Blog Post as Memoir. . .

Broken but Useful

a Poetic Odyssey for the Peoples of the World

by

Alexander M Zoltai

A Project of B. I. D. E.

Benevolence In Dharmic Exploration

~~~~~~~~~

I’ve Escaped and found a way to Help…

to Help… somewhat…

Between Escape and Help,

a long span of time;

and, it wasn’t always nice…

I’ll attempt an elaboration…

………

It began in a regular old state in a country not aware it was decaying…

“It” was my birth; and, I think my first cry signaled that the

War had begun…

So, also, begins the movie of my life; and, if the

Editor seems frail and puts That before This,

Bear with the story—

the actors are real, though flawed—

the scenes are true, though, at times, full of unrealities…

Unrealities in these troubled times…

And, while I’ll now relate to you what I grew up through,

there will be a eulogy for the future;

though, the past will have its say;

and, some judgements and remedies will be offered…

And, while I ponder in words about what has occurred and will happen,

Do, please, remember, there is really no “Them”, just Us…

One last idea before I sail the sea of story…

There is a primal Oneness that surrounds you; and,

perhaps you will allow it to embrace you…

A large part of my tale is how I failed, for so long,

yet regained,  somewhat,

that sense of Oneness…

So…

My life began with many moves—

city to city with few memories retained; but,

much of that memory was mined with later

conceptual digging—

If this, then that…

If I was overbearing,

Then at least one of my parents helped me learn it—

If I hated my father for my first thirty years, for the way he treated my mother,

Then I didn’t realize my mother, for all that time, must have bought into his verbal abusing—

If I wandered so often, covering much territory, becoming, often, homeless,

Then I must have felt quite unmoored in my youngest home life…

The earliest pressures can have the longest pains.

The mistakes of parents can harm for years.

My heart is still bearing such things…

The things that nearly engulfed my soul

seem legion beyond surcease—

There is but one way they’re gone for good,

A grace from regions Beyond…

And, I must pause my dealings with the past

to deal with where this odyssey heads…

No doubt I was born into and developed in a quaking world—

no doubt it will continue shuddering, ‘till it releases,

through pain and ordeal, its new Self—and,

I’ve felt, so deeply, this long travail,

this extended birth through pain

of humanity’s destined maturity—

so hazardous, this path, for any sensitive soul…

Back to the harrowing times of my youth—

a dogmatically fervent father,

a strong but obsequious mother,

two older sisters—all so far from my inner World…

So much of that time is blank—extended family orbiting my own,

yet all far distant and forgotten…

Memory enlivens in the high school years…

My first love…

My first fight with a woman…

My first running away from life…

My most toxic instance of burying embarrassment…

Apart from the love leading to embarrassment,

I remember high school being the time

of beginning to hate the

procedure of education; though,

I’ve never stopped learning on my own.

I swiftly became an educated maverick…

College?

Started…

Had my head smashed against a brick wall—

perfect excuse to leave college behind…

Soon realized I was headed for a major clash with society and

was weak enough to still believe my success in life demanded

adherence to social norms—while realizing I had no chance of

adhering by myself,

I joined the Navy,

to be forced to adhere—

four interesting years…

Vietnam for one of them…

Return to San Francisco in time for the

Summer of Love

and

the beginning of a forty-five year binge on pot and beer…

Naturally, memory, in the main, fails

except for certain landmarks:

First time of being critically broken—

being banished from my daughter’s life…

Broken; but, instantly wiser about my being

an addicted social outcast…

Second time of being critically broken—

Mother’s death…

Followed within a few years by

oldest sister’s death…

Followed within a few years by

Dad’s death…

It could be said I’d been not only broken; but,

shattered, crushed, and ground to dust…

I believe I was all of 40 years old; but,

the constant pot and beer took a massive toll on memory—

this part of my life’s movie may have some mistakes in timing—

yet, what I’ve mentioned happened—

in some order of its own…

Still, I can date something precisely at 42—

The beginning of the Escape…

I’d thought before the Navy I needed

severe discipline to tow Society’s line—

I now knew I needed to adhere to a much

Higher Code than society could offer—not

a maverick life—more a life

apart—a life dedicated to

Eternity…

I found a Faith—

I call it an Escape—

an Escape that still demands

constant Adherence to

a way of living the prevailing culture

abhors…

Yet…

The Escape that

demands Adherence also

demands an awareness that

all Faiths are One—

while most believers still want to fight each other—

while most of the western world shuns any Faith—

while the majority of humanity are

closer, in their simple, grounded beliefs to

True Faith…

Seem confusing…?

Understandable,

what with all the contentions swirling while

humanity experiences the

Travail of Rebirth—

entrance to the new Age—

Unity…

Still…

The Spring of Unity

demands the Winter of the

dissolution of what the

Rulers and Financiers deem

Standard Operating Procedure—

Procedure that rapes the earth—

that destroys trust—

that breeds contempt—

that will eliminate current

Givens and

give

new

Life

…

Seem confusing…?

For most, it is confusing…

How can what seems to have always been

become so seemingly suddenly utterly outmoded?

One simple act can unwrap the religious confusion that permits such human suffering—

a humble appraisal of the actual Teachings of the Prophets—

Not the beliefs of the believers—

the actual Teachings bear witness to a fundamental

Unity…

I force no claims—

I demand no agreement—

I only state the State I’ve discovered—

existing above yet within us all…

Yet…

I struggle…

Have for thirty years…

Accumulated dross seems solidified—

Karma reeks of retribution—

Mistakes of the past call for repentance…

Was that shot in the arm, from a needle wiped by

the bloody rag used on the guy in line ahead of me—all of us being prepped for

