Welcome to the Space that always is…

Celebrating Friendship…

I don’t have many, what I call true friends; the one’s I have are heart people. These friends are beings that stand for compassion, truth, and have been at my energetic-side through the life journey – no matter how it goes. This next blog is about one such friend.

Last spring marked the 20th anniversary of a friendship. It began when I set foot on India’s sacred soil. India is an ancient land that carries a potent undercurrent of spirituality. America, by contrast, is a young country mired in a rebellious adolescence. Across the sea from the United States, India sits silent and still (though she has been indoctrinated by enticing  Westernization in recent times) – She, India, is like a distant, great-great, grandfather whose most soulful whisper is heard only in quiet moments of deep contemplation.

On my trip there nearly 21 years ago, I met a young man who has become a lifelong friend. Shobhit Gupta was 19, myself 34, when we first crossed paths.

*A wild turkey  just came into view, visible through my glass-windowed backdoor. He brings the message of abundance, the native people’s say. Nestled in the grasses, he rests in stillness. There’s no rush, nothing to do. Even eating can wait. The morning freshness is enough. The winter deluges and recent spring squall has enriched the meadow and nature’s delights are on full display: squirrels around the base of the giant redwoods, a loan hawk circles, jays, ravens and robins -soon even a quail feeding migration may arrive. I feel them close. They are my family too.

As my eyes drop down from the meadow, just before setting on the page again to write, they catch a glimpse of a portrait of Ramana. For me Ramana is the Christ. For the true Jesus was the living embodiment of Christ Consciousness-that of an awakened human being. So awake that he could be ordinary and in that ordinariness out poured the extraordinary beauty of love. The only ‘difference’ between these two spiritual icons, if any at all, is that we have the actual words of Ramana and experiences of direct disciples who sat with him–undiluted and undisturbed. With Christ, we have only inklings of old gnostic gospels, one or two possibly written by Christ or one who knew him directly. And of course we have the New Testament ‘Bible’, written 100 years after Jesus lived by people who never knew the living Jesus. It doesn’t take a Biblical detective (true religious historian) to see the possibility of factual distortion by those interested in dynasty and church-building.

Jesus the Christ and Ramana both radiated pure Spirit with lack of mental confusion (mind-identity). They realized what they really are: the Immortal Spirit.

Back to Shobhit, as amazingly Turkey and Ramana symbolize him: Generous Spirit.

Just prior to our meeting, I had been on a 2nd class train for more than 40 hours, moving from the south to north: Bangalore to Delhi. I then took a donkey-carriage, at the suggestion of Tibetan acquaintance I met on the train (the Tibetans are rugged people who have been filmed meditating in 20 degrees temps for hours and not getting hypothermia). In this case, he was heat-testing me, I suppose.

We shared an open air journey from the train station to the bus station, easily more than 5 kilometers across Delhi mid day. It read 49 Celsius at the train station thermometer when I arrived. That is 120 F., up to the task of frying eggs on the pavement. Having had no shower in 3 days, the dirt, mixed with sweat-soaked sludge, then more dirt, sweat and god knows what else –all arranged on me like an exotic experiment for a cob-house building material. I was an extra for Frankenstein, the movie.

Then it began to rain; so I envisioned. Pure liquid delight. My eyes were closed and I turned upward to the sky, letting the heaven-sent drops fall over my face. I licked my lips in relish. Rapt grace. Then my eyes opened and I scanned the sky; not a cloud anywhere. The ‘rain’ still came, only now it was moving horizontal, floating in streaming droplets. I traced them to their origin, the underbelly of one of the donkeys.

God does have a sense of humor.

After the donkey-urinal baptism (an India trademark), I boarded a bus for what was to be an easy 5 hour bus ride to Rishikesh. The foothills of the Himalayas awaited, the bastion of yoga and cooler temps. Then about halfway to our destination the bus broke down. Years later I learned that this area was the most dangerous in all of India. These ‘breakdowns’ were planned events with injury, theft and death a likely outcome.

It was here at dusk, in some barren landscape near the outskirts of a tiny village, that I met Shobhit Gupta for the first time.

I got off the bus in disbelief, pure destitution with a backpack. Distraught, exhausted and without a clue. A 19-year old young man approached me with a friendly smile and solid english chops.

“Where are you going? He asked.

“Rishikesh.” I muttered.

“You will not get there tonight. The next bus will not come until morning, maybe not at all. There is nowhere to stay here. Come with me back to my house. You can stay with my family.” I instantly acquiesced.  “My house is only a few kilometers from here. We can walk.”

