nonfiction, humor, DNA, consciousness, imagination

Blame It on Rio

http://sol.gaia.com — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 22:48:34 GMT

Have you ever finished something, only to begin it all over again? Have you ever stared death in the face, only to realize it was actually life? Follow our protean Hero's epic, but no less comical, Adventure of being human to the ends of the earth in Book VI of the BEGINNER'S LUKE Series in whose conclusion nothing is really concluded--which is precisely the point.

(from Book VI, Morphametosis)

Life as an imaginary author named Sol Luckman carried on much the same as when I was an imaginary character named Luke Soloman—with a handful of noteworthy exceptions. First, as a native of South America, I developed an instinctual craving for tapioca. Second, I noticed my Portuguese sounded more clipped, more “Spanish,” an equatorial sotaque with subtle Amazonian intonations. Third, I remarked my posture improved, that I tended to hold myself more erect as my overall bearing became more—for lack of a better word—noble. Fourth and finally, I began to pick up on a marked difference in people’s attitudes toward me.

No longer “white,” I came to realize I wasn’t just dispossessed in the first impressions of the ruling class, wasn’t just another human being temporarily out of luck maybe but a fellow Homo sapiens all the same. I was another species entirely, a distant genetic cousin, one measurably lower on the evolutionary ladder—an inequality not even money, which I now had enough of to last me a while, could erase.

But fortunately, dinheiro did have a way of opening closed doors. I was able to move into a furnished penthouse (third-floor) apartment in a quaint little building in Gávea with picturesque views of the jungle out my bedroom and study windows and a landlord willing to overlook the fact I was indigenous (as opposed to indigent)—for three months’ rent in advance plus my security deposit.

And so it was with Luke Soloman steadily becoming a figment of the past that I, Sol Luckman, a figment of the present, took up independent residence for the first time. Like any pseudonym worth his salt, I focused my new existence on writing. I bought a used laptop with a printer and picked up where I’d left off when distrações got the best of me: Chapter Three of Book IV, “Le Dépanneur,” for now writing as Sol writing about Luke, though knowing I’d eventually be writing as Sol writing about Sol, even though I’d still be author and protagonist of the Beginner’s Luke Series ...

It may sound confusing, but in reality it was childishly simple: as author of my authorial self, I was merely drawing a circle.

•

If I could have designed my ideal workspace, it would have been my study. The natural lighting, the white stucco walls, the gentle whirring of the ceiling fan, the antique roller chair, the little brazil-wood desk facing the large French window opening outward onto the mata from where I could peer out over my laptop at diminutive furry-faced monkeys called micos playing, where for a refresher I could drift away from the digitized screen and admire the rolling and frothing in swell after swell of dense tropical vegetation complete with enormous humanoid sunflowers bowing and swaying. I often fancied myself a latter-day Hemingway scribbling stories on safari, and was always a little dépaysé emerging from my remote African bungalow into the chic hustle and bustle of Rio.

I soon began to entertain hopes of a more sustained, more focused life in letters. Not counting Carnaval week and, later, several days when I was ill, I entered a period of unparalleled productivity that lasted through April during which I finished Book IV, capping it off with “The Last Métro,” and forged ahead into Book V, The Accidental Gringo—transitioning Luke from France to Brazil, staging his farce in emigration, then landing him in the Sasquema household with its multiple layers of intrigue. Initially, I wasn’t sure how to extract him from such a fix. But I had faith if I just kept writing, I’d figure out a way to construct an appropriate dénouement.

Speaking of the Sasquema household, Rita found me before January was out, showing up early one morning as I was slicing a pineapple for breakfast, clutching a tattered suitcase in one bony hand and the boom-box I’d given her for Christmas in the other.

“Meu filho, you’ve changed!” she said tearfully as we embraced.

“How do I look?”

“Better.”

“Your timing, Rita, if not your tact, is impecavel. Por favor, won’t you join me for breakfast?”

“I couldn’t possibly do that, Senhor Luckman.”

“Por favor, call me Sol.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that, Sol.”

I finally prevailed on her to be my guest, which didn’t stop her from trying to wait on me hand and foot. But I’d already made up my mind Rita’s indentured servant days were over. She was getting frail and, though she never complained, you could tell she had a bad back by the way she held her hand over her hip as if her sacrum would fold like an accordion otherwise.

After much lobbying over the course of several days, I succeeded in persuading her to move out of the little dependência (where she’d already set up her shrine to Juscelino, which stayed put) into the spare bedroom. I even offered to hire a maid, a maid for the maid, but that was where Rita drew the line. I think I actually hurt her pride.

“This old bird can still pull her weight, Senhor Luckman.”

“Por favor, call me Sol.”

“This old bird can still pull her weight, Sol.”

In the end we settled on a compromise: I would do the bulk of the shopping and help her clean the apartment every other week, and she would do the cooking, washing and laundry. “But no excessive ironing,” I insisted. “I don’t need my underwear or socks ironed, entendeu?”

“Entendi, Senhor Luckman.”

“Por favor, Rita, call me Sol.”

“Entendi, Sol.”

•

Not counting the inherent debauchery of Carnaval week with its institutionalized strategies for decadence, which I must say I enjoyed firsthand (even though in more sober moments I agree with those who contend Carnaval is just a big smokescreen designed to hide Brazil’s misery behind a drunken, orgiastic haze of “alegria”)—I say, the mayhem of Carnaval aside, while making major strides on my novel I also came to feel more “balanced” as Sol Luckman than I ever had as Luke Soloman.

I purchased a membership to the Clube do Flamengo with its complex of outdoor Olympic pools and started exercising again, stroking back and forth under the crisp azure sky, emerging from the meditative waters to behold the Cristo Redentor atop Corcovado above the amendoeiras, arms outstretched poised for a spectacular high dive, then reclining exhausted and remade all chiseled and tan on the bleachers in the sunshine admiring the occasional toffee-colored Brasileira dripping wet fresh from her own swim.

When I didn’t feel like swimming, I went running around Lagoa, nearly ten kilometers in a circle door-to-door from my building over the course of which I often traveled back in my mind’s eye to Pulpit Hill, to all the times I, or rather Luke, went running from himself that fall when he was just beginning to connect with his lonely calling, crunching the dry leaves as he zipped around the Gargoyle Castle Loop in the chill fall afternoons ...

But filled with bittersweet nostalgia, delicious saudade as such memories were, I liked it better when it rained and washed away Luke’s past, when I, Sol, became temporarily immersed in my own vibrant present—braving the lightning, cool rain feathering down on my hot skin, running with mounting excitement through an exotic landscape peopled with thousands of strangers I longed to befriend.

Rain, even the facsimile thereof, always had that kind of energizing effect on me. I could be sitting on my bed reading, for instance, as a hard rain came pelting down outside on the mata, and suddenly, inexplicably, I’d feel breathtakingly alive. Or I could be woken up in the middle of the night by the rain and experience a massive adrenaline rush of that same wild, lyrical, hedonistic, nose-following energy characteristic of my imaginary life from the outset—only to realize it wasn’t rain but merely the sound of wind in the palms or newspapers blowing across someone’s tile balcony ... It never ceased to amaze me how many things can sound for all the world just like rain.

But back to balance. My newfound sense of equilibrium had something to do with my unfolding relationship with time. Before, as Luke, it had always seemed there was never enough time. Time was a sore spot with me, I was always running out of it.

But now, as Sol—I guess this was another difference between us—I seemed to have an abundance of time, a plethora, enough to do all the things I wanted and more: sleep late, eat well, do my chores, write, exercise, take walks, pay strict attention to ritual by slipping on my Speedo and heading to the beach. I usually grabbed a book and walked down to Posto 9 in Ipanema, a beach that sizzled with enough well-oiled flesh to fulfill even the hungriest carnivore.

Not that I was feeling particularly carnivorous. I typically had more pressing things than chasing tail on my mind. Still, lounging on the soft sand under the hot sun, the world comfortably spinning, I occasionally put down my book and spent the afternoon daydreaming sex—pushed over the edge of desire by a magnificent set of seios, one fine brown bunda too many. I always wished I could bottle the essence of a few of those beauties to take back home and enjoy at my leisure, without all the trouble and interruption of having a real woman in the house.

Most evenings I went out for a nightcap, sometimes in my neighborhood to a placed called the Skipper, sometimes walking back down to Ipanema or even occasionally as far as Copacabana before settling in somewhere and unwinding over a few chopps. Usually, I kept to myself. But every now and then, I’d strike up a conversation with someone. It was easy to tell when a Carioca was making moves on you. The way her words cut simultaneously in both directions, the way her generalizations suggested the particular Moment.

I’m not being vain—just honest. You’d be amazed how many women are tired of the standard macho fare and will practically throw themselves at someone with a little sensitivity. I rarely responded in kind to such advances, but I did come up with many interesting observations on my nights out. I often noticed, for example, how the average Brazilian man was constantly playing with his crotch in public. Did he mean to call attention to it, I wondered, or was he reaching for it like a wallet he feared had been stolen?

I always looked forward to the walk back along the beach, illuminated at intervals by floodlights, making the ocean appear green and unfathomable, liquid emerald. In many ways this was the best part of my day, better even than the morning spent writing, the part where I reconnected with the other half of myself, the half born not of words but of motion.

Even at midnight the beach was packed—a sensory overload of cars, taxis, pedestrians, joggers, bikers, Rollerbladers, tourists, whores, pimps, vendors, dealers, soccer jocks and, of course, your occasional wayward mariner. Feasting on the sights, sounds and smells, catching glimpses of the Redentor floating on a magic carpet of underlit clouds high overhead, listening to snippets of distant pagode as the waves crashed close by, enjoying the mingled scents of caramelo, cigarro and cerveja, I plugged back into the part of me that was and would always be a wanderer, a drifter, a stranger in a strange land, a flâneur strolling through life’s crowded cities.

“Meu coração vagabundo ...” Caetano Veloso’s lyrics often found their way into my thoughts during those pleasantly buzzed strolls. I did have a vagabondish heart, a heart filled with wanderlust—and also just plain lust. My signature desire for Experience, to be a pilgrim on the Experience Trail, to follow the twisted, mapless, sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet path my soul had called me to, had never been greater. Becoming Sol had revived my passionate inner explorer, reawoken the Bunyanesque traveler in me, injected my spirit again with dreams both wet and dry.

Even after so many changes and challenges, I still longed for the Adventure, I still yearned to play in the Magic. That was the romantic in me. I was twenty-seven and it was almost too easy to get caught up in romance with oneself in Rio.

There were times, hardly rare, when it seemed I’d never grow old, never tire, never die. And though romance be illusory, a construct that has nothing to do with reality per se, I vowed to maintain it alive and well in me, vowed to preserve that one fragment of wholeness even as wholeness, in a world falling apart at the seams, was itself fragmented. This was my Keatsian project for my new incarnation, my own Negative Capability. Amid the slings and arrows of the steady decline of Western “civilization,” I would insist on dreaming myself whole until, like Adam, I awoke to find my dream come true.

•

But to be fair, my dreams (sometimes cleverly disguised as nightmares) had always had a way of coming true—mostly because I was stubborn enough to keep dreaming, but at least in part because the universe was generally willing to lend a hand. Thus it was that yet another dream of mine came true when I least expected it.

Starting around Carnaval, I began running into this one particular fellow on a regular basis. In most ways he was utterly nondescript—so nondescript, in fact, he was altogether remarkable.

He was probably, I don’t know, in his forties, though he could have been decades older or decades younger. His build was somewhere between average and—depending on the lighting—slightly stout or somewhat slight. His hair wasn’t especially short or long. His facial features were both highly distinctive and belonging to no one. In fact, he didn’t seem to possess the defining characteristics of any race and stood out in my mind as a sort of unique gray.

There was something of the chameleon in his nature with which I identified when I thought about it—which I didn’t until I started encountering him everywhere: dancing in the Sambódromo during one of Carnaval’s big desfiles when he handed me a handkerchief dipped in a mild hallucinogen for sniffing called lança perfume ... coming to my senses on the beach in Leme the following sunrise beside a buxom mulatta to find him, whoever he was, asleep beside another mulatta nearby ... hanging out drinking a chilled coco recharging my dead batteries in preparation for another evening of fun that Fat Tuesday at a barraca in Arpoador when life had temporarily grown calm again like a wave that had crashed and fantailed out across the sand ... at the appetizer table during a ritzy post-Carnaval birthday party in Botafogo I’d been invited to by a stranger when I spent the evening chatting with a female veterinarian with an ugly face but a killer body, about dogs ... dining alone a couple weeks later on a Candomblé night (when Rita didn’t cook) at my favorite restaurant, Bozo, in Leblon, when I discovered him (also by himself) seated at an adjacent table having exactly the same meal I was having: baked badejo, quiabo casserole and ice-cold chopp.

The last time I ran into him, and the only time we ever actually spoke, was at a strip joint in my old stomping ground, Avenida Prado Júnior in Copacabana. This was in late April a good two months after Carnaval. That very day I’d completed the final chapter of Book V, “The Vendetta,” and begun this the first chapter of Book VI, tentatively entitled Morphametosis.

There was some kind of kinky black-leather orgy thing happening onstage that had me gripped with a morbid fascination. All of a sudden, this same nondescript guy shows up, sits down at my table grinning like he could be anybody and we could be any old friends, and introduces himself as none other than the author-protagonist, the eponymous Ralfo, of my all-time favorite novel, As Confissões de Ralfo.

“Or if you like, ‘Sol,’ you can call me Sérgio.”

“Sérgio? As in Sant’Anna?”

“As in.”

“Are you for real?” I blurted out, somewhere between incredulous and star-struck like a teenage boy whose life revolves around basketball watching Michael Jordan casually stroll through the door.

“No. That’s precisely the point.”

I admit it was strange—but then what about my imaginary life isn’t strange? Strange and filled with impossible Magic, with absurdly profound stories taking place in the written world true as only fiction can be.

“You’re, like, my hero!” I gushed.

“No, Sol, you’re, like, mine.”

This was almost too much. My hero was actually calling me his hero. For an aspiring writer, it was like having Jack Kerouac come up and awkwardly beg for your autograph. I pinched myself to verify it was really happening. It wasn’t, of course, but its impact on me was no less validating.