Vietnam—could that simple swipe have been the infecting that

grew for so many years?

Backing up a bit…

The early years of struggling for my Faith led to

radical resistance by my ego,

which led to attempted suicide.

Went to a psychologist—

Blood was taken—

Diagnosis delivered—

Hepatitis C…

A deadly disease shook me out of a desire to kill myself…

Stranger things have happened.

Eleven months of sledgehammer medicine…

They said I was “cleared”; a cure not possible…

Mind and emotions still vied for a basis of understanding—

the Solution was very clear—

applying it is still problematic,

not to be wondered at in this world of ours—

Fraught with vexations,

full of troubles,

frantic with worries—

rulers dismantling justice and fairness,

corporations acting like rulers,

both fouling our Earthly nest…

Our current world is like a badly written

horror-crime novel…

The antagonists of the book are those

financiers I mentioned and

the rulers those money-folk control.

Justice has wilted and fairness been crippled and love become a street-walker…

A Short Laundry List of Crimes Against Humanity:

* Corporate takeover of peoples’ lands that pollutes those lands.

* Materialists controlling economies, polluting peoples’ hearts with consumerism.

* Rulers claiming exclusive sovereignty and imperiling their peoples’ well-being.

* Companies creating toxic products.

* Advertisers making false claims.

* Doctors in bed with Big Pharma.

* Clergy encouraging contention.

* Education that isn’t…

* Sham democracies brewing materialistic “Rights”,

turning “liberated” individuals into warring camps of protestation—

freedom of speech being so misused it’s ashamed of what it’s saying…

* Countries causing or funding wars in other countries,

then refusing entry to the innocent folks trying to flee

and encouraging radicals to hassle and kill the refugees…

Just a few of the reapings of the multinational-greed-dealers…

Just a few of the factors that will demolish the old Order,

be the Winter preceding the blessed Spring…

So…

There’s a new Order…?

Yes.

There are people, around the Globe, building the foundations of this

New Order of Unity—

this Equality of All—

this Oneness of Humanity.

And…

Since my Escape some thirty years ago,

I’ve been attempting to master my particular way to Help.

To Help… somewhat…

I’ve written a novel,

Nearly one hundred fifty short stories,

A fable,

A book of poems, and

blogged for nearly eight years straight—providing aid and assistance to other writers…

All of that took nineteen years,

all of that just a bit of Help for our ailing humanity…

How could it help…?

By portraying Principles in Action—

an animated representation of Ethics—

Morals contrasted with Immorality—

Stories, Poems, Articles that have

reached eighty countries and territories—

Global Effort that’s still just a bit of Help…

All the while, I’ve struggled to live up to my Faith—

struggled against the inertia of the old Order—

nearly sucked down into the materialistic morass—

stumbled over my own virtues, kept walking on

bloody knees—

striven toward

transcendence of self…

I still pray, will always pray for aid and assistance…

I pray all the words I’ve written,

here and elsewhere,

have helped—somewhat…

All of these ups and downs and ins and outs and damage and repair

led me to writing this Poetic Odyssey…

Led me to say:

May all your tribulations be slight—

May you live to see a slightly better World—

May your children thrive…

I leave you with a small bit of advice:

In

You

is the strength you seek elsewhere

…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you don’t see a way to comment, try the link at the upper right of this post…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For Private Comments or Questions, Email: amzolt {at} gmail {dot} com

Blogville

“The Varieties Of Religious Experience” ~ “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly”

Here we are at the Friday Behind The Scenes of Notes from An Alien post.

This is where I reveal my own thoughts and feelings about my short novel, answer your questions, and share scenes that weren’t in the published edition.

Some of these posts have spoilers (this one does) and, if those trouble you, grab a free copy of the novel and take the relatively short time to read its 90-some pages :-)

Last week’s Friday Behind The Scenes was, The Corporate Education of Children and revealed unpublished scenes of a boy growing up on the totally corporate World, Anga.

Today’s post is a set of scenes about a boy growing up on the totally religious World of Anla.

The first quoted phrase in the title of this post is part of the title of a book by the psychologist William James, The Varieties Of Religious Experience: A Study In Human Nature.

The second quoted phrase is the title of a Spaghetti western film that has nothing to do with this post, though the words have much to do with the boy’s experiences…

As an intro to the new, unpublished scenes, I offer these quotes from William James:

“Were one asked to characterize the life of religion in the broadest and most general terms possible, one might say that it consists of the belief that there is an unseen order, and our supreme good lies in harmoniously adjusting ourselves thereto.”

“It does not follow, because our ancestors made so many errors of fact and mixed them with their religion, that we should therefore leave off being religious at all.”

No matter what your feelings are about religion, I hope you enjoy the following scenes…

~~~~~~~~~

He was born just before sunrise.

He didn’t know his parents. They may have been involved somewhat in his early upbringing, or not—that was the way of things.

Everything was shared, no one could claim ownership or possession.

His basic needs were met but just barely.

He would grow into a cautious, untrusting young child.

~~~

By the time the boy had reached the age of five, he had become completely dependent on the small clan of children he’d been lodged with.

They were a cohesive band of stunted souls—permitted to wander the main city of the Lord’s Army—given no special notice by the adults.

The most striking event of this period of his life was the Gift to God ritual he observed.

He’d fallen and cut himself many times and cried a bit over it—the people being offered as a Gift to their God were completely silent—blood pouring from the cuts