Our conversation was easy and heart-centered. I would meet his parents, 2 sisters, a lower-middle class brahmin family that opened their heart and home to me. Shob’s sisters plied me with all kinds of questions about life in America. His parents just listened and smiled. I was home, an adopted son with his instant family. They had no running water but Shobhit got 2 buckets full daily, each containing about 3 gallons of water for use in the shower. He offered me one of his buckets. Never had I prized water so greatly (except maybe while backpacking in the Grand Canyon -100 degrees- after hours without any water and all mapped out spring sources dry. We finally found a trickle coming out of the canyon wall. I do mean a trickle.)

In that shower  I felt each and every water molecule as it danced down my head, across my face and down. Vast accumulated debris washed away. Thus began a relationship, a true friendship that has defied any idea of what friendship is. For Shobhit and I have never seen each other face to face again.

Like penpals of the spirit, Shob and I began to exchange long letters the first two years after my return from India. About four years later, Shobhit noted that he would not be able to afford tuition for his last year of college. He needed some 60,000 rupees (India dollars). Shob did not ask for money, almost hiding this notation amongst some stories of life in India. I did not have much money at the time. Instead a vision came. I was to organize a benefit run, a fundraiser for him. It was a semi-cross country 5-mile run/walk starting in the small town of Scotts Valley and winding up through the northern hillside, ending at the top of Mount Roberta, at 1410 feet, with a great view of the Monterey Bay.

I gathered family, friends, and acquaintances. They loved the idea and invested their energy, enthusiasm and time. My partner at the time, Evelyn, donated an exquisite piece of original artwork as a grand prize for a raffle we had planned. Others followed with additional offerings: my parents avid supporters and amazing givers opened their home –(as they always considered it a hotel for all to enjoy) as a post-run celebration and festivity gathering point. My sister-in-law Amy and brother-in-law Paul were both integral components in the event coming together. Mom even made a bunch of food, as did my sister who recruited several friends as well. My brother, blind early in life, ran the course (power-walked) with his guide dog–the magnificent long-haired, german shepherd, Hale. The event was a huge success.

After the event was over we counted the money together as a group. It came to almost  $1500.00-nearly the exact amount Shobhit needed for his tuition. As the currency exchange rate was about 40 rupees to the dollar, $1500.00 US dollars was about 60,000 rupees.

I sent the cash to Shobhit inside a spiritual book (for protection), with a letter telling him about the event.

A couple of weeks later a touching letter arrived from him. His whole family was grateful beyond words.

One day some 8 years later, after Shobhit had finished his advanced degree work, passed the Pharmacist-licensing exam and gotten his first job, a letter arrived. On that particular day I had been the sickest of my entire life. Delirious with fever, shaking, the deepest fatigue I had ever known.  The letter started with:

“Dear Mike,

With God’s grace I send you $1,500.00 dollars from my first check…” Tears just poured from my eyes. Again, even now, they trickle down.

Shobhit’s parents always ask about me; my parents about him. For 21 years we’ve shared our deep joy and moments of sorrow, remaining in attunement with each other. Shobhit now lives in Florida and has two daughters with his beautiful wife Gitanjala (I have seen pictures). Anika is 4 and Riya is 6. I am envisioning our reunion some time very soon–and getting to meet his whole family. For now, after our phone conversation, we are set to meet this year in the Eastern Sierra mountains

Shob has sent money to me a couple of other times and finally I told him that he must focus on his children’s college education–this has stopped him for now!

Today I intuited him ‘feeling down’ and phoned him, transmitting a message of love and gratitude- because that’s what friends do. He responded, saying “I’ve been so stressed lately…” He’s been working hard to start his own pharmacy, away from the mainstream soul-killing conglomerate chains. His vision is to have a personal relationship with his patients (as he calls them), to treat them with the utmost care, not another prescription-fill.  His primary stress related to a close friend, assistant that he found out was stealing money and drugs from his pharmacy. The incident hit him very hard. He finished with:

“I love you Mike.”

I finished by telling him that Doc Mike’s prescription was a 3-day sabbatical in the mountain wilderness, to let good tidings wash over him and refresh his spirit. I noted that I ‘expected that he would be a compliant patient.’

A bumper sticker, I just read, captures this encouragement well:

“May the FOREST be with you”- my beloved friend.

Special Alert Blog…

I have a friend who has been wracked with visions from a past life (I think they are mostly relieved after many years). He truly believes he was a Nazi dentist in a past life. I’m putting my money on the LSD therapy he tried in the 70’s. You know the one, where he attempted to strangle his therapist mid-session.

“That went well.”

He’s nearly 70 now and we met at a spiritual gathering in 2009. The lead teacher, it seemed, was helping many people with past life issues and Jesus problems. This is not why I went. Does anyone know why I went?! Anyway, the misfit Christian’s flocked to this teacher like Santa’s toys trying to get into the Elf workshop.

Most of these Christians who come to these spiritually-centered events no longer believe in the mainline religious doctrine and dogma. They still love Jesus the Christ just fine.