“Or should I call you Luke?”

“It doesn’t matter. Call me whatever you like. It’s all the same.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Yes, I imagine you do.”

“I just wanted to give you my personal parabéns on your masterpiece-in-progress before you move on.”

“Before I—move on?”

“As you’re going to be doing any day now.”

“I see.”

“And please forgive me for kibitzing in the middle of your narrative, but I especially enjoyed ‘Doutor Soloman Enters Brazil.’ I was quite flattered, in fact. It was so obviously a takeoff of that chapter in my novel where Ralfo is interrogated by the Goddamn City police. No one has ever paid me homage like that.”

“Plagiarism is the highest form of flattery.”

“Well said.”

“Really, when it comes right down to it, there are only copies.”

“Indeed.”

We ordered the first of many rounds of coqueteis and spent the rest of the evening talking literature, or rather lamenting the sorry state of it, commiserating the way realism had bedded down with capitalism and pseudo-science to relegate the likes of fictitious entities such as ourselves to the status (or lack thereof) of marginal figures, curiosities at best.

“But the times are changing, Sol. Mark my words. The day will soon come when people wake up to the fact that the only true reality lies in the imagination.”

“I sure hope you’re right.”

“I am. Trust me.”

We were both bombed when, hours later, we parted with a hug and a fraternal “Boa sorte” on the sidewalk. It must have been four in the morning. I watched him wobble into a taxi headed for his home in Laranjeiras, then turned and strolled up Prado Júnior, hanging a right onto Nossa Senhora de Copacabana with the heat lightning flickering silently in the reddish sky in a way that struck me as—somehow—already a poignant reminder of itself, a mnemonic device with which someday to recall my time in Rio.

No, it didn’t make sense—but the feeling things were about to change was almost palpable. I imagined I could hear the Voice of the Road calling my name as I crossed a strangely deserted Avenida Atlântica and, removing my shoes, walked close along the empty shoreline contemplating, in the wake of my tête-à-tête with Sérgio/Ralfo, my own dual career as a writer and fictional human being.

I realized there was actually precious little that separated the two, that as a human being I was learning to be a writer, and as a writer I was learning to be a human being ... And then it occurred to me, approaching Ponta de Arpoador, I’d spent my entire imaginary life learning how to take a walk.

This is a metaphor, of course. The beauty of a metaphor, as I’ve remarked elsewhere, is it doesn’t have to be real to ring true. When I say I’d spent my whole life learning how to take a walk, I’m aiming at something a little larger than putting the leash on Fido and taking him out for his daily spin. I really mean I’d been learning how to take a walk. I still wasn’t very good at it. As Luke I’d become such an expert at doing I’d never truly learned how to go about being.

Now, as Sol, I was working on—or playing at—just being. The next morning, undoubtedly, I would return to doing—but when I did, I hoped I wouldn’t forget how to be, hoped I might find a way to marry the doing with the being, transcend dialectics, combine Art and Life in the singular act of existing.

I lit a cigarette, a clove I happened to have in my pocket, and walked in the water smoking it, thinking how I was indeed extremely happy with this person I’d become, thinking how if I died right then and there, if thieves murdered me in cold blood and my body bobbed trailing red ink out to sea, it had been a terrific imaginary life. Call me crazy, but I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

A waning gibbous was sailing in and out of sparse clouds, a swollen ruby banana of a moon like a strobe in the heat lightning radiating the limitless possibilities of the Moment, a coagulated spheroid like a living cell under a microscope teeming with enzymes, ribosomes and DNA hovering above the dark brooding ocean. Every time I gazed up at it, my own blood coursed faster through my veins, as if I’d just stuck my finger into the socket of the world, into the Magic of it all. Electric Luke. Rather: electric Sol.

I seemed to have lost none of my receptive powers, not even an inch off the old internal antennae that had so many times before put me in contact with the Adventure, the sparkling effervescent stuff of life itself: in a word, in my dear dead friend Malcolm’s word, with It.

If anything, It now played a larger role than It ever had—if only because I’d allowed myself to experience It’s underside, the dark subterranean complement to the shiny happy semisphere above. Again, to borrow a Malcolmism, I’d permitted myself to C the Big Picture. For better or for worse, for better and for worse, I’d been C-ing the Big Picture through a combination of self-motivated eye-opening and seemingly random events spawned by chaos itself that had slapped me into consciousness like a newborn receiving his first cruel whack across the bottom.

Of course, the biggest slap had been Malcolm himself. No whimpers there—he’d gone out with a bang. I was just glad I could remember him now without so much pain, though every now and then I got to thinking, for one reason or another, he’d never died, that it was getting time I should visit him again in the Funhouse ... Then all of a sudden it was as if he’d fallen off that ledge only yesterday ... Then I realized he actually lived on in me, that I’d not only internalized but externalized him, emulating not only his attitudes but his very person.

And what would Malcolm have done on such a glorious night but precisely what I did? What would he have done, feeling It enter him like one of Zeus’s thunderbolts, suddenly feeling at one with It, feeling so far out there, so in the middle of nowhere, yet at the same time so at the center of It all, so now here—I say, what would Malcolm have done but spontaneously strip off his clothes, streak naked across the cool night sand, and jump like a madman into the unseen ocean?

Resurfacing, I stood lit up like a Christmas tree in the middle of the surging waves, gazing up at that miracle of a moon, vowing to take some of It with me, inside, so I could nibble on It whenever I was especially in need of an upper, whenever I found myself drowning like Davie Jones in the seaweed of monotony and tedium.

Inspired, I breathed in the Moment and was breathed by it, by It, Tonight, tonight on my lips, a wayward mariner on the wave-washed prow of my little life’s ship navigating the cosmos ... Feeling something like sandpaper brush against my thigh, I instinctively reached down and fished up a huge curling starfish out of the sea.

When I finally struggled up onto the beach with my starfish, I discovered the current had taken me down a ways from where I’d abandoned my clothes. I was standing in my birthday suit beside the hump of a makeshift sand altar to Iemanjá—flowers, shells, extinguished candles and burnt incense precisely arranged on a manmade dune. Having no other offering, there with the moon flickering down showering the scene with mystical dust, I knelt beside the altar and, with a simple prayer of thanks, placed the starfish exactly in the middle.

•

The following afternoon, having slept late and written little, I ventured down to Posto 9. While I was there, a giant stingray came swimming along close to shore, an enormous silent shadow gliding by just beneath the water’s surface, and everybody stood up to watch.

At first people thought it was a shark or maybe a whale. But then up and down the beach you could hear the shouting: “Raia! Raia!” All the surfers and favela kids went crazy and started swimming after it and throwing empty coconuts at it.

But I just stood there at the crossroads of the Moment, conscious It was about to propel me back into motion and onto the road again—conscious that the dark figure wasn’t a shark or a whale or really even, truth be known, a stingray. It was Iemanjá showing up to wish her protégé a boa viagem. And até logo.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Sol Luckman. All Rights Reserved.

Why stay the course when you can begin again? Request your FREE copies of Books I-III of this "modern-day ALICE IN WONDERLAND" (Reader Views) today!

Tags: Rio de Janeiro, adventure, novel, free, life, humor, imagination, author, writing, transformation

A Brief Introduction to Wave-genetics

http://sol.gaia.com — Wed, 01 Apr 2009 01:58:45 GMT

Thanks for your interest in DNA Monthly, your FREE online resource for cutting-edge news about who you truly are.

Read the current issue (contents below) at http://potentiation.net/DNAmonthly/April09.html.

Read back issues from Volumes I-V at http://potentiation.net/DNAmonthly/index.html.

Subscribe for FREE at http://potentiation.net/page13.html.

To your potential!

DNA MONTHLY

your FREE online resource for cutting-edge news about who you truly are

April 2009 (Vol. 5, No. 4)

Notable & Quotable: "In the beginning was the sound, the sound as logos. If you remember, God's command 'Let there be ...' at the beginning of the biblical story of creation was first tone and sound. For the Sufis, the mystics of Islam, this is the core of things: God created the world from sound [...]

"In Egypt, the 'singing sun' created the world with its 'cry of light.' In an ancient Egyptian scripture it is written that 'through the tongue of the Creator ... all Gods and everything in existence were born ... Atum and everything divine manifest themselves in the thought of the heart and in the sound of the tongue.' The symbol for 'tongue' in Egyptian hieroglyphics can also mean 'word'; it is the tongue that forms the sound that in turn carries the word [...]

"In India ... [i]n the Aitereya-Upanishad ... [o]f Brahma it is said: 'He meditated a hundred thousand years, and the result of his meditation was the creation of sound and music.

"Thus, the first act of creation was the creation of sound. Everything else came after and through it.

"Plato, in his famous dialogue Timaeus, tells that the creator constructed the world-soul (which to Plato means the idea of the cosmos) according to musical intervals and proportions. And with his music, the divine singer Orpheus was able to cast formless matter into form."

Joachim-Ernst Berendt, The World Is Sound--Nada Brahma: Music and the Landscape of Consciousness (Destiny Books, 1991)

FEATURED IN THE APRIL 2009 ISSUE OF DNA MONTHLY

1. "A Brief Introduction to Wave-genetics: Scope & Possibilities," by Peter Gariaev

2. "End-times or a New Age?," by Steve Kellogg

Nueva Columna en Español ... 3. "Presentando nuestro segundo y tercer cerebro," por Gabriella Kortsch

Also, Also ... DNA-related Definition of the Month & Did You Know?

Click here to read the current issue of DNA Monthly ...

Tags: wave-genetics, Gariaev, genetics, new science, sound healing, Regenetics, Nada Brahma, DNA, DNA activation, 2012

2012: Surf the Shift!

http://sol.gaia.com — Mon, 23 Mar 2009 17:32:33 GMT

Enjoy this stimulating Youtube video on 2012 featuring the cover image from the internationally acclaimed and bestselling CONSCIOUS HEALING: BOOK ONE ON THE REGENETICS METHOD that NEXUS NEW TIMES called "revolutionary healing science that's expanding the boundaries of being." Activate your potential to surf the Shift! Visit the Phoenix Center for Regenetics today at ... http://www.phoenixregenetics.org/page9.html

Tags: 2012, consciousness, dna-activation, enlightenment, healing, Luckman, Mayan calendar, Regenetics, video, ascension

Disappearing Acts

http://sol.gaia.com — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 22:00:55 GMT

Have you ever wanted to become someone else? Have you ever actually tried it? Follow Luke Soloman, “the ultimate iconoclast” (Apex Reviews), on the Experience Trail in a suspense- and laughter-filled interlude that starts in Paris and ends in Rio as he transforms yet again--this time into perhaps the unlikeliest character of all: the author. “A modern-day ALICE IN WONDERLAND, where anything can come alive when you start with a blank page … [Luckman] shows the reader that as individuals, we, too, have choices and potentials. There are no boundaries or rules to limit us.” --Reader Views

(from Book V, The Accidental Gringo)

“One ticket to ... Rio de Janeiro,” I stammered, self-consciously, given the rate at which I was visibly (or invisibly) dematerializing, to the Varig representative waiting behind the counter. Was it just my imagination, or did she actually shudder at the sight of my missing appendage? Was I already that grotesque?

Luckily, being November and the off-season for travel between Europe and South America, there were still last-minute seats. “Will you be traveling first, business or economy class, Monsieur?” the representative asked, in French with a slight Portuguese accent.

“First.”

“Bien sûr.”

After months of rotting away like a banana long forgotten in a drawer, months of decomposing—after a wasted spring, a squandered summer and a fall I frittered away in the most anaesthetized creative paralysis—suddenly I was alive and moving at light speed again, running (literally) for my imaginary life. What had transpired since my melodramatic epiphany in the Métro, my rediscovery of my true identity and theatrical release by Malcolm in the rain, was, in a nutshell:

Nothing.

That’s not entirely accurate. In a sense a great deal had happened. For starters, the roles had reversed. My return to Amanda, followed by our emotional reconciliation, had effected an astonishing change in her. She became a totally different person. Overnight our dynamic switched polarity, swung magnetically into an opposite scenario, one in which Amanda suddenly loved more than she hated me—loved me, in fact, more than she loved herself.

This time, it was she not I who offered to compromise, put her Art on the back burner, sell her soul by going to work as an underpaid computer graphics lackey in the real world so I could stay home in our cozy penthouse apartment on rue Phoque and write my little heart out, so I might have time and space to finish the series of novels that would make me famous and us independently wealthy—the series, enfin, that would set us both free.

But contrary to plan, I didn’t perk right up at the opportunity to create again, didn’t forge boldly ahead into Book IV, Luke in Exile, didn’t stay true to my vision of myself as a man of letters in a brave new world of literature ... Instead, I spent my days in a bathrobe and slippers getting fatter and dumber while eating TV dinners and watching French soap operas, a lifetime pleasantly removed from my odious job at the Lobotomist, yes, but as yet uncommitted to a new course of action, a fresh direction.

I became a lounge lizard, a couch potato, less than worthless from a narrative perspective, sometimes with the evanescent thought of sitting down to write but never sufficient motivation (even with Amanda cheering me on) to do so.

Thus I wasted her sacrifice, pissed away her enormous gift as I discovered (to our mutual disappointment) no one can ever do it for you. After everything, after Malcolm, after the Métro, after all the teas, cakes, ices and a platter full of crises, I still wasn’t back to living my own imaginary life—I was still, in essence, living someone else’s—and now had neither motion nor language to sustain my textual existence ... until, at last, I started to disappear.

“Window or aisle?”

“Sorry?”

“Would you like a window or aisle seat, Monsieur?”

“Window.”

“Checked baggage?”

“Non merci.”

“Do you have any checked baggage?”

“No.”

“Carry-ons?”

“Just my trusty old buffalo leather duffel bag here.”

“Could I please see your passport?”

“Certainly.”

Then one day, the day I unexpectedly ended up at Orly International Airport, my thumb just vanished. It happened completely out of the blue when, having finished watching the French version of The Young and the Restless, having cried my little tear or two, I’d miraculously summoned the energy to drag my lazy tub of lard up off the couch and wash the leaning towers of dishes that had accumulated during my pampered desuetude.

Significantly, it was my right thumb. But strangely, there was no pain. There wasn’t even any blood. I couldn’t find my thumb anywhere in the sudsy water—not even after draining the sink. Nor had, I verified in a growing panic, the disposal chewed it off. I searched for it everywhere, my thumb, combing every nook and cranny at a fever pitch. But the simple, unavoidable fact of the matter was: my poor thumb was gone.

In hindsight it’s patently obvious this was a most natural consequence for a picaresque character such as I, a creature, as I’ve elsewhere explained, born of the road and of words. And the thumb, it must be admitted, was a nice touch—being a symbol of the road I’d abandoned as well as the thumb on my writing hand.

So it didn’t take me long, after I calmed down enough to get my bearings, after I sat down at the kitchen table and poured myself a double scotch then another and drank enough to stop shaking, to figure out what was happening, to understand I was disappearing because the conditions of my existence, the very terms of my survival, had been neglected. Not that this offered much consolation when the rest of my right-hand fingers began to dissolve one by one and the invisible ink covered my wrist and began to creep up, ever so weirdly, toward my elbow ...

“Monsieur Soloman, I must ask you a few routine questions.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Did you pack your own bag?”

“Oui.”

“Are you carrying any objects that do not personally belong to you?”

“None that I know of.”

“Are you carrying any weapon or object that might in any way be used or construed as a weapon?”

“No.”

I was lying through my teeth. I still had my Swiss army knife somewhere in my bag. I prayed it would be overlooked.

“One moment, s’il vous plaît.”

But you know, I’d had intimations something like this was coming. Following weeks of sleeping peacefully at night, from my regular profound repose in which, if I dreamed of anything, I dreamed of profound repose—I say, at some point in my extended vacation from life’s pages, I’d started to hear the Voice of the Road in my dreams, first whispering then calling then shouting my name.

“What do you want?” I finally demanded, annoyed.

“EVERYTHING.”

Then one day in the midst of my bourgeois househusband “bliss,” there it suddenly was again—this thing that at first felt like an itch, then a rash, then a pustular inflammation. The old wanderlust erupting. The burning desire to go everywhere, meet everyone and do everything—then write it all down—cracking me back open after all this time. Trying to ignore it was like trying to ignore a case of herpes. Not that I would know. I scratched until I bled, but the wanderlust just kept itching.

“FOLLOW ME,” the road insisted.

“Where?”

“ANYWHERE.”

I was indecisive, though. I couldn’t seem to make up my mind about anything—where I wanted to go, how I wanted to go, even (reflecting on my personal comfort, how coddled and cloyed I was) if I wanted to go. I kept processing possible scenarios for the future the way a high-speed computer flies through different combinations trying to crack a code. But I still had no idea whether I was going or staying. The only thing I could say with relative assurance was either one day I’d leave, or I wouldn’t.

Eventually, between soaps, I got around to making lists of possible destinations, detailed lists of theoretical itineraries that crisscrossed the globe like rubber bands—yet in the end I remained unable, of my own volition, without something dramatic like starting to disappear by degrees happening to me, to set myself adrift again on the old High Seas where anything, anything at all, could happen. Which, despite being precisely the point of sailing, the point of navigating the uncharted waters of Chance and Possibility rather than growing down predictable roots in the Backyard of Mediocrity, was also precisely what scared the devil out of me.

But after being a castaway so long, shore-locked on my tiny one-man island, the surrounding sea frozen in a real-world winter, at least I was finally listing again—listing, listing, listing in my little life’s ship, preparing (if only speculatively) to resume my destiny as a wayward mariner. Though I found myself waffling between embracing the uncertainty of a mapless existence and being totally, thoroughly terrified by it, at least I was waffling, going through the motions, undergoing a slow but steady sea change. I knew I had to regain some sense of plugging back into the Adventure even if it meant throwing the proverbial baby out with the proverbial bathwater. Again.

“The total price of your ticket, Monsieur, including airport tax, comes to 7,777 francs.”

“Curious.”

“How would you like to pay?”

“Cash.”

I was on the verge of a radical move, no doubt about it. I’d intuited as much the night before I started to vanish, when Amanda came home from work to a disaster of dirty dishes spilling Dr. Seuss-like out of the sink, saucers used as ashtrays, cigarette burns on the couch, the floor covered with so many food fragments we could have cooked the whole thing and eaten it like a giant pizza—when she returned exhausted and empty to find not dinner piping-hot on the table but me seated comfortably, having not written a word, having not so much as lifted a pencil, amid it all like a retarded baby content in its messy playpen—when I watched the tears well up in her eyes at the sight of this mirrorball of contradictions, this talented do-nothing, this uninspired genius she couldn’t (for all her martyrdom) change—when, my pity for her aroused, I stood and took her in my arms and made love to her there on the scummy floor, our bare asses steamrolling pasta shells and dried bits of steak hâché—when, afterward, I tried to explain what was happening to me even though I didn’t understand it myself, tried to explain why I couldn’t possibly accept so large a gift as her whole person—when in the middle of my blabbering I gazed into her still-red eyes scalloped beneath with dark rings and suddenly felt hot tears spilling down my own cheeks—

“Nobody forced you to stay with me, Luke.”

“I know. I’ve been your prisoner entirely by choice.”

Sincere tears, crocodile tears, rummy tears, tears of recognition? Recognition of what? that all-or-nothing meant nothing? or that it meant all?

I lifted her geisha face and stared into her almond eyes. Sadness infused her with a special beauty, bittersweet in quality, like a late-blooming flower spreading its delicate petals on the eve of a killing frost. Desirous to protect such a frail flower, I pulled her to me and held her warmly in my arms.

In making love to her, I realized the next day as I watched my elbow fade like an ember, I’d been saying goodbye. I was saying goodbye to her even as I said goodbye to myself, my old self, threw dirt on my coffin and placed a wreath on my tombstone. For no sooner had I finished my third double scotch than I knew exactly what I had to do to avoid annihilation: I had to leave. Immediately.

There was no time to call Amanda, no time to scribble a note, no time to pack my bag. Who wanted a bunch of stuff anyway? For all its unsettling abruptness, this might be the greatest opportunity of my imaginary existence to follow my nose down unexpectedly fulfilling paths, travel the Experience Trail unencumbered, carrying only the essential baggage.

Without further ado I quickly changed into street clothes (covering my invisibility as best I could under my leather jacket), pocketed Amanda’s stash of cash in the atelier (telling myself I’d pay her back later), then grabbed my duffel containing (I made sure to check) my to-be-continued series manuscript, Swiss army knife and passport, as I headed out the door with only one arm.

•

By the time my taxi pulled up at Orly, I was missing my right shoulder entirely. But it seemed I was disappearing less rapidly thanks to the taxi’s movement. With difficulty, feeling unbalanced, I shouldered my bag and paid the driver, tipping him handsomely, then entered the main terminal and scanned the Départs screen. For a few seconds I waffled between hemispheres, but when I finally settled on the Western, it didn’t take long to select my destination: Rio de Janeiro.

Or maybe I should say it didn’t take Rio (“Last call for passengers to Rio de Janeiro,” a voice announced over the airport speakers) long to select me. In any case the name was like sugarcane alcohol on my tongue.

Rio. Just whispering it filled me with sweetly intoxicating images of graceful palm trees lining white crescent beaches, turquoise water and lapis lazuli skies, wavelike sidewalks and sunlight dancing with shadows in sweltering Latin streets, sultry mulattas shaking honey-colored flesh to mouthwatering samba rhythms. Images, in short, wherein a future me was already in progress ...

“Your ticket and boarding pass, Monsieur. Have a pleasant flight.”

“Merci. I will.”

Or would I? It occurred to me then I’d never flown before, not that I could recall (which, as always, wasn’t saying much)—and that, in fact, I had a bona fide phobia of flying. Flashes of footage of incendiary death gripped me at the mere thought of takeoff. “I’m afraid we’re experiencing minor technical problems,” I could hear the panicking captain announce as one of the wings broke off in a deafening explosion.

Then there was the very real possibility I’d acted too late and, despite my efforts, was about to disappear completely. Discretely feeling inside my jacket with my left hand as I passed through security, I was relieved to discover that, though my shoulder remained missing, my collarbone was still holding.

And then I was walking to my terminal, then approaching my gate, then handing another representative my boarding pass, then walking down the carpeted tunnel, then watching a bent crone in a wheelchair being wheeled past only to spring up out of the chair like a gazelle and briskly board the plane, then timidly boarding myself and stashing my bag in the overhead and sitting down in my comfortable first-class window seat with lots of gizmos beside an Asian man in a tailored suit engrossed in an illegible newspaper.

No sooner had I settled in than a stewardess stopped and politely inquired whether I’d like something to drink. I politely asked for champagne. When she politely brought a glass, I politely drank it and politely asked for another. We repeated this, politely, twice more before takeoff.

I stared out the window into the early darkness as the plane taxied down the runway, the little white lights on the ground blipping by like fireflies on a timer. Engines roaring, the g-force sucked me back as the plane shuddered up into the air and everything started jumping around like epileptic videotape.

Briefly, I experienced the urge in the pit of my clenching bowels to spew scotch and champagne all over the forward cabin. I was staring down the barrel at twelve hours of pungent socks, tasteless movies and babies crying, and had every excuse to be jetting along with every care in the world ... But it suddenly seemed my destiny, the sky. To soar on eagle’s wings. Skywalker—that was one of Blue’s nicknames for me.

I mustered the courage to peer out the window again as the earth spilled away. The plane ascended sharply and, dizzyingly, seemed to fold back into itself as it oriented its trajectory. For about ten seconds, Paris revealed itself below one last time, a vast illuminated starfish, the Sacré-Coeur, Notre-Dame, the Panthéon, Orsay, Beaubourg ... my old city from the days of my old self. Even as I was borne away into another incarnation, I wanted the scene, like a lover’s face, to imprint itself permanently in my fluid brain.

•

An hour later, pale cloud carpet below, stars all around, I found myself slicing through international airspace at the start of yet another installment of the Adventure. Even God didn’t know where I was. Somewhere over the Atlantic. Where Europe becomes the Americas. And vice versa.

What realizations and revelations would result from this voyage I didn’t presume to guess. I could arrive only to turn around in my tracks and head back. Or I could never head back, could disappear into the Amazon like a wayward Horatio Alger.

I could go AWOL from society, slide off civilization’s map, compose my masterpiece under tent eaves in the rainforest. I could violate common sense in most unseemly fashion, throw it to the winds for the umpteenth time. I could spontaneously transform, wake up famous, turn amnesiac again, become the Wandering Jew, be abducted by aliens ... Burning the bridge when you get there. Or better yet: burning the bridge while you’re still on it. Learning to fly of necessity, while in the act of falling.

Inebriated and making perfectly lucid nonsense, I was again sailing the old High Seas bound for a destination that might never have existed, that might never exist except in the turning pages of my mind. Discovering the plane’s motion had restored me, that my arm had returned and I was good as new, that Luke was back and more justified than ever in pushing boldly ahead into the singular fictitious existence I kept creating for myself, I acknowledged (before sinking into a drooling stupor for the duration of the flight) how reappearing was only a metaphor for the totality of my imaginary life—that, as with everything else, if I would only believe in it sincerely enough, I could succeed in making my destination, if not strictly factual, at least undeniably true.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Sol Luckman. All Rights Reserved.

Why stay the course when you can begin again? Request your FREE copies of Books I-III of this "modern-day ALICE IN WONDERLAND" (Reader Views) today!

Tags: Paris, France, fiction, free, imagination, postmodern, magical realism, novel, writing, consciousness

La Activación del ADN, la curación y la iluminación

http://sol.gaia.com — Mon, 09 Mar 2009 19:09:28 GMT

SOL LUCKMAN

Hoy existen una variedad de técnicas que facilitan la adaptación a formas de pensamiento vanguardistas y sus correspondientes estructuras biológicas o "formas pensadas". Por varios siglos, muchas modalidades han sido desarrolladas para desplegar el espíritu humano (el "Santo Grial") que existe como un potencial genético en todos.

La alquimia es un ejemplo excelente de la antigüedad. Etimológicamente, alquimia deriva del árabe al (la) y khame (oscuridad) y puede ser definida como la ciencia de crear la luz a partir de la oscuridad. Los estudiosos de esta disciplina descubrirían con el tiempo, que la meta verdadera de alquimia no era convertir el plomo en oro, sino más bien transformar la biología humana en la fisiología de la luz dorada. Enfocándolo de una manera un poco distinta, el objetivo primario de la alquimia es comenzar una era de iluminación bioespiritual, o la creación de lo que ha sido llamado "lightbody" (Cuerpo Luminoso o Cuerpo de Luz).

Actualmente, muchas más técnicas de activación del Cuerpo de Luz se han hecho disponibles. Mi pareja Leigh y yo hemos sido bendecidos al permitírsenos desarrollar una de tales técnicas. El Método de la Regenética emplea las combinaciones específicas de sonidos e intenciones, que son aspectos diferenciados de energía de la creación primaria ("torsión") del amor incondicional, para estimular el potencial latente del ADN diseñado para facilitar la evolución de seres humanos hacia unidades de conciencia y su correspondiente fisiología de luz.

El ADN, como Gregg Braden nos dice en su obra The God Code (El Código de Dios), es por su naturaleza codificada y sagrada, un principio unificador para la humanidad--en si mismo capaz de traer paz y armonía a una población planetaria encarada con la decisión entre sucumbir a las crisis o abrazar las oportunidades. El hecho de que podamos activar nuestro ADN para ampliar nuestra cosmovisión y, en el proceso, evolucionar una biología basada en la conciencia de la unidad es verdaderamente un regalo divino. Nos encontramos en plena coyuntura histórica cuando, para citar a Barbara Marx Hubbard, "Debemos decidir entre la evolución consciente, o la extinción por el desperdicio de nuestros poderes".