Only these various christian sects: evangelists, catholics and others have left out the mystical aspect of their faith tradition-that is: living the awakened life just as Jesus did.

This has left the congregational castaways distraught and confused. They come to spiritual teachers (with no religious affiliation) so they can taste the direct experience of divinity within themselves. They are no longer able to blindly follow mainline religious doctrine or dogmatic practices nor deal with original sin, guilt and the ‘have to’s’ and ‘shoulds’ that one day will lead to heaven.

I am speaking primarily of the mainstream religious, fundamentalist, conservative-based churches. For the church hierarchy seems to simultaneously canonize their Saints (all mystics) while at the same time denying and condemning the mystical. Instead they create something like the Easter Bunny myth which in some bizarre way promotes the resurrection of Messiah (from Jesus to the Christ). It’s all quite amusing.

The liberal christian churches are more open and slowly beginning to bring small particles of mysticism back. And in one area the christian churches, most all of them, far excel over non-dualistic spirituality; that of community. 

The church members help each other in crisis and true need, no matter the cause, why or how.

In the Spiritual circles, the mystical is alive and shining but the communal heart is missing in most of them. Instead of instantly helping one of their satsang-congregation, they will often dismiss them with statements like “It’s just part of the path; or good luck, with no help forthcoming unless their beloved teacher is sick, when the entire satsang congregation jumps to earn special merit and enlightenment-brownie points.

The religious castaways want to experience heaven directly now, while living, to see the truth in the most essential scriptures of all: ‘The Kingdom of God is Within’ and ‘Be still and know that I am God’. They are unable to do this within the strict religious orthodoxy – without leaving.

And to leave the church is to leave the greatest benefit of orthodox religion–that of community. This loss of community is felt deeply and the cause of much pain. Many of these religious castaways have been blown open by a mystical experience, life intensity or soul-altering encounter and they come to these Spiritual teachers to help find an anchoring-assurance that they will be find God in all His splendor.

So they came by the dozens to this spiritualist to recover their faith. And the spiritual advisors of today must be part priest, witch doctor, exorcist, past life regressionist and shrink – to deal with modern man’s vast array of delusional impulses, emotional freeze and psychotic episodes. This is why, with all the money, fame and spiritual hero worship, a new profession is exploding: Spiritual Teacher (with no religious affiliation).

The Nazi dentist, past life thing truly was ‘real’ to my friend, torturing at times based on our conversations. Besides the inner demons (thoughts)-which make up his whole phenomena, my friend’s outer waking life shows no negative correlative karma—in the dental arena at least.

I’m starting to wonder, however, if I wasn’t his dental assistant back then. Though not rocked by torturous thoughts and visions of unnecessary dental procedures and experiments inflicted on people, the actual fact is: this mouth has been pounded, beaten and yanked upon, and bled. UNCLE! Time to call the oral surgeon. He’ll fit me in and add some torque to an already, as he said – “difficult extraction process and you may have to ride this out for a couple of weeks.” Thanks doc.

Number 3, you might have forgotten or never gave him a second thought, but he did not go quietly. Drilled into 3 pieces to match his 3 roots, chiseled, hammered, drilled again and again. Did I mention tugged? At one point the oral surgeon, a sweetheart of a guy by the way, I’m sure was going to put his feet on my chest for more leverage. Even with all the modern equipment, extracting an FN tooth is still a battle. When Number 3 finally left, not so much as a whimper was heard.

But Did he leave any depth charges behind? You know, babies: necrotic bone potholes, bits of residual periodontal ligament or other pissed off brethren. Next time it’s definitely half a fifth of JD and a pair of pliers-I’ll pull it myself.

So instead of a quick recovery, I am into what is called: Dry Socket. They say it happens somewhat rarely, normally with wisdom teeth extractions, and takes place when an improper blood clot forms exposing the bone underneath. Holy shit batman! Misty Migraine marries Stanley Steroid. This was further exacerbated by an allergic-type reaction to the anesthesia mixture ( Most dentists and oral surgeons no longer use novocaine, and haven’t in over 30 years, instead using septocaine hydrochloride and epinephrine and perhaps other added agents. So many updates come down the pike and most dentists just accept them as an improvement) Allergic reactions include:

  • tongue pain or swelling,
  • facial swelling,
  • headache,
  • mouth sores,
  • nausea,
  • vomiting,
  • constipation,
  • diarrhea,
  • upset stomach,
  • increased thirst,
  • drooling,
  • nervousness,
  • dizziness,
  • drowsiness,
  • ear pain/earache,
  • neck pain,
  • joint or muscle pain,
  • unusual or unpleasant taste in your mouth,
  • numbness or tingly feeling,
  • mild skin rash or itching,
  • runny nose, or
  • sore throat.