El Método de Regenética está integrado por una serie de activaciones de ADN que establecen colectivamente la condición previa del desenvolvimiento del Cuerpo de Luz. El primero de estos, la Potencialización, activa el ADN para remodelar los campos electromagnéticos del cuerpo, reiniciando el cianotipo bio-energético humano a un "circuito infinito" basado en el número 8, numero alquímicamente transformador.

El ADN ha sido comparado a una antena que conecta la humanidad a la Fuente cuya recepción puede ser nublada por la toxicidad y el trauma. La Potencialización activa el ADN para que éste comience a removerlas a ambas, es decir, a la toxicidad y al trauma, estableciendo una conexión más clara a través de la resonancia armónica con la frecuencia del amor incondicional que procede del espiral dimensional de lo más alto, emitiendo ondas de sonido e intención (la luz) del Sol Curativo en el Centro Galáctico. Es decir, la Potencialización afina el ADN a la energía primaria de la Fuente.

Leigh y yo nos consideramos simplemente mediadores, que facilitamos el desenvolvimiento de la energía bio-espiritual del propio individuo. Los humanos nos curamos (evolucionamos) a nosotros mismos en la realidad. Es importante señalarlo, y cabe aclarar que no se puede ser demasiado enfático en este punto. Como el investigador en mitología William Henry nos recuerda, el "Sol Curador emerge de nuestros adentros cuando nos ponemos en equilibrio con sus energías … imaginando estas energías curativas … podemos afinarnos con éstas. Lo que podamos concebir lo podemos lograr". Agregaría que nos equilibramos con el Sol Sanador no solamente mirando a nuestro interior, pero antes que nada adoptando una actitud interna del amor incondicional.

La enfermedad que tuve, y la que inspiró en mi el Método de Regenética, tenía afinidades con el Síndrome de Fatiga Crónica (CFIDS, por sus siglas en inglés), Síndrome de Intolerancia Química Múltiple (MCS, por sus siglas en inglés) y la fibromialgia--y fue desencadenada por la toxicidad y el trauma de una serie de vacunas contra la hepatitis y la fiebre amarilla que recibí en la primavera de 1995. Después de años de sufrimiento intenso y tratamientos costosos (y en su mayor parte ineficaces), mi punto crucial llego cuando me di cuenta de que sí podía "reiniciarme" de algún modo a nivel genético, mis más de treinta síntomas debilitantes se resolverían a sí mismos finalmente.

Me encontré en esta senda después de leer un libro perturbador escrito por Leonard Horowitz llamado Emerging Viruses (Virus Emergentes). Basando sus afirmaciones en investigaciones meticulosas, el Dr. Horowitz demuestra que las vacunas son el principio de una variedad de enfermedades autoinmunes, inclusive el SIDA. Va mas allá al exponer lo que es en esencia una guerra bacteriológica secreta, un ataque del sistema médico contra una población demasiado confiada, en su libro Healing Codes for the Biological Apocalypse (Códigos Curativos para el Apocalipsis Biológico), donde el tema principal es el uso del sonido de curar el cuerpo físico restaurándolo a la integridad genética.

Los sonidos específicos capaces de restaurar la integridad genética derivan de la escala antigua del Solfeo. Esta escala primordial de seis notas, que fue sospechosamente "perdida" por la iglesia romana durante el tiempo de Papa Johannes Magnus en el siglo XVII, fue redescubierta recientemente por Dr. Joseph Puleo como se describe en Healing Codes. Aquí es simplemente necesario indicar que las activaciones de ADN del Método de Regenética emplean la escala del Solfeo, incluso algunos eruditos creen que este es el mismo conjunto sagrado de seis notas empleadas por el Creador para idear al mundo en la misma cantidad de días. Específicamente, la Potencialización emplea la nota "Mi"--una frecuencia (528 Hz) que ha sido utilizada por biólogos moleculares de vanguardia para reparar defectos genéticos.

Habiendo descubierto a Horowitz y Puleo, tuve la fortuna de dar con otro libro que amplió mi conocimiento del inmenso potencial humano aun mucho mas: The Cosmic Serpent: DNA and the Origins of Knowledge (La Serpiente Cósmica: ADN y los Orígenes del Conocimiento), obra del antropólogo francés Jeremy Narby. The Cosmic Serpent es una exploración del ADN desde una perspectiva chamánica, describe cómo el sonido puede ser utilizado para estimular un mecanismo genético de autoreparación.

Intrigado (y a la vez desesperado) lo suficiente como para profundizar en este tema, vine a enterarme que el poder del sonido para activar ADN había sido recientemente documentado por el grupo Gariaev en Rusia. El Dr. Peter Gariaev y su equipo de genetistas y lingüistas extraordinarios demostraron que ADN dañado puede curarse sin empalmamiento genético ni ningún otro tipo de manipulación física, sino simplemente sumergiéndolo en ondas de radio y luz adaptadas a frecuencias del lenguaje humano.

Según la investigación de Gariaev, el ADN no sólo construye proteínas pero también almacena y comunica los datos en un modo decididamente lingüístico. Su equipo encontró que el ADN chatarra o ADN potencial sigue, para propósitos prácticos, las mismas reglas que gobiernan los lenguajes humanos. Para demostrar esto, la sintaxis, la semántica y la gramática del idioma y el ADN fueron comparadas.

Se descubrió que las secuencias alcalinas del ADN potencial reflejan las reglas lingüísticas de comunicación humana. Esto sugiere que muchos idiomas humanos no aparecieron al azar como se cree, pero más bien reflejan nuestra genética esencialmente similar. Las conclusiones de Gariaev se corroboran con el asombroso descubrimiento de Braden de que el nombre hebreo antiguo para Dios es el mismo código para el ADN, basado en la composición química de este ultimo de hidrogeno, nitrógeno, oxigeno y carbono. ¡Ofreciendo una prueba científica de que en el principio fue la Palabra!

Gariaev y sus colegas estudiaron también la conducta electromagnética poco común del ADN. Concluyeron que los cromosomas vivos funcionan exactamente como computadoras holográficas biológicas accionadas por la propia radiación láser del ADN. El equipo de Gariaev moduló ciertas frecuencias lingüísticas con un láser. Con esta tecnología de códigos modulados por lenguaje y traducidas en ondas de radio y de luz no sólo pudieron curar los cromosomas dañados--también regeneraron glándulas endocrinas animales, hicieron crecer dientes nuevos en adultos humanos, e incluso alteraron exitosamente la expresión genética.

Para mayor asombro, obtuvieron resultados semejantes a los documentados por el Dr. Yu Dzang Kangeng, quien fue el primero de emplear la energía de torsión para trazar las sucesiones de ADN entre organismos. Utilizando las ondas de radio y sonido adaptadas a frecuencias del lenguaje humano para reordenar el ADN, en oposición con la empalmación genética, el equipo de Gariaev literalmente transformó embriones de rana en embriones sanos de salamandra en el laboratorio.

De esta manera la metamorfosis fue lograda sin ninguno de los efectos secundarios asociados a la manipulación de genes aislados. "La naturaleza aleatoria y arriesgada de la empalmación de genes ha sido tristemente escondida al público", advierte Horowitz. "Con la terapia genética, los investigadores no pueden predecir con exactitud donde en [un cromosoma] el gene modificado se asentará, jugando con la peligrosa posibilidad de interrumpir inadvertidamente otras expresiones genéticas y funciones celulares".

Compare esto a la modificación orgánica de la expresión genética que puede ser lograda al aplicar simplemente la vibración y el idioma (o el sonido y la intención, o palabras) al ADN. El experimento histórico de Gariaev en puntos de embriogénesis del inmenso poder de lo que muchos llaman "Genética Ondular", un área que, al contrario del dogma y propaganda de la biología molecular actual, tiene una influencia obvia más primaria en el origen de la especie que la bioquímica.

Los maestros espirituales por todo el mundo siempre han insistido que nuestro código genético puede ser "potenciado" por el idioma--de ahí los efectos curativos de la oración, la hipnosis, las afirmaciones, los mantras, etc. Felizmente, la investigación de Gariaev ha demostrado estos fenómenos científicamente. Cuanto más desarrollado sea el conocimiento individual de sanador, menor será la necesidad de una muleta mecánica.

La llave a la Iluminación es el conocimiento humano, no la tecnología. La dependencia en algo fuera de nosotros mismos para curarnos, o hacernos "un todo" como mínimo nos quita nuestro poder, la peor consecuencia es venerar a un Dios falso. En un artículo en parte inspirado por el Método de la Regenética intitulado "Finding the Holy Grail" (Encontrando al Santo Grial), los psicólogos Barry y Janae Weinhold discuten con énfasis este punto, escribiendo sobre lo que ellos llaman el Sendero de la Tecnología (en contraposición con el Sendero de la Naturaleza), "Nosotros no tenemos nada contra la tecnología per se, y creemos que algunos dispositivos son útiles como impulsores. Cuándo es utilizada por mentes conectadas al corazón y al espíritu, la tecnología puede llegar a ser un instrumento útil pero no esencial para mejorar genuinamente la vida espiritual. La tecnología que carezca de una conexión al corazón y al espíritu termina siendo apenas otra caja de la que es necesaria, en cierto punto deshacerse".

Cuándo la tecnología se transforma en el único camino, "alienta la dependencia porque implica que las personas necesitan de un intermediario técnico para ayudarles a abrir sus propias puertas de la percepción. En lugar de utilizar los instrumentos primordiales con raíz en la naturaleza para impulsar a los iniciados en su retorno a la Fuente, el Sendero de la Tecnología puede acabar por despojar a las personas y alentando la co-dependencia espiritual".

Sorprendentemente, las investigaciones de Gariaev revelaron implicaciones de mayor alcance con respecto al poder curativo ilimitado del conocimiento genético humano. El equipo ruso descubrió que el ADN activado por ondas puede manipular la matriz del espacio, produciendo pequeños agujeros electromagnéticos de una naturaleza de subcuántica. Los agujeros de gusano del ADN-activado, cuyas firmas de energía son semejantes a los de puentes de Einstein-Rosen que se encuentran cerca de los agujeros negros, son las conexiones entre áreas diferentes en el Multiverso por los cuales se pueden transmitir datos, fuera del espacio-tiempo.

El ADN potencial, que regula las funciones de auto-organización transdimensional (epigenética), magnetiza estas corrientes no locales de información a si mismas y luego las direcciona hacia adelante hasta nuestra conciencia. Grazyna Fosar y Franz Bludorf, los autores de un resumen excelente de conclusiones de Gariaev, Vernetzte Intelligenz (Inteligencia Interconectada), se refieren a este proceso de transferencia de datos como hipercomunicación, señalando que a menudo ésta se experimenta como "intuición" o "inspiración".

Cuándo ocurre la hipercomunicación, según Fosar y Bludorf, un fenómeno extraordinario se observa en el ADN. Ellos toman la relación de cuando Gariaev irradió una muestra de ADN con un láser hasta un patrón típico de onda se formó en su monitor. Cuándo la muestra de ADN fue extraída, su pauta electromagnética había quedado intacta. Varios experimentos de control establecieron que el patrón todavía emanaba de la muestra ausente, cuyo campo de energía quedó aparentemente inmutado en la cámara anfitriona hasta por treinta días, causando que la luz quede dando vueltas en espiral siguiendo la forma de la doble hélice que había sido físicamente removida.

Este fenómeno no local de energía torsiónica capaz de "doblar" a la luz llego a ser famoso desde entonces como el "ADN de efecto fantasma". Se teoriza que las ondas torsiónicas del espacio exterior continúan fluyendo a través de los agujeros de gusano aún después de que el ADN ha sido removido.

La activación de ADN, remota o de otro tipo, así es explicado como una transferencia "ener-genético" del conocimiento creador universal que se manifiesta como ondas torsiónicas que estimulan un nuevo orden molecular de transposones o "genes móviles" en el ADN potencial. En cambio, el ADN potencial cambia los campos de bioenergía, entonces modifica las funciones metabólicas y de replicación en las células, facilitando la cura. Este mismo proceso de activación de ADN que promueve la sanación, por invitar más luz de torsión a las células, por definición promueve la Iluminación.

"La mayoría de las personas tienden a pensar que el ADN creó el campo [fantasma] de energía, y que el campo de energía es de algún modo apenas una sombra del ADN", escribe el autor e investigador científico David Wilcock, quien propone una fascinante reinterpretación: "Sin embargo, creo que la onda existe realmente antes del ADN … [La] única explicación lógica es que la energía fantasma del ADN es de hecho la creadora del ADN". Desde que esta energía etérica (o de torsión) ha demostrado extenderse por la galaxia, dondequiera que "las materias que crean la vida existen, sutilmente, las corrientes de presión espiral de esta energía arreglarán a las molécula de ADN para su existencia".

Mi intuición en combinación con una ardua investigación por cuenta propia me condujeron a teorizar que la combinación correcta de sonidos, intencionalmente enfocada hacia el electromagnetismo del cuerpo, podría inyectar un influjo de energía torsiónica, por una instancia, capaz de limpiar la toxicidad de vacunaciones y traumas a nivel genético y elevar el campo de bioenergía humana a una función armónica superior.

Comencé a ver a los campos electromagnéticos como el cianotipo ener-genético del individuo que no sólo puede ser repuesto como un fusible quemado pero, en el proceso, transformado. Leigh y yo denominamos este enfoque de la activación de ADN, Método de Regenética después de que la Potencialización: Remodelación Electromagnética resolviera mi enfermedad crónica y comenzáramos a desarrollar otras activaciones de ADN. El "beneficio adicional" de la Potencialización fue que promovió también la Iluminación, iniciando la activación del Cuerpo de Luz.

Derechos (c) 2006 por Sol Luckman. Traducción: Celena Hadlock (c) 2009 por Sol Luckman. Todos los derechos son reservados.

[DESCARGO DE RESPONSABILIDAD: La información en este artículo se propone para la edificación personal. El autor es un pedagogo y ministro ordenado, no un médico, y no pretende tratar ninguna enfermedad. Lo mismo aplica a todos los que se involucran en desarrollar, promover y facilitar el Método de la Regenética. Las sesiones de la Regenética se ofrecen y se reciben como ejercicios de la libertad de expresión y religión. No se presentan afirmaciones, promesas o garantías respecto a enfermedades específicas. Usted es responsable únicamente por su proprio tratamiento y cuidado de salud.]

[Sol Luckman es el autor de Conscious Healing: Book One on the Regenetics Method (Sanación Consciente: Libro Primero del Método de la Regenética), de una serie de novelas intituladas Beginner’s Luke, editor de la revista Internet DNA Monthly, y co-fundador del Phoenix Center for Regenetics. Sus artículos acerca del Método de la Regenética se han destacado en varios sitios impresos y en línea, incluyendo Atlantis Rising, Renaissance, Odyssey, Sedona Journal of Emergence, Kindred Spirit y Metamorphosis, y también se han presentado en las antologías de medicina alternativa Message of Spirit: A Manual for Your Mind y Heal Yourself with Breath, Light, Sound and Water. Conscious Healing, que recientemente fue traducido a su tercer idioma, recibió cinco estrellas del Midwest Book Review, y en Nexus New Times se mencionó como "un libro que rompe paradigmas" y presenta "una ciencia de sanación revolucionaria que expande los límites del ser." Para más información, visite http://www.phoenixregenetics.org.]

Tags: ADN, curación, sanación, Regenetics, Regenética, iluminación, 2012, Cuerpo de Luz, torsión, Solfeo

2012: What's It All About?

http://sol.gaia.com — Wed, 04 Mar 2009 17:21:34 GMT

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March 2009 (Vol. 5, No. 3)

Breaking News: Galaxy Has Billions of Earths

There could be one hundred billion Earth-like planets in our galaxy, a US conference has heard. Dr. Alan Boss of the Carnegie Institution of Science said many of these worlds could be inhabited by simple lifeforms. He was speaking at the annual meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of Science in Chicago.

So far, telescopes have been able to detect just over 300 planets outside our Solar System. Very few of these would be capable of supporting life, however. Most are gas giants like our Jupiter, and many orbit so close to their parent stars that any microbes would have to survive roasting temperatures.

But, based on the limited numbers of planets found so far, Dr. Boss has estimated that each Sun-like star has on average one "Earth-like" planet. This simple calculation means there would be huge numbers capable of supporting life. "Not only are they probably habitable but they probably are also going to be inhabited," Dr Boss told BBC News.

SOURCE: BBC NEWS. Continue reading here.

FEATURED IN THE MARCH 2009 ISSUE OF DNA MONTHLY

1. "2012: What's It All About?," by Fatima Bacot

2. "Random Encounters with Your Deep Self," by Catherine Bean Weser

Nueva Columna en Español ... 3. "La Activación del ADN, la curación y la iluminación," por Sol Luckman

Also, Also ... DNA-related Definition of the Month & Did You Know?

Click here to read the current issue of DNA Monthly ...

Tags: 2012, DNA, DNA activation, enlightenment, consciousness, Mayan calendar, Regenética, ADN, sanación

Introducción a SANACIÓN CONSCIENTE

http://sol.gaia.com — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 18:08:36 GMT

Sol Luckman

Es emocionante estar vivo en esta época de la historia. Como especie, evidenciada en nuestro arte pos-moderno y ciencia sub-cuántica, estamos aprendiendo que tan completamente creamos nuestra realidad. En el eje de esta evolución de la conciencia humana es una apreciación creciente de las muchas maneras que nosotros (colectivamente e individualmente) nos creamos a nuestros mismos. Literalmente, el ADN es el alfabeto que utilizamos como seres biológicos dotados divinamente para componer nuestra existencia.

Una serie de investigaciones vanguardistas en el campo de la Genética Ondular, revelan la posibilidad de activar el ADN a través de ondas de radio y de luz codificadas con frecuencias análogas al lenguaje humano, para lograrlo de manera remota y no intrusiva. Por otra parte, de estudios en biología celular concluimos que el código genético puede estimularse por medio de la conciencia humana, específicamente la conciencia unitaria, asociada estrechamente al amor incondicional para así sanar no solo la mente y el espíritu, sino también el cuerpo.

Los beneficios de la activación del ADN cubren un amplio rango que va desde aliviar alergias hasta aumentar la energía en el organismo, e incluso mejorar las relaciones interpersonales y renovar el propósito de la vida en la tierra.

Las posibilidades son infinitas ya que el ADN regula todos los aspectos físicos, mentales, emocionales, y espirituales de nuestro ser.

Según investigador de salud y autor de obras exitosas y best seller, Leonard Horowitz, "gracias a la extraordinaria habilidad del ADN para funcionar como receptor y trasmisor de la canción divina cósmica", este representa "mucho más que un cianotipo estático, un simple molde para construir al cuerpo". El ADN, al que Horowitz denomina "el espiral sagrado", es "un superconductor ideal y una micro antena diseñados a la perfección para la re-espiritualización física, superando todas las expectativas humanas. El ADN constituye tanto el punto central del procesamiento de la electricidad como del destino evolutivo. Si 'saber es poder', la revelación de los secretos del ADN son la clave para el auto-potenciamiento, la evolución espiritual y hasta la salvación del planeta".

En general las investigaciones genéticas, relativamente desconocidas y a veces sumprimidas, de Horowitz revelan un extraordinario potencial. Descubrimos la capacidad de reiniciar sistemas bioenergéticos dañados por traumas y por toxicidad, estimular la energía y la creatividad hasta develar capacidades no descubiertas en el ser humano, como avanzar hacia la Conciencia Unitaria y su correspondiente evolución biológica. Gracias a una técnica holística para la activación del ADN, que nosotros en el centro Phoenix llamamos el Método de la Regenética, ahora está disponible una manera económica y efectiva para "potencializar "al ser humano en su integridad.

La Potencialización: Remodelación Electromagnética, el enfoque central de este libro, es la primera de una serie de activaciones integradas que constituyen el Método de la Regenética. La Regenética es la síntesis única de ideas actualizadas diseñadas para mejorar la vida de las personas en más de una forma, siendo tanto tangible, como sutil. Tengo la intención que su propia vida mejore con sólo con la consideración cognitiva de los conceptos presentados. Más información acerca de la segunda y tercera fases del Método de la Regenética, Articulación: incremento bioenergético y Elucidación: activación trina es accesible también en este libro.

El texto se divide en dos partes principales, la primera es una reflexión del aspecto "micro" de la Regenética, la segunda provee una perspectiva "macro" de este método relacionándolo con la evolución humana. En la primera parte, "La sanación textual con la Potencialización: Remodelación Electromagnética: introducción al arte y la ciencia del Método de la Regenética", comparto la historia de mi enfermedad crónica de casi ocho años, enfatizando el desarrollo de la Potencialización y como aproveché la activación del ADN para curarme a mi mismo, volviendo a ser un hombre fuerte y con mucha energía.

La segunda parte, "Cosmología sagrada, biología sagrada: el Método de la Regenética y la evolución de la conciencia", es el complemento a la primera parte con una presentación macrocósmica de la Regenética en el contexto más amplio de la evolución de la conciencia. Aquí recurro al trabajo de muchos pensadores excepcionales de una variedad de entornos que comparten mi creencia de que hay un propósito y una dirección a la vida humana--que como especie nos estamos evolucionando de manera específica en una línea de tiempo prescripta. Mi intención es que la segunda parte estimule su curiosidad acerca de la evolución humana en general, inspirándole a explorar vías tales como el Método de la Regenética para actualizar cabalmente su propio potencial, su potencial único.

Aparte de estas secciones, he incluido tres Apéndices abundantes como recursos educativos. El Apéndice A proporciona una variedad de testimonios de individuos quienes han experimentado la Potencialización. El Apéndice B contiene respuestas detalladas a "preguntas frecuentes" acerca de la Potencialización y el Método de la Regenética. El Apéndice C representa un esquemático electromagnético del primero de doce "grupos electromagnéticos" encontrados durante el desarrollo del Método de la Regenética como describo en el capítulo cuatro.

Adicionalmente, he suministrado un Glosario de terminología amplio derivado de varias disciplinas que posiblemente sea nuevo para el lector, o parezca de alta especialización. Le invito pues a utilizar este Glosario como referencia y leerlo en su totalidad como "un viaje de conciencia". Finalmente, incluyo una Bibliografía completa para ayudar a los que desean explorar más a fondo la ciencia y la filosofía detrás de la Regenética.

Muchos de los conceptos detrás de la Potencialización: Remodelación Electromagnética y el Método de la Regenética le parecerán al lector vanguardistas. Sin duda tienen esta apariencia hoy en día, muchas de ellos son, paradójicamente, sumamente antiguas. Proceden de prácticas consagradas con raíz en el poder curativo de la oración, la medicina chamánica, y específicamente el uso equilibrado del sonido y la intención para sanar de formas en apariencia milagrosas en la psiquis occidental. Compartiré con usted investigaciones científicas que convalidan estos fenómenos. Antes de proceder, permítame llamarle la atención a un antiguo proverbio que refiere como típicamente una verdad nueva se llega a aceptar con el tiempo.

"Todas las verdades pasan por tres etapas", escribió Arthur Schopenhauer, "Primero se las ridiculiza. Luego se lucha violentamente contra ellas. Por último se las acepta como absolutamente obvias". Del mismo modo, Albert Einstein dijo una vez, "Si una idea no es absurda al principio, entonces no merece la pena". Propongo que el Método de la Regenética (y modalidades parecidas) representan una verdad "profundamente absurda" que eventualmente se hará evidente. Gracias por su interés en este trabajo y su voluntad para expandir--dentro lo posible--la visión personal de su identidad y la posibilidad del ser humano.

Tags: ADN, Genética Ondular, biologia, Regenética, sanación, energia, medicina, conciencia, 2012, torsion

MORPHAMETOSIS

http://sol.gaia.com — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 18:26:46 GMT

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Tags: free, humor, imagination, travel, visionary, adventure, inspiration, writing, literature, sex

Pygmalia

http://sol.gaia.com — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 21:32:43 GMT

What happens when you forget who you really are, and begin the bittersweet process of awakening? If you're drawn to LUKE IN EXILE, the ultimate Wanderer novel, then, having forgotten, you probably ARE in the process of awakening. Join Luke Soloman in Book IV of the BEGINNER'S LUKE Series ("a mind-bending journey through the mind of the ultimate iconoclast"--Apex Reviews) for an unforgettable, laugh-and-cry-out-loud journey to the heart of loss and recovery--a riveting Adventure you may ultimately recognize as your own!

(from Book IV, Luke in Exile)

Feet tapping impatiently, rather trying to tap, your heavy flatfeet straining to find a rhythm but remaining frozen, solid marble. Gazing out on your little one-room world through eyes you haven’t learned how to close, the same view of the same cobwebbed corner always, the same statues your only companions. Except when she returns to work on you, which she always does, sometimes days but usually only hours having elapsed by your uncertain calculation in this state where time, if it exists, isn’t measured in hours and days but in more geological increments.

But to return to her inevitable return. Again and again she reappears—faithfully, determined—a real flesh-and-blood woman with dusty, lovely face tapping away with hammer and chisel on your ankles, your shinbones, your knees, your thighs, your cock, your balls, your torso, your throat, your temples—striving to liberate you yet seemingly unaware you can actually feel every blow, every chip, every crack—unaware (or so it would seem) that liberation of form from stone is every bit as arduous for the sculpted as for the sculptor.

You can’t remember how you got here, how you wound up in this—admittedly—strange position. It had something to do with a journey, an impossible journey taken at great personal risk in the wake of a tremendous tragedy. But try as you might, you can’t remember what you’ve lost.

Combing your memory day after day, you’ve recalled only a name: Luke Soloman. It may or may not have been, be your own name. It strikes you most peculiarly, like the name of a character in a novel—a novel, however, you can’t recall having read. A novel that may not even exist, or that may not exist yet. A novel someone out there, someone you may or may not know, might or might not at this very moment be in the process of writing. Luke Soloman. Maybe it’s just a name, but at least it’s something to hold onto.

•

Sometimes, as a consolation prize for having lost your identity, she tells you stories about herself, this woman who comes to you. This woman who speaks in spiraling, stream-of-consciousness French sentences, beautiful and poetic, which at first you follow with great difficulty but which, as time goes by and your roughhewn ears begin to acclimatize to this new language (what was your old language?), you grasp more and more fully. This woman who, by all indications, remains oblivious that underneath your Italian marble exterior you’re listening intently, that your focus is entirely centered on, dominated by her, that she has become your obsession, that it nearly drives you insane being unable to respond.

A simple understanding nod would be enough to satisfy you. At least it would be a start. But no, you’re forced to listen without interacting as she shares with you, her masterpiece-in-process, bittersweet vignettes from her life.

How as a little girl growing up in Picardy she once dreamed her house was on fire, her maman screaming like a Jabberwocky one morning from the kitchen, and how she woke up to find the house really was on fire, her papa dancing around in his underwear in a sea of flames because her maman had accidentally (?) put the gasoline where the kerosene should have been beside the woodstove.

How that was shortly before he ran off. How it was probably what made him run. How she and her maman put out the fire by throwing blankets on it. The fire ate up every blanket in the house, and it was a cold winter. How she remembers his feet, the way they were so burned, his toes all gooey, melted marshmallows with the crust pulled off. How for weeks he couldn’t walk, for weeks he didn’t knock anybody around when he came home smelling like a liquor store. How they kept a trashcan beside his bed for him to roll over and piss in. He turned bitter and would curse and moan and call her maman a sale pute. How the whole house stank of roasted flesh and stale piss. And how then one day he left. Without even saying goodbye. Not even to his petit ange, his name for her when he was sober and himself.

How her maman cried as if God had just stood up and walked out of her life. And then the silence and staring eyes, the weeks and months passing. And then things finally beginning to look up. How they purchased a color TV and would sit and watch TV while eating American-style TV dinners. How it was the first time she’d ever been happy for more than a few hours consecutively.

But then the men from Crédit Lyonnais came and said they had to leave. How her maman pleaded, she would go out and get a job to pay what was owed. But it was no use, the house had been sold to a retired British couple. So the TV dinner days came to an end.