Dry Socket is a Native American name for a pet feral cat you never see and never want to see again. Dry Socket, my feline friend laughed at Advil; thought Tylenol was catnip. Time for some upper level help from the Grandfathers on this one: that be the Opiate Clan and Mr. Vicodeine. Find the bloodstream pronto! I’m definitely astral-projecting to the dead Shaman (they never die) – the one I badmouthed 20 years ago for trying to sleep with my partner.

“Take the arrows out of Mikey Doll’s face, jaw, neck and head–Oh pretty please. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll add. “You can sleep with her now.”

One moment at a time. No mind story, just sensation. No labels: ‘pain’, ‘nausea’ – just breath. Otherwise a dramatic mess starts with “I” am in pain. “I” this and that. But if there’s no “I” thought story, then what?!

“But I could vomit any minute.” “I” again. Who or what is “I”? Tracing it back with inquiry, no “I” is found. No “I” was ever there. Migraine, nausea are only associative labels added on to continue the false narrative. Tracing back, tracing back to the source of “I”- “I” is gone, never there, ending in SOURCE, what always is our true nature.


*Disclaimer: The following blog was written while the author was under the influence of Dry Socket and edited/translated while high on Vicodeine (blissful apathy) and therefore he cannot be held accountable for content:)

The Private Sea…

In November 2016 my friend and I were having breakfast when the word floatation,  written on a sign, caught my eye across the street. After we had finished eating, on the way to our nearby beach walk (Santa Cruz), my friend and I entered the quantum age Floatation Center called: Equilibrium. We received a warm greeting from Dominique, one of the owners of the new business. He smiled brightly at us and appeared to be immersed in some Oceanic bubbly: extra-curricular floatation. Dominique’s inner delight was on display during our entire visit to this shortcut to Atlantis. He wowed my friend and I with an enthusiastic overview of floatation, technology meets tranquility at their cutting edge Center.

The primary highlight for me was getting to see the two floatation tanks. Both tanks were the largest I had ever seen, utilizing 1200 pounds of epsom salt. Each had a built in air filter, water heater (that keeps the water temperature at a constant of 93.5 F – what is known as the sacred temp. This being skin temperature, so there is no sensation of hot or cold-enabling the body-mind to let go even deeper). Besides the natural purification from the high density epsom salts, the tanks had built in UV light and hydrogen peroxide sterilization and a high capacity filter. After each float the tank water is cycled through this natural and powerful purification system 7 times between each float. (NO chemicals are used.) I was impressed and booked on as a monthly floater – with options to buy additional floats whenever needed.

When I first encountered floating, I was working for a high-tech transportation company. A stress-related itching syndrome was literally, as they say for a reason, ‘driving me crazy’. In truth suppressed frustration, anger and rage were igniting and crying for release. A horrific feeling experience;yet pure grace incognito. This itching was not like a mosquito sting or surface sensation relieved by a few appropriately aimed scratches. I would dig at spots, particularly on my forearms, often until they bled, with little or no relief. These buried feeling states and inclinations are what they call in India vasanas, a term which covers a wide variety of conditioning patterns, including: unconscious propensities, perpetual thought patterns, childhood psychic injuries and karmic residues. My initial intuition, that the tank was a gateway to consciousness and a new life, would take years to be realized. As John Lilly, the tank’s inventor once discovered through his own direct experience, referring to isolation therapy in the tank:

“…the mind does not pass into unconsciousness, the brain does not shut down. Instead, it constructs experience out of stored impressions and memories.” These latent impressions and ancient memories come vividly to the fore while floating thus accelerating the release of vasanas. And according to the sages of India, the vasanas must be scorched or purged from the system in order to sustain the natural state (true meditation), that is: pure awareness and bliss.

John Lilly was a neurophysicist who worked for NASA and also did human dolphin research and was involved with the cutting edge liberals of his era: Ram Dass, Timothy Leary and Allen Ginsberg. In the last two decades of his life, Lilly used the Self-inquiry meditation of the famous sage Ramana Maharshi.

The floatation tank is truly one of the great aids for true spiritual practitioners of all walks of life and religious affiliation. An equally valuable tool to enhance devotional depth while also heightening intuitive wisdom – since floatation minimizes external interaction and distraction while greatly enhancing exploration of the internal domain.

In 1987, 30 years ago, I initially discovered the floatation tank. The only place offering floatation in the bay area at that time was in Los Gatos, California. Soon I was  getting a walk through introduction, told to shower before and after-along with all the rest. The Samadhi tank I used at that time (Samadhi-one of the original pioneering companies), was a soundproof and lightless isolation vessel filled partway with 800 pounds of epsom salt. This quantity of epsom salt allows one to float on top of the water in zero-gravity environment. The epsom salt makes the tank waters naturally sterile, helping to create an atmosphere of buoyancy unknown to our human organism since gestation in the womb.