How she and her maman moved into a leaky attic apartment in a rundown section of Amiens. And how then her maman did, indeed, become a sale pute, a pute anyway, trading her slight Asian body for slight sums of francs to pay the rent and put food on the table, regularly asking her daughter to go out and play (alone usually) while she attended to her clients in their one and only bed.

How later, at night, they would lie in bed together, just the two of them, reunited, and her mother would tell her things about the world. The difference, for example, between black heart cherries and red heart cherries. There was a weeping cherry tree down the road from their apartment that in spring produced thousands of tiny pink petals softer than silk. She rode her bike by it to and from school. How they had a big gray cat now, Henri, who used to be a stray. Henri only had one ear. He probably lost it in a fight over a female, her maman explained, never failing to point out Henri was a tomcat. All men were tomcats at heart, her maman insisted, shooing away Henri with her cigarette.

How she—by now you’ve learned her name, Amanda … Héloise Amanda Gonfleur, a name you find as beautiful as her person, though you’ve never felt it (or her) on your frozen lips—how she suffers from elephantiasis in her left foot, which makes it nearly twice the normal size and mottled with blue and purple as if from a severely sprained ankle that won’t heal.

Even this blemish you’ve come to find charming. How it has been that way ever since she was little, and is considered incurable. How, as a teenager, she visited her mother’s island (population 800) off the southern coast of Japan, and how the local healers took it on themselves to cure her foot. They performed elaborate ceremonies burning incense while chanting and waving giant leaves called “elephant leaves” over it, which they insisted would draw the evil spirit out of her leg. How she put up with it all patiently. And how, when the remedy didn’t take, the healers were perplexed and apologetic to the point of tears, and she found herself comforting them.

Yet how, for all that, she wasn’t known on the island for her foot; she was actually famous for her hair. Her papa was a fair-skinned Norman formerly with the French navy in the South Pacific, and though Amanda looks very “Japanese,” her hair has a slightly reddish tint that gives away her non-Asian heritage.

How every morning after bathing, she let her hair air-dry while breakfasting in her mother’s family’s garden. How the event literally turned into a spectacle for the people on the island, who would gather outside the garden and watch through the lattice fence with astonishment as her hair slowly changed from jet black to its normal dark reddish brown. Most of the islanders had never seen a Westerner before. How they were so amazed they gave her an honorary title. And so she became known as “la Blonde.”

Your heart, stone though it may be, has long since gone out to her. You hang on her every word, her every mannerism. The way she blows her hair out of her eyes while working, for instance, without even bothering to take time to pull it back.

She’s especially lovely in the clear morning light when, after a long night standing all alone dreaming of her, you’re filled with an intense desire to run your fingers through her silky hair (which drifts sideways like a little girl’s when she first awakes) and kiss her (almond-shaped) eyes, gaze into her subtle (brown with a touch of green) irises and caress her supple (creamy porcelain) skin. An intense desire to shed your hard exterior, your marble shell, your lifeless exoskeleton, and experience her softness and warmth, cuddle with her under the sheets, touch her like a lover, whispering promises all the while. An intense desire to lose yourself inside her, in the living sanctuary of her flesh, where, dying, you might be reborn.

•

Then one day, she finishes you, sands down the last of your sharp edges and stands back, exhausted and exhilarated, to assess her work. You wish you could see yourself through her eyes; it’s obvious she has fallen deeply in love with you, her creation, that she would turn to marble herself if only she could be with you. But faced with the impossibility of such a union, she sinks into despair, slumping on the floor beside your pedestal and sobbing until she runs out of tears.

Her extreme emotion triggers the fabulous change in you, heightens your desire to the point that a spontaneous chain reaction initiates, a domino effect in which your molecular structure transforms in the blink of an eye from that of stone to flesh and bone. Before you can even make sense of what has occurred, question the radical physics of the situation, you’re stepping down off your pedestal, a modern-day David come fully to life, feeling the hot blood coursing through your arteries and veins, feeling your astonishing strength and flexibility, your incredible reality, as you pick up Amanda’s lifeless form and carry her out of the atelier into the bedroom, where you lay her gently on the bed and proceed to undress her—slowly, timidly, tenderly—with genuinely cultivated adoration.

Her clothes you fold neatly and place on top of the antique Louis XVI dresser whose mirror is warped and yellow with age. Struck by the novelty of your image, you pause to examine your somewhat distorted self carefully. The angular cheeks, the long pointed chin shaved clean. The unruly, mischievous eyes in which an unspeakable sadness yet seems to reside. The collarbones in bas-relief, the sculpted chest, shoulders and arms ...

Suddenly you feel more naked than you’ve ever felt. It seems the greatest of mysteries that you should be here, alive, in this room, standing beside this delicate sleeping creature with such graceful curves at odds with her callused stoneworker’s hands and deformed foot, this enigma wrapped in silence and porcelain skin. A vital link is missing from your life. There’s no compatibility between then (whenever that was) and now (whenever this is). It’s as if you went to sleep one person—and woke up quite another.

Trying your best not to disturb her, you lie down on the bed and wait for her to wake up. When she finally does, opening her eyes and staring at you dreamily, you realize she no longer recognizes, no longer acknowledges you as her creation—that she loves you still, naturally, but has forgotten her role in bringing you to life. You’ve become real to her.

She opens automatically to you, completely and utterly, sensuous and ripe, melting like butter against the hot irons of your fingers, your tongue, your cock, as your bodies fuse, dissolve into a single nameless, faceless entity, become as one in the Church of Touch, as the two of you turn to salt together: tears, sweat, mucous, semen.

Kaleidoscopic linguini tangled-hair images of your erstwhile unconnected bodies welded at the sex and the eyes, penetrating each other with your minds. Sinking blissfully in a congealed nectar of the sweetest possible intimacy, sated by moments but always soon hungry again, bared souls revealed in all their splendor and splinters wrapped around each other like strawberries grown together in the field. Tears spilling from her ancient eyes, tears spilling unexpectedly from your own eyes, tears raining down into nostrils, mouths, flesh like soap in boiling water slick with sweat as you climax together one last time in the afterglow rose of early evening, your tears ones of love but also relief, her tears pumping life back into you like a summer shower falling from a fleeting cloud.

The way she reaches out so bravely and pulls you in touches you on the most essential, the most basic of human levels. You feel like a prodigal son being welcomed back, after long and painful exile, into the nurturing fold of Womankind.

And then sleep. The kind of total sleep that only bears know in their winter hiding places. And then latewaking and more lovemaking. A day that becomes a week that becomes a month and more, the long hours dripping with laziness and love honey, summer slowly disappearing.

Love in another language, love stripped of all the usual, clichéd, petty, pedestrian, hackneyed, threadbare, banal references. Tracing pleasure in the concatenated circles formed by your slippery bodies, a sharply upward curve from tenderness to ravenous passion, rounding down slowly and cooling off in oily contentment.

“Sonde-moi!” she cries at the height of ecstasy, an expression you’ve never heard before and look up later in a French-English dictionary, which roughly translates, “Plumb the depths of me!”

So you plumb the depths of her, again and again, as you roll like smooth animals to and fro in an exquisite melding of the skin that seems to have no end, thrusting and thrusting and then coming inside her, so good and sweet, then sleeping again, your lips pressed like stamps against her shoulder blades, the two of you compressed like flesh spoons in a drawer.

Once, hearing a strange noise, you open your eyes long enough to realize the apartment is being burgled; a thief is just slipping out the door, some cash in hand. But you can’t be bothered and, silently blessing him in his hour of need, fall back sound asleep.

•

As anyone who has ever tried it can attest, the only place to learn a foreign language is in bed. For weeks, months now, between lovemaking sessions, Amanda’s bed has become a classroom. She is the teacher and you are the student. In the beginning you sometimes try to ask her questions in English—it was English you once spoke, wasn’t it?—but your questions are met with blank, doelike stares.

Since she apparently doesn’t speak your language, you’re forced to learn hers. Many words, many phrases you already know; many more, however, are entirely new. You master first the parts of the body (naturellement) and the expressions of love and passion (mais bien sûr), then solidify the days of the week, the months, the hours, the cardinal and ordinal numbers, everyday questions and their everyday answers, idioms, polite expressions and small talk—before moving on to more challenging (but also more rewarding) subjects: slang (le français branché), philosophical and theoretical discours, technical and scientific jargon, and finally, most rewarding of all, artistic and poetic langage.

You practice with Amanda until, suddenly, the world of French puns, the sparkling universe of jeux de mots reveals itself to you—puns being, after all, the punnacle of wit—and you finally get the humor in such formerly neutral expressions as la Sacrée-Queue, débats de soie, une femme d’affaires, the humor in Amanda’s Dances with Wolves nickname for you when you’re aroused, Deux Hommes Qui Marchent, the humor in such cognate mistranslations as la merde volante, frapper la rue, la confiture de la circulation, le champignon du monde ...

Long days of liquid conversations, oil massages, pastis and Gauloise cigarettes. Hot days made for falling in love. Cover-me-with-summer days. Simmering August days giving way to simmering September ones. Summer days made for doing nothing, glorious in their futility.

Amanda’s sun-warm hair, the way the light brings out little rainbows in it, smoke rings drifting in the still air. Pretending to sleep just so she will wake you. Lovesick looks that almost break your all-too-real-now heart. Getting horny, then hungry, horny, then hungry again. Amanda giggling as she fumbles through the sticky sheets looking for matches. Opening bottles of wine, breaking baguettes and, in the Catholic spirit, improvising the Sacrament in bed. Then rousing yourselves finally to sit at the little balcony in the atelier, white curtains shifting gently in the wings, Paris, that other woman, spreadeagled at your feet.

A sunshine city, zinc roofs silver in the light, contrasting orange tile chimneys in a way that seems always already Paris. Smoking scrolls and feeling medieval as evening approaches. Evening with its crickets, shrill and urgent, singing their little lives away. Evening with its canopy of burnt sienna making of the entire city the inside of a vast cathedral, its million flickering lights votive candles. Evening with its warm breezes trembling the stylized plane trees that in the dusk look like German woodcuts. Evening with those same humid breezes clicking the wooden sticks of the little Asian cemetery around the corner. Evening with its shops shutting down and bars gearing up. Evening with its taxis and sirens, its thoughts of Amanda’s body so near you can hear her breathing.

Evening with its prospect of making love to her again in just a little while. Evening with its lavender twilight surmounted by a waxing crescent moon looming cloud-free above the buildings. Evening with its abrupt even startling realization you’re thousands of miles away from anywhere you could possibly call home and anything you could possibly call a past. Evening and the poetry of awakening without memories in a strange land.

•

Then days of rain, rain-sloppy days. Paris all muggy, unlivable. The sky speckling like a trout with tiny white clouds that become almost imperceptibly big and gray as you relax and stare through a rain that barely wets the skin at nothing in particular.

Staring at, if anything, the yellow epidermis of the buildings under a sky grown equally cadaverous as the cool mist blows in on your shoeless outstretched feet. Your two big matching feet and Amanda’s delicate geisha foot alongside her elephant appendage.

The two of you motionless like saplings soaking up the rain by the roots, the buildings and monuments in the distance now obscured. The rain blowing in harder by degrees, up your naked thighs, your naked groins, your naked chests, against your throats, your faces. Emptying you, washing you clean of everything, the bad and the good, as you grow like grapevines up around and inside each other. As your mutual love fills these pages, so the rain fills the air.

Then the autumnal equinox, your twenty-sixth birthday though you don’t realize it at the time. The year, as you will soon learn, is 1994. The first day of fall. At least you think it’s the first day of fall. It certainly feels like fall.

After a night in which the moist air crept in through the window, humidly brushing your exposed skin, making you draw closer together in the sanctum of your bed, the rain has stopped, the air has turned dry, and you can feel the seasons conflating.

It occurs to you, sniffing your armpits, maybe you should get up and shower—but right now feels too good. You’ve woken up from yet another night of deep sleep beside the untwining enigma, this mysterious woman who has wrapped her entire world around you.

You’ve rolled over and touched, kissed, licked the soft inside of her wrist. She’s as white as an angel covered with nothing but a sheet, staring meditatively at the ceiling in the first pensive mood you’ve ever caught her in.

“A quoi tu penses?” you ask in your best French accent, sincerely wondering what, indeed, she’s thinking.

“I’m thinking,” she replies in perfect English, with hardly any accent to speak of, staring at you with pragmatic eyes, eyes you’ve never seen before, “it’s time you got a job. I can’t go on supporting you forever.”

Copyright (c) 2009 by Sol Luckman. All Rights Reserved.

Why stay the course when you can begin again? Request your FREE copies of Books I-III of this "modern-day ALICE IN WONDERLAND" (Reader Views) today!

Tags: Paris, French, sex, love, imagination, consciousness, realism, surrealism, metafiction, novel

Imaginal Cells & DNA

http://sol.gaia.com — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 17:58:33 GMT

Thanks for your interest in DNA Monthly, your FREE online resource for cutting-edge news about who you truly are!

Read the current issue (contents below) at http://potentiation.net/DNAmonthly/February09.html.

Read back issues from Volumes I-V at http://potentiation.net/DNAmonthly/index.html.

Subscribe for FREE at http://potentiation.net/page13.html.

To your potential!

DNA MONTHLY

your FREE online resource for cutting-edge news about who you truly are

February 2009 (Vol. 5, No. 2)

Breaking News: NASA Reveals Life on Mars

NASA scientists say the gas emissions [on Mars] could have either a geological or biological source--as The Sun exclusively revealed. NASA announced its historic findings on its online television channel which you can watch by clicking here.

Life is responsible for more than 90 per cent of the Earth's atmospheric methane. Experts believe there is a good chance that organisms produced the gas emissions--as large as some of those seen on Earth--on Mars too. Scientist Michael Mumma of NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center said: "This raises the probability substantially that life was there or still survives at the present. We think the probability is much higher now based on this evidence."

The bugs that made it may have vanished millions of years ago, leaving the methane frozen under the planet's surface. But another possibility is that some hardy organisms still survive on the Red Planet, living underground without sunlight and using hydrogen from water for energy. Similar microbes exist on Earth.