It took some time to get use to but almost instantly I fell in love with the dynamic stillness and my sense of physicality, the body-mind began to slowly unwind the holding patterns. The floatation tank opened a doorway to the light inside myself. As an early floatation explorer and author once wrote:

“…A new tool has been developed that has the potential to fundamentally change our way of life as a society…the tank provides a method of attaining the deepest rest that we have ever experienced.”

I floated a lot for the first few months, with a year or two break, then some more  floating periods. During the first years there was a more surface quality to the floatation sessions-with the subsequent psychological and physical unwinding aspect. Floatation, however, can spontaneously adjust the spine, release muscle holding pattern and emotional blockages, making it an ideal adjunct for stress reduction; the epsom salts are magnesium based and help with relaxation, blood pressure regulation and other disorders; floatation also increases creativity, improves athletic performance, recovery and pain management.

The primary use of floatation in my opinion:

A tool for true meditation.

I received a foretaste of this on one particularly early float. I reached a profound meditative state, what I later learned must has been the alpha-theta brainwave state on the border at about 7-8 Hz. At this point, breath, heartbeat and stillness and then I disappeared: Only awareness remained without identity. I was on the knife-edge ridge of existence- the natural state of being. A vision came in and suddenly I was outside the tank looking through the wall of the tank with seeing-eye vision, watching the Michael-body floating nude inside the tank. Suddenly I sprang up to a sitting position in shock, full body consciousness  returned, self-identity. This experience has never left and has been a guidepost to the pristine purity of the Self.

In the last few months I have been floating regularly again and the stillness and meditation during these sessions have reached a point that I enter the tank and immediately assume the horizontal position and do not move the entire time. Everything disappears except the breath and the heartbeat which nearly imperceptible during regular waking life, takes on an immense presence inside the tank, filling the entire awareness with her majesty. I let the water medicine reconfigure and dissolve what in truth is not really there. Joy floods  awareness or awareness floods with joy; the two are one. Form becomes obsolete and indistinguishable.

Emerging from the tank everything is lighter, like stepping off the plane into Aloha. Bodiless, spaceless, timeless, you begin to get a glimpse of what the spiritual masters point to when they say things like:

“The design of the body does not signify your identity, nor does your name. The indwelling presence, that beingness without words, That Itself you are. Stabilize yourself there and all doubts will clear and everything will be opened up in you.”





The other day I read the artful expression of a blogger-acquaintance, a touching piece about her father. I wrote a sincere reply and she responded in the same way. Innocence, with a felt sense of shared heart energy.

Yet it is quite easy to romanticize (fantasize) about ‘our new connection’:

“Oh! That went well!” The mind says, which is like offering up a blind date while wearing blinders.

We’d never met, just a few kind words exchanged on a page (computer screen), a mysterious picture on her blog header and the next thing you know: The heart flutters, all my emotional needs are met, beach picnics, and all our numerous shared interests. We’re soulmates! Then, it’s wedding bells, our dream house being built and the sex -that will certainly be great…”.


Not that any of these internal dialogues or scenarios were entertained here. The enchanting, seductive pseudo-voice was not given energy and like a fleeting thought, poof. Gone. An entire ridiculous little mind game avoided.

Sexuality, emotions, money–there are endless avenues where mind tries to creep in. In my case, 2 years of karmic-induced celibacy (not a bad thing really) was acting like a weak link in the chain.

Revelation and and earnest inquiry are alive inside now and operate without thought, beyond thought. Revelation is to reveal what lies hidden so that the transitory thought-forms whirling about can be seen as fictitious, without real substance.

Revelation works two ways; the first aspect uncovers all bullshit: the thoughts, emerging stories, fantasies, the world itself; the second facet reveals that underneath all of that phenomena (which comes and goes) is an immensity of Spirit, Soul, the true Self.

All fantasies, stories and beliefs start with a single thought. This is why Ramana Maharshi, one of India’s greatest sages said:

“…That which is called ‘mind’, which projects all thoughts, is an awesome power existing within the Self, one’s real nature. If we discard all thoughts and look [to see what remains when there are no thoughts, it will be found that] there is no such entity as mind remaining separate [from those thoughts]… If one goes on examining the nature of the mind, it will finally be discovered that [what was taken to be] the mind is really only one’s self. That which is called one’s (little ego self) is really the True Self, one’s real nature….”.

Ramana said the inquiry, ‘Who am I’ would lead one to the true Self through direct experience. This inquiry may start verbally but becomes internalized and like a mantra begins to work automatically without precognition. Anyone can practice this regardless of religious affiliation, creed or spiritual path. Inquiry requires nothing but true willingness to investigate the nature of the reality.

The true about my blogger-acquaintance, dare I say friend, is not what I think.