Methane produced by the action of water on hot carbon bearing rocks, as occurs in volcanic regions on Earth, is the alternative explanation. Whatever the source is, scientists agree that something is replenishing the methane. The find is seen as exciting new evidence that Martian microbes are still alive today.

Some scientists reckon methane is also produced by volcanic processes. But there are NO known active volcanoes on Mars.

Furthermore, NASA has found the gas in the same regions as clouds of water vapor, the vital "drink" needed to support life.

SOURCE: The Sun. Continue reading here.

FEATURED IN THE FEBRUARY 2009 ISSUE OF DNA MONTHLY

1. "Imaginal Cells & DNA," by Ernesto Ortiz

2. "Twelve Signs of Your Awakening Divinity," by Geoffrey Hoppe

Nueva Columna en Español ... 3. "Introducción a Sanación Consciente," por Sol Luckman

Also, Also ... DNA-related Definition of the Month & Did You Know?

Click here to read the current issue of DNA Monthly ...

Tags: ezine, free, DNA, DNA activation, metaphysics, 2012, ascension, consciousness, healing, enlightenment

THE ACCIDENTAL GRINGO

http://sol.gaia.com — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 19:31:38 GMT

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Tags: Luke Soloman, Sol Luckman, Beginner's Luke, fiction, free, ebook, imagination, consciousness, Brazil, adventure

Comentario de la Traductora de SANACIÓN CONSCIENTE

http://sol.gaia.com — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 18:27:06 GMT

DRA. CELENA HADLOCK

Es con gran entusiasmo y orgullo que presento este Método de la Regenética al mundo hispano. En el transcurso de los últimos años, durante mis estudios de la activación del ADN y su impacto profundo en la evolución humana, el deseo de compartirlo con las personas del mundo hispano que buscan el desarrollo de la conciencia siempre estuvo presente. Cuando Sol y Leigh, los fundadores del Método, me propusieron traducir este libro tan complejo y avanzado, me sentí honrada. Lo acepté felizmente, y ha sido el proceso de profundizar mi entendimiento del método y sus posibles aplicaciones en la vida de los seres humanos.

La Regénetica me ayudó a trascender una enfermedad seria y un estado de sufrimiento físico. Al reiniciar el ADN, el biocomputador más refinado del cuerpo humano, me fue posible ponerle fin a una condición autoinmune, y recuperar mi vida.

Como ya era nutriológa y naturópata practicante con pacientes, se me ocurrió pedirle a Sol y Leigh que ofrecieran una capacitación de la Regenética. Precisamente, al hablar con Sol, descubrí que el primer curso ya estaba organizado y fui parte de este. Luego, seguí con las capacitaciones de Articulación y Elucidación, llevando a mis pacientes de comienzo a la tercera parte del proceso, y observando cambios milagrosos!

Supe que no pude seguir creando protocolos terapeúticos de nutrición sin primero empezar con la activación del ADN, permitiendo una limpieza profunda de los campos energéticos y el cuerpo, y conduciendo a la formación de un solo campo de conciencia unificado. Fue una bendición entender a fondo el acercamiento de este método para mi propio proceso, el de mis pacientes, y para poder traducir este libro.

Durante la traducción, hubo algunos retos acerca de la terminología. No existían ciertos términos en español para describir este mundo sub-cuántico y complejo. Respetuosamente, le pido al lector entender los varios pasos involucrados. Primero, traduje los términos, después los capítulos, y finalmente los pasé rigurosamente por las manos de dos editores de habla hispana con la meta y el fin de compartir un trabajo claro con ustedes.

El proceso duró más de un año, y es un regalo amplio para las millones de almas preciosos que residen en México, España, Centroamérica y Sudamérica que no han tenido acceso a este tipo de acercamiento a la conciencia y la evolución.

Ahora, con mucho amor y entusiasmo, presento la Regenética al mundo hispano.

[Celena Hadlock es doctora licenciada de naturopatía, nutrióloga, y sanadora energética. Fundó Nutritionhealer y Energy Vibrance, empresas cuyo objetivo es la transformación del ser humano por medio de la Regenética, sanación espiritual y energética, además de la terapia nutricional. Para todos sus clientes, la Dra. Hadlock posee la fe y la certeza de una sanación completa y la posibilidad de milagros. Lleva veinte años inmersa en la cultura latinoamericana, domina el idioma español, y tiene el compromiso y la pasión de traer las activaciones del ADN a la cultura hispana. Para más información, visite http://www.nutritionhealer.com y http://www.indigonutrition.com.]

Tags: sanación, ADN, Regenética, bendición, traducción, español, evolución, conciencia, transformación, milagro

Colombian Coffee

http://sol.gaia.com — Thu, 08 Jan 2009 19:00:58 GMT

"Journey through the mind of the ultimate iconoclast" (Apex Reviews). Download your FREE copies of Books I-III of the Beginner's Luke Series today!

(from Portraits of an Imaginary Young Man)

December came and went. It usually does. It was dark and snowed a lot. Go figure. Technically, for the five minutes it was light enough out to appreciate it, we had a white Christmas. I still hated Christmas. Malcolm and I stocked up on the essentials—beer, wine, liquor, cigarettes, TV dinners, playing cards, toilet paper—and settled in like bears intent on hibernating through the creative death of the holiday season. Neither of us got a damn thing done, which I submit was for the best. December makes for sentimental, and usually just plain shitty, art.

Meanwhile, Psycho Bitch was whisked away never to be seen or heard from again, the Trust Fund Kid flew back to Spain for two months, and Slug Jerky took a well-deserved break from rehearsing, leaving only the Korean counterfeiters (who never skipped a beat) down on the second floor as the Funhouse acquired an uncharacteristic air of genteel, soporific monotony broken only by the occasional debauch when Malcolm and I, bursting at the seams with unchanneled energy, tied one on and took turns leaping naked and giggling into the waist-high snowdrifts in the parking lot, then rushing back upstairs and leaping into the claw-footed tub full of scalding bubble bath. After all, we drunkenly reminded ourselves, 1992 was Leap Year.

Things didn’t return to normal (the wrong word, admittedly) until mid-January, when I got back into a writing rhythm with the closing of the book on Christmas and Malcolm, in addition to resuming his word paintings, started making regular trips down to Baltimore every other week, staying four or five days at a stretch with his old RICA pals while working on an Anglican church mural commissioned by some snooty arts council associated with Johns Hopkins. Apparently, it was a big deal as he’d been selected from hundreds of applicants worldwide, and it brought him considerable notoriety, which for an artist is infinitely better than garden variety fame.

The mural depicted a classical religious motif: Saint George slaying the dragon. I should say it was supposed to depict Saint George and the dragon. I never saw the finished product because Malcolm never got to finish it, but he described it privately as a satirical homage to Picasso’s Don Quixote and the Windmill, one that playfully deconstructed the latter’s image by fragmenting it into a highly abstract formalist mosaic, a kind of neo-Byzantine hypercubism that began, disconcertingly, to resemble swollen female genitalia—but only if you stared long enough.

“That should give those WASP fuckers something to chew on,” he said with a touch of Navajo pride.

•

It so happened while Malcolm was away in Baltimore and I was alone in the Funhouse, during the first week of February, that my imaginary life went to pieces. A whole series of more or less serious catastrophes waited until that exact window of time to rear their ugly heads, setting the stage for the “Colombian coffee incident,” as it has since become immortalized in these pages.

Anything I write about that week is likely to be imbued with bitterness, begging the question: “Why write about it at all?” To which I respond: to detach myself utterly from it ... To see my misery as purely textual ... To view the person who went down like the Hindenburg, who twice burst into tears and wept, realizing in his initial agony he’d never cried before while wearing contacts (a present from Malcolm when my jumper started rimming out) and wondering whether they’d float out of my eyes and stick like cellophane to my cheeks—I say, to view this person as in no way connected to myself, as merely a fictional character with but vague similarities to the unmediated me, to deconstruct Derrida and create a metaphysics of absence, of myself, which might sufficiently distance all traces of my pain ...

That Thursday my afternoon basketball was cut short by a flagrant elbow that opened up the skin above my left eye like a stiletto. I bled my way back to the men’s locker room, where I frightened myself in the mirror.

Oddly enough, it didn’t hurt at all. What stung was the fact I’d been scorching, red-hot, knocking down Houdini shots you typically only make in dreams: Jordanesque fade-aways falling out of bounds, Larry Bird rainbows over the backboard, Magic Johnson reverse lay-ups in lane traffic thicker than thieves.

I spent the next several hours with a bag of ice on my eye waiting to be stitched back together at Maroon University Health Services. But it was late in the day, they were short-staffed, and officially I wasn’t even a student, so I ended up being transferred a few blocks over to a downtown hospital that catered primarily to crack addicts. I finally left that scary place around 7:30, exhausted but not altogether dispirited—yet—with eight stitches camouflaged in the brownish fur of my eyebrow.

The next morning I woke up with the flu: nausea, sweats, pins, needles, nose running like a stripped faucet, throat wrapped with rubber bands, brain foggier than London. For most of the day all I could do was lie there like an ailing odalisque, blowing my nose, coughing up phlegm, floating deliriously on fever waves.

I couldn’t recall ever having the flu before and made a mental note never to have it again. I’d been spoiled by good health, no doubt about it. I wanted to feel better so I could again enjoy the mornings after when I felt like crap. I honestly didn’t know what I’d do when I recovered. I’d probably end up killing myself, I’d be so happy not to be dying.

Then nature called and I staggered up off my futon to find a Chiquita banana sticker stuck to my foot. How it got there was a mystery. Brain on the fritz, I momentarily hallucinated I’d broken my ankle—a thought that vanished into the fog as I lunged for the piss bucket I kept in the corner of my nook that this time served as a #2 chamber pot. I must have sat there an hour, maybe longer, shitting out everything: the previous night’s minestrone, the gyro I’d had for lunch, a bag of Bugles, my large intestine, my ileocecal valve, a rusty Altoids tin, a pair of black fishnet stockings, The Wings of the Dove, a KISS live album I’d been looking for ...

But that was just the beginning. No sooner had I wiped than I started throwing up, then I started shitting again, then I was vomiting fountains and pissing out the ass at the same time—a wicked combination—then I had the dry heaves at both ends—more devastating still—and when there finally wasn’t a single cell left inside me, when I was just an empty shell of a human being, a dry husk of my former robust self, I passed out in my own mess and slept like a fetus in amniotic fluid.

•

My recovery was glacial in its slowness. Virtually every part of my body ached. I coughed and sneezed so much I felt like an allergic reaction waiting to happen. I kept telling myself, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll feel better.” But every morning it was still today.

I managed to decontaminate my nook and, whenever absolutely necessary, stagger around the Funhouse, a more-vertiginous-than-usual enterprise that gave me a bizarre sensation of speedy lightness as if at any minute I might levitate. But mostly, I just lay on the couch with Dayquil headswimmy eyes watching MTV and the Playboy Channel. At last, on the third day, I rose again. I felt like a river slowly cleansing itself after a flood has washed it full of silt.

On the subject of storms: the next morning, as a prelude to the Colombian coffee incident, we got blasted by a winter hurricane. It started with snow. Imagine that: snow in Endurance. Almost as weird a concept as sand in the desert, fish in the ocean. The sun didn’t even come up. I mean, yes, it came up. You just couldn’t see it with snow funneling in white tornadoes in the wind.

Under ideal circumstances snowstorms inspire a cozy, complacent feeling in me—as if the world and its cares have up and vanished, as if I’ve just been relieved of all responsibility, suddenly reverted to a fairytale childhood. But that morning in my tiny world of illness, I felt like a squirming caterpillar in the toxic cocoon of a nuclear winter.

I made the mistake of venturing outdoors for two reasons: 1) I was starving with no food left in the Funhouse and 2) the grad seminar I’d been auditing at Maroon University was scheduled to meet. Comparative Literature 287, “Hallucinatory Journeys,” a course for which, despite lacking an undergraduate degree, I felt uniquely qualified.

Cherry (from Halloween) had suggested I audit it and personally recommended me to the professor, who happened to be her thesis advisor, an aging firebrand named Ancy Stromboli regarded in circles who cared as the reigning postneoanti-something maven, who agreed to let me sit in on condition I complete all the written assignments. The previous week I’d turned in my first essay, a ten-page writerly reading of Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell I’d enjoyed working on immensely, and was looking forward to getting my grade. So even though I still felt under the weather, so to speak, I bundled up in my best Eskimo gear and trundled out into the day.

After approximately a hundred hours quarantined in the Funhouse, I was beginning to suspect—erroneously—I was the only person left alive on the planet. Forty-five minutes from setting out, I managed to reach campus through two feet of snow and gale-force winds, but at least it wasn’t as cold as I’d expected. It was barely below freezing, in fact, and seemed to be getting warmer. The snowflakes had that furry unfocused quality they get just before they turn to rain and I could taste the salty humidity in the air streaming in from the Atlantic.

I stopped at the cafeteria and ate an overpriced Philly cheesesteak before tromping down to Marshin Hall—where I discovered my class had been canceled. A hunchbacked custodian with a speech impediment named Bernard told me. I think that was what he told me. I thought I heard him say all classes had been canceled. In any case they certainly had been. I mean Maroon University never canceled classes—but it did that day.

With nothing else to do, I swung by Professor Stromboli’s office on the odd chance she was in. She wasn’t but the seminar papers were in a cardboard box beside her door. I eagerly thumbed through the stack, suppressing the temptation to peek at other people’s grades, until I found my essay. I’d put the better part of a week into it and felt pretty confident, but was still a little nervous.

For good reason. My essay was so red it looked lacerated. There wasn’t a single sentence without corrections. The grade was an ugly C-, but Professor Stromboli’s comments were infinitely more withering. “I understand that you’ve taken considerable creative—to say nothing of interpretive—liberties and that you probably enjoyed indulging yourself,” she wrote, “but I must inform you that enjoying oneself is not the point of serious scholarship.” I guess deep down I always knew that was the mentality, but to see it actually in writing—well, what could you say?