She is ‘only a dear soul inside and out’…whoops, there I go—- projecting again, birthing her into a -holy figure soon to be worshipped, a spiritual tantrika who can also make a mean gluten- free, green waffle, likes to walk around the house half nude and gives me massages every day…

You see the dream now? It ends the instant we drop all thoughts and just let things be as they are. That is peace, aliveness and holiness all rolled up into ONE.



Climbing the stairs has become part of what I call my newly developed E.S.P. or Everest Simulation Program. The coyote trickster (a saving grace) revels in humor. Laughter, and smiles, help to keep things light. Reduction of once robust physical vitality can no longer lead to gloom and doom as I stay ever vigilant and earnestly inquire and investigate any trance states that appear.

Chronic health debilitation can be a godsend; truly all that transpires is a pointer back to our Essential Nature. Chronic body dysfunctions can actually be a grace, helping to remove the deepest belief of them all: the “I am the body” idea.

There’s nothing like adding an acute condition to a chronic one (or is the acute condition only an aspect of the chronic one which has gone acute?!). In the last week an abscessed tooth has flared up. A fine workman with as good a service record as any, tooth Number-3 (all teeth are numbered) deserves a special letter of commendation. His epithet will read:

“For well-over 40 years Number 3 served his Dental Squadron with a selfless sense of chew, always breaking up his fair share of fibrous detritus. Though his early affinity for sugar contributed to his demise, let it be noted that when 3 root canal grenades containing dangerous anaerobic bacteria gases exploded in said mouth, Number 3 stayed at his post thus saving the lives of most of his regiment.” (Yes, I give all my teeth eulogies. Not really.)

This am I spoke with my new oral surgeon’s secretary. Oral surgeon is much better than ‘barber-surgeon, the term used in the 18th century to denote the guy who extracted teeth during the day and cut hair at night.

The secretary-assistant found a spot. I exclaimed gleefully:

“I am so glad you could fit me in!” It is strange how ecstatic one get over an impending tooth extraction. This shows pain is not the natural state.

I am getting straws in order and my blender at the ready. The days of adult baby food loom ever close – 3 hours to be exact. This marks the 8th tooth soldier to leave the arena, counting the 4 impacted wisdom teeth that left all at once nearly 40 years ago.

I shall enjoy reverie of one of my favorite comedy scenes, that of Peter Sellers and Herbert Lom in the – “The Pink Panther Strikes Again”- where Seller pretends to be a dentist and pulls the wrong tooth.

I will finish this short blog with a couple of quotes from my book regarding the importance of the dental sphere.

“A hundred years ago dentistry was held in the same esteem as Western Medicine. It was generally understood that oral health was a significant factor in overall wellness. Current research confirmed this. The dentin tubules behind the teeth are like an entire universes of tiny blood vessels that can reverse flow (for example when sugar is added). These tubules, an important and misunderstood aspect of the immune system, can turn into toxin highways – allowing focal infection a route into the systemic circulation.”

I will end with a tear of profound gratitude and a quote from my pioneering former dentist, Andrew (Andy) Landerman-who passed away 2 years ago:

“You know in my experience 90 % of all chronic disease comes from the mouth. 100% of all breast cancer I have seen in my practice has been related to oral infections.” (mostly root canal, but also metal issues and cavitation infections).

This statement has been corroborated by Thomas Rau M.D., who runs the Parcelsus Clinic in Switzerland who found (in appx 2011) that of the last 150 breast cancer patients treated at his clinic, 147 of them (98%) had one or more root canal teeth on the same meridian as the original breast cancer tumor. (Teeth have a a proven, correlative-energy system as well).