I left Marshin Hall in the foulest of moods, my self-esteem the size of a poppy seed. By this time the snow had become rain. In the wind it sprayed sideways into my face, subsided, sprayed sideways into my face, subsided. Dejected, disheartened, with the creeping sensation of turning into the buffoon hero of a modern Canterbury tale, I sloshed back across town through the always already wetness as the bone-cold drizzle soaked me down to the stitches above my slightly swollen—and still rather sore—eye.

Why’s all this absurd shit happening to me? I wondered aloud as I trudged along. If I can just roll the absurdity over, underneath I should find profundity, right?

•

Anticipating a hot bath, I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and entered the Funhouse. The rapidly melting snow on the roof must have overloaded the building’s gutters and seeped through the worn shingles, because it was literally raining inside.

Raindrops were splattering on the Ping-Pong table, the Harley-Davidsons, the Box People, Bach’s Organ, Tina Turner, Malcolm’s paintings, my desk, the kitchen stove, the couch, the TV, the stereo. The floor had transformed into a lake three or four inches deep. You could have sailed toy boats on it like the old Italian men did on Sundays in the fountain up at DiMaggio Square. That awful scene of the Funhouse-lake has remained like a bloodstain in my memory. Whenever I think of Rhode Island now, regardless of any other images that come to mind, I immediately picture Atlantis.

That was when I cried first. I sat down in the water and wept like a new widow. I lay down in the middle of the lake and squeezed out a torrent of self-conscious tears, feeling the universe closing in, tightening around me like a boa constrictor, sawing me in two with iron scales. If I’d let myself I probably could have cried all afternoon. The situation was so far beyond my control I was at a total loss, but eventually I mustered the strength to get up and go into the kitchen to wash the dishes in the rain.

Washing dishes has always been my principal form of meditation. I’ve tried guided meditation, transcendental meditation, primordial sound meditation, zazen, qigong, yoga—but nothing has ever given me the clarity and peace of mind washing a stack of filthy dishes does. Something about the warm soapy water, the circular motion of the sponge, the little squirts and whooshes, the release of impurities followed by a cold, cleansing rinse ...

But that day I should have had a dishwasher. I was down to just a few cups and some silverware, when the ceramic mug I was washing suddenly broke and nearly sliced off my pinky. Blood erupted from the wound and the sink turned instantly crimson.

This time it hurt like hell, but the real pity was it was my favorite mug, the one with the cross-eyed cows that reminded me of the salad days with Dante et al in Lipton Hill. That mug had come to symbolize a time when the spell of youth wasn’t yet broken, and now that it was in pieces, the mug, my loss—after five years—finally hit home.

I stood there at the sink bleeding with tears streaming down my face again, not so much from physical pain but because of a sudden flashback to our last summer together at the fishpond, a time swaddled in love and laughter, and I suddenly felt extremely old at twenty-three as I watched my carefree youth recede and disappear like a spaghetti noodle sucked down the drain.

I was in the bathroom having just finished bandaging my pinky, which really needed half a dozen stitches it never got as evidenced by a scar I have to this day, when the phone rang. With a vague foreboding, a leaden throbbing in my gut, I walked across the lake under the rain and picked up the receiver ...

(I should explain that, at long last, in order to pull my own weight around the Funhouse and take some of the financial pressure off Malcolm, I’d found a steady source of income: credit cards. Even though, technically speaking, I didn’t exist, I’d been issued several with extremely generous limits and was using one to pay off another. The interest was outrageous, I admit, but that was okay since I didn’t plan to pay it.)

My intuition was justified. A metallic, scarcely human voice representing some first national bank or other verified my identity and proceeded to inform me I was three months behind in my Gold Card payments.

“Three months!” I exclaimed.

Metallic Voice: “That is correct. Just what have you been thinking, Mr. Soloman?”

“Well, you see, I really haven’t been thinking—”

Metallic Voice: “It is my duty to inform you that you are in default. Can you understand the severity of this? You owe six billion, four hundred million, three hundred and thirty-three thousand, seven hundred and eighteen—”

“Come on, be serious!”

Metallic Voice: “Okay, you owe four hundred and twenty dollars.”

“But I never received a bill! I certainly never opened one!”

Metallic Voice: “Failure to receive billing statement does not relieve you of the responsibility of paying your bill on time.”

“Isn’t that a Catch-22?”

Metallic Voice: “Of course. Repayment of past due amount is due immediately. Late charges will continue to accrue until full payment is received. Did you notice how I rhymed?”

“Yes.”

Metallic Voice: “Hold just one hour, please.”

“What!”

Metallic Voice: “Sorry. Have a nice day.”

I replaced the receiver and stood perfectly still a very long time, maybe an hour. I was still standing in the rain feeling debt’s cold finger, feeling my own finger throb hotly, contemplating various methods of suicide, wishing I had one of Ben Vautier’s little Fluxus kits for just that purpose—when Malcolm walked in the door.

His train had just arrived after several hours of snow delay. He looked around the Funhouse with an utterly blank expression. I was reminded of those pictures of disaster victims you see in the news, the ones who have lost everything. Walking slowly over to the south wall, he touched one of his drenched paintings as if he expected it was all just an illusion.

On the verge of a third round of tears, I told him everything that had happened in his absence: my basketball injury, the downtown hospital, my stitches, my flu, the winter hurricane, Professor Stromboli’s comments, the breaking of the mug, my pinky, my default.

Malcolm was, as usual, magnanimous. Putting aside his own not inconsiderable concerns, he poured two glasses of Cutty Sark and handed me one. I drank it. He poured me another. I drank it as well. Slowly, things were coming back into perspective. After a third Cutty Sark, I was able to get a grip.

“It’s simple,” I said. “If I just ignore my problems long enough, they’ll disappear.”

I drank a fourth Cutty Sark, soothed by this knowledge.

“You’ve been through hell,” said Malcolm.

“That’s putting it lightly.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I guess. What time is it?”

“Two-thirty. Let’s go up to Arnolfini’s and have some baked ziti.”

Needless to say but I’ll say it anyway, the mention of Arnolfini’s hit me like a ray of sunshine. Just minutes before I’d hoped it would keep raining and wash me away, but now I had a reason to go on living.

“But what about the Funhouse? What about your paintings?”

“What about them? They can’t get any wetter. And we still have to eat. Some hot food will do us both good. Let’s go.”

•

Before really getting to know Malcolm, I suspected that, being an artist, he was more self-consumed than his outwardly altruistic behavior would indicate—but he never proved otherwise. We left the Funhouse to rain on itself and headed for Liberty Hill. In normal conditions it was only a ten-minute walk, but with two feet of melting snow to negotiate under that shotgunned wineskin of a sky, it took us twenty.

In that time we heard three different sirens go off. Sirens were always going off in Endurance. Things were always being stolen in Endurance—especially, as previously noted, cars. Virtually everyone I knew had had at least one vehicle stolen. But what could you expect from a state run by the mob?

Naturally, Arnolfini’s was closed because of the weather. My spirits sank back into my soaked boots and I started swearing. I was pretty drunk. Malcolm had to calm me down. We tried several other restaurants, all closed. I was teetering within inches of a nervous, hypoglycemic breakdown—when we finally found a restaurant serving lunch!

I’d walked by the place dozens of times but had never eaten there. Neither had Malcolm. There was some scaffolding outside and a sign: PLEASE BEAR WITH US—WE’RE REDOING OUR FAÇADE. The place was practically empty. I’d heard they had good coffee. We decided to give it a shot.

The dining room was nice enough: white linen tablecloths, real flowers in vases on the tables, Vivaldi over hidden speakers, large color photographs of Palermo and Agrigento adorning the walls. Our waiter was rather handsome in a vaguely sleazy way and spoke with a fresh-off-the-boat accent.

Something about him gave me the creeps, but as a waiter he was extremely proficient. Malcolm and I sat by the window discussing Jackson Pollock and stuffing ourselves with focaccia and penne pasta in a pink vodka sauce (the waiter’s suggestion) washed down by several glasses of decent Chianti. It wasn’t Arnolfini’s, but it wasn’t bad.

I had a level-three buzz going and was feeling quite excellent about my imaginary life again. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” I said, “but wasn’t Jackson Pollock the leader of the Diarrheal Movement?”

Malcolm didn’t bat an eye. I realized he wasn’t exactly sober himself.

“I believe you’re thinking of de Kooning.”

“Maybe.”

“That reminds me. I once had diarrhea for a solid month.”

“A solid month?”

“A solid month.”

“Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

“Worse. It hurt. I’d just turned eighteen and was spending the summer hiking by myself in the Rockies before starting art school. I got giardia and then got stuck under my tarp in the rain for a week. I was so sick all I could do was roll over and shit as far as I could out into the rain.”

“That’s adulthood for you. Isn’t it a bitch?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m trying to hurry up and get through with it.”

“What do you think about dessert?”

“In general or right now?”

“Right now.”

“I think I’d explode. That focaccia seems to be expanding.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Some coffee would be nice, though.”

“Yes. I’ve heard they have very good coffee. Where’s our greasy waiter anyway?”

“I haven’t seen him lately. He slipped into the back.”

“How’s that for service? It’s barbaric, in my opinion, to force people who have a genuine medical need for coffee to wait.”

Just as I finished speaking, our waiter reappeared and rattled off the desserts of the day. The tiramisu was tempting, despite my full belly, but I decided against it. “What I’d really enjoy,” I said, “is some of your wonderful coffee I hear so much about.”

The waiter cocked an eye and examined me with an intrigued expression. “Do you really like coffee?” he asked.

“Like? I love coffee. I admit I once preferred the smell. But now I couldn’t survive without three cups a day. It’s one of my principal food groups.”

Without responding, and without bothering to ask Malcolm whether he wanted coffee, the waiter turned on a dime and walked quickly back into the kitchen. Malcolm and I looked at each other and shrugged. “It’s got to be better than that antifreeze from Dunkin’ Donuts,” he said. Several minutes passed before the kitchen door reopened. Along with our empty-handed waiter, the maître d’ appeared, also empty-handed but wearing an unctuous smile.

“Giuseppe tells me you like coffee,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied. “I do.”

“I see. If I may be so bold, what type of coffee do you like really?”

At three-thirty on a snowy Tuesday afternoon in a restaurant where by now we were the only customers, this question made absolutely no sense. Then again, maybe I was just too frazzled to understand it. The past few days had been pretty trying. Maybe the maître’s question was altogether profound. For one reason or another, I decided to go along as if I knew what he was talking about.

“Well,” I said, “I appreciate many kinds of coffee. But my favorite is Colombian.”

“Why you don’t tell me you’re a connoisseur! And so young! How long have you known coffee this way?”

How long had I known coffee? What kind of question was that? Nothing—I mean nothing—about this conversation was adding up. I glanced at Malcolm for guidance, but he simply shrugged again as if to say, “You’re on your own, kid.” I looked back at the maître, who was sort of talking to Giuseppe with his eyes, with the panicky sensation I was on the wrong end of Candid Camera.

“Actually,” I persevered, “I’ve known coffee a long time. I started drinking it when I was in high school. I was just thinking about getting my own espresso maker—”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how many kilos do you purchase at a time?”

I was accustomed to buying my coffee, when I bought it in bulk, in pounds—so the kilos bit threw me for a second. But then I figured the guy was European.

“Oh, one or two,” I said.

The maître beamed. “Would you please be so kind as to accompany me to a more suitable room?” he asked with a sweeping gesture. “I’m sure the manager would like to meet personally with a client as special as yourself.”

•

In retrospect, maybe I should have been able to figure out what was going down. But at the time, I was totally clueless. Fear and curiosity waged a brief little war inside me. Curiosity won.

“Wait here,” I told Malcolm as I stood and followed the maître into the kitchen. He ushered me through a small door leading down a dark winding corridor that eventually opened up into a banquet hall complete with red carpet, crystal chandelier and grand piano.

In the center of the room, behind a massive mahogany desk that resembled a coffin on legs, sat an imposing square-faced man dressed in a tailored blue suit playing with an enormous gold ring on one of his fingers. I turned to ask the maître if this was the right room, thinking maybe we’d taken a wrong turn, only to discover he’d disappeared.

“So you like coffee?” the square-faced man asked in a deep Sicilian voice.

I was starting to sweat ... bullets. The man had to see I was nervous.

“I’m sure you know how it is,” I said, stepping forward in an attempt at nonchalance. “A cup or two now and then—”

“Do you prefer your coffee mixed or pure?”

“Pure. I never take cream or sugar.”

“Certainly not. Sugar is a terrible mix for coffee.” While speaking the man regarded me intensely, practically mowing me down with his sinister black eyes. Then, after an excruciating silence in which I could have heard my own heart beating from across the room, his face twisted into an ironic grin. “Look, kid. Tell me if I’m wrong. But I believe you’re only interested in coffee. I mean just plain coffee. Am I wrong?”

“Yes—I mean no! I mean you’re right. All I wanted was some coffee. You know, a cup of Joe. Java. What’s all this about?”

“Calm yourself. Relax. It’s not about anything.”

With cold deliberation he opened a desk drawer, a gesture that sent shivers from my cranium to my tailbone, but instead of a .38 he produced a thick wad of bills. He thumbed out five one-hundred-dollar notes and handed them to me between his fingers. “Take this as a little present. Between friends. Just be sure to forget you ever laid eyes on me.”

“Don’t worry. I will.”

“Good. Then we have an understanding.”

As I was stuffing the money in my pocket, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to find the maître motioning for me to follow. I did—on legs wobblier than piano wires. He escorted me back into the dining room where Malcolm was waiting. I didn’t even bother to ask if he’d taken care of the bill. I knew it was on the house.

“Tell me what happened, Luke. You look like you’ve just seen a UFO.”

I was in no mood for small talk. I was stone-cold sober now. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.

Only later, when we got back to the Funhouse, did I lighten up. I still didn’t feel great physically—“marginally functional” would be a better description—but at least I was gaining ground. I brewed a pot of coffee and sat down in the rain in the middle of the lake at the kitchen table to tell Malcolm the whole story, thrilled at the realization I’d made enough money to pay, should I have chosen to, which I didn’t, what I owed on my credit card—and then some.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Sol Luckman. All rights reserved.

Tags: humor, comedy, suspense, thriller, fiction, writing, free, imagination, drugs, crime