The Cannabis Doctor…

This long blog was written a few days ago and was too long to include until now.
Well, the inner-shaking phenomena (and accompanying insomnia) had this body up at 1:00 am (or was it the full moon or the time change-ha).
Unable to simply witness the fireworks dancing inside, I rise to sit and scribble; a true salvation only an innate writer can know. These mostly middle of the night episodes are one of the hallmark characteristics of both chronic neuro-lyme (dis-ease) and chronic blastocystis hominis (parasite infestation).
During the acute phase (occurring as I wrote this), it feels like a giant, malaria-carrying mosquito sting. Add to this a thick brain fog that suspends my neurons in a sludge. I am transported into Jules Verne’s Mysterious Island (the deleted scene).
In the last year and a half, there’s been a few interesting encounters not previously expressed on the blog page. Here’s part-1 of a 3.
 Thirteen months ago the nausea aspect of whatever is playing out in the body here, reached a zenith. I decided that I needed a partner in crime, an assistant for my super strong ginger-peppermint-fennel tea combo–used to lessen the intensity of all things in the gastro-intestinal tract.
It was time for good old cannabis.
 I knew the herb had evolved through high-end cultivation methods in the 3-plus decades since I initially dabbled in her wafting haze. (Okay, was on full-immersion retreat). The biggest change, legality issues aside, has come via the THC content, the plant’s psychoactive component. THC is was now 5-10 times more potent and truly drug-like in its effects. There was also the CBD form, a non-psychoactive extract of the plant made famous in the last decade for numerous astonishing reversals of childhood epilepsy- among others.The THC form is now being touted as a panacea for just about any ailment. This amazing plant somehow has the ability to bring about homeostasis, to bring one back to a biological baseline equanimity, thus allowing the body organism to reboot and restore itself with greater ease.
Decades ago cannabis as medicine, at least in the United States, was rarely known except for use with glaucoma and chemo-related nausea and lack of appetite. (read: chemo poisoning).
I knew I would be treading into an old vice, as during my high school years the herb was smoked for emotional disconnect and escapist thrills, playing the role of pseudo psychologist. The decision to see a cannabis-specialist, ha, lead me to Doc Deb – an entrepreneur of a rapidly escalating new practitioner  paradigm: the stoner Doc. Though some of these Doctors are on the cutting edge and really helping the true people in need, many of these new age stoner Docs have found a lucrative way to tip toe along the precipice of mainstream medicine, an illusory sense of freedom under the umbrella of Western Allopathy and the pharmaceutical mobsters. (They always follow the money and this is a multi-billion dollar industry).
Ninety-nine percent of Doc Deb’s patients are booking 30-minute appointments in order to get or renew  a medical marijuana card. Doc Deb pockets her hundred bucks by stamping a document and ushering forth a few words about intuitive strain selection which is based on sense of smell. What Doc Deb calls:
“How it makes you feel.”
A card is then issued, good for one year at any legal medical marijuana co-op. These co-ops are really shopping mall meets Theme park, with every variety of edible cannabis imaginable, plus 5 dozen weed strains and combination, some with THC content above 30 percent. Think drug strength and with a growing new disorder now arising in over-indulgent young and new users called: marijuana psychosis. Strain names include: Blue Dream, where you pretend you’re an angel from above; Blackberry Kush, after smoking a shaman appears, leading you to the last bush of wild berries on earth. Then there is the experimental trial strain: Coma-Inducer- for those wanting to leave the world behind but keep the return ticket option open. Groundhog day on dope. Add to this myriad vapor pipes, seeds, plant grow kits and soon, no doubt, an onsite gardener available for hire. It truly was an amusement park ride at the Kind Peoples Collective I visited.
A burly security guard (bouncer), greets you kindly at the door. You get carded, then step through a metal detector, the coaster then slides downhill slightly towards a 20-something young lady who does finger-printing and voice analysis (okay, she really just checks to make sure you are in the System). Smiling she releases the ride-lever and ushers me to the line behind 6 other assorted clients. Officially ready to board Alice’s Collective Wonderland, I glanced up at the glass display case, contact high already beginning. I see a glazed-over look in all four of the reef-tenders. The sound of pigeon-cannabis, a new american dialect of part hippy-speak, part new age garble combined with technical aspects of weed that only a chemist would understand. All of this is spoken in a laid back state of indifference, a ginger smile that looks ready to laugh any second.
The cannabis collective clients come from all walks of life: the 85 year old lady dying from cancer-using the medicine to ease her existential fear and panic as death approaches. She has several strains to choose from. Then there is the construction worker that dropped a 2 by 10 on his big toe, who in a few minutes will forget which toes hurts or if he even has a toe; the 62 year old hippy with chronic inflammation-arthritis of everything; and the 23 year old young man, former valedictorian forced to to live at home after obtaining a Master’s degree yet unable to find a job. He’s using the oil (50% THC) to ‘handle’ living at home with his parents. Most come because they don’t buy into the pharmaceutical cartel promotional game, with 20 % off all store items if you get a flu shot BS. The roulette wheel of poisonous vaccines in disguise of disease-fighters and addictive drugs which cause, in many cases, side-effects far worse than what one originally took the medication for.
Some come to the Collective for more legitimate needs than others but Doc Deb stamps them all. It’s a racket no doubt but a mostly harmless one which does not include mass poisoning and societal mayhem.
My appointment with Doc Deb was for one hour, at $250.00. I brought a 5-page health history and a folder full of tests and information. A recent high-end lab test showed I still harbored two parasite species picked up in India 20-years earlier. (I have written about this in a previous blog a year ago).
Little did I know but Doc Deb was about to play stoned psychotherapist, holistic MD because it gets boring to stamp pot cards all day. My visit was her chance to stand on Mount Sinai. We all love to hear ourselves talk, especially from up high. And there’s nothing like a doctor who ‘knows’.
Reading through my health history, she suddenly stopped and blurted:
“I know how to cure Blasto! It’s no big deal.”” Her sermon continued: “You know what, I have to tell you,” she exhorted after reading further into my health history, “Blasto”, she leaned close, “does not cause this much damage.” She was referring to all of my symptoms. “And you don’t have Lyme. Labs aren’t wrong. Your real issue is a need to grow some cajones…” I tried to cut her off with some additional information and research which far exceeded hers. She would have none of it. She knew.
“You need more assertiveness and masculinity.” I listened to her verdict and scolding because I could do nothing else in my debilitated state- which further validated her diagnosis- at least in her eyes. Doc Deb had no idea nor true interest in the humbling I’d gone through in the previous 7 years. All her ‘knowing’ and intellectual rubbish was a replacement for heart qualities she lacked and her own unmet emotions.
I sat back, trusting that Doc Deb’s flower power hour would soon end. I didn’t buy her monologue. I was just waiting to get my card, alleviate the nausea and perhaps even get a prescription for a drug therapy (a huge concession that had disastrous results). I wasn’t angry that she believed my entire health situation was a result of hypnotic emotional psychosis and gestalt paralysis.
As I stood at the front desk waiting for the receptionist to laminate my new medicine card, I looked out the sliding glass entryway to see Doc Deb pacing nervously back and forth between cars. She’d take 3 steps, pivot then turn back the other way before taking 2 more steps. Then she stopped and feverishly began inhaling from a vapor pipe like a patient trying to come down from amphetamines.
I smiled, waved, and nodded her way a few minutes later when I walked outside to my car, just 30 feet away from where she stood. Doc Deb was toking and pacing still, she turned her back to me and walked a dozen steps and began to drag incessantly on her vapor device. I am guessing that was our follow up call.
I don’t make this stuff up.
The sampling of weed, chocolate, tinctures and oils I tried helped a little. The CBD for the inner shaking, the THC for the nausea but the CBD oil was $50.00 for a 4 day supply, way out of my price range. The THC varieties were so strong that the primary side effect: decreased lucidity of consciousness, far outweighed their anti-nausea benefits. I went back to the teas.
Well time to go now, the Inner Shaking Choir is being joined by Tommy Tinnitus & the Ear-ringers, with a special guest appearance by Upton Right Molar on the kettle drum (tooth heading for extraction).
Should be quite a show.

Two decades ago I dropped by TV off at the tech recycle bin of the dump. I know some people call it the refuse disposal site or the ridiculous moniker: Landfill. Yes, we fill our land with things we no longer want or deem of value. We replace them with more things, which we eventually get tired of as soon as the next better, fancier gadget comes along. Upgrading. I decided to downgrade.

It was a radical but necessary counter-movement, a leap towards sanity and one of those life-altering inspirations you never forget.

Three weeks back my laptop computer (my only computer) went away- donated to a friend who could not afford one. What freedom! I’m taking back the space from the sanity-syphoning device, the computer. Let us call it what it is. Computers have the same brain numbing, mind-addictive qualities of televisions. They have programs built into them hardwired to beckon for our attention like some kind of robotic golden retriever. (Okay, it is not the computer but the mind). Now I go to the library and use my daily hour allotment to transcribe my handwritten blogs (remember those days?!). Sometimes I even check emails. That’s all I use the computer for now. Endless distraction be gone.

Within a week of the computer’s disappearance from my desk, writing, real writing spontaneously exploded from the Inner Geyser. You know the one, that One.  Unlike Jed Clampett (and I am dating myself here), IT wasn’t full of ‘buffalo crude’ but stillness and grace. All that tech lure filled up with even more contemplation and meditative immersion- which at this moment expresses as words.

My loan remaining tech device, the most primitive cell phone you ever saw. No chance I was going for one of those Get Smart phones! They call my new one, and I use the term loosely, the ‘Neanderthal Flip’. (I could not figure out a practical way to drop the dinosaur completely). Of course I had to time travel to several Target store’s just to locate it.

Swimming up river am I and IN LOVE, no doubt soon to find the actual Shangri-La, where water is uncontaminated and full of minerals. I can dream. The more I stroke against the stream of the ego-current of so-called modern civilization, the depth of this ceaseless search for my True Self, for God, Pure Consciousness-whatever word you like- the more THAT is illumined by an inner light. THAT Beingness, is a palpable living presence that breathes, nourishes and sustains this entire existence.

I continue to give away more of ‘my things’ – such as the recently jettisoned mountain bike (to a homeless man in need) and my massage table (to a healer friend whose table broke) -I come closer to nothingness, to no thing, to what the Christians called the Holy Ghost, the Hindu’s referred to as the ‘Supreme Being’ and the Zen Buddhists like to call: Emptiness- all these words can only point to a complete fullness and what we are all driven towards whether we know it or not.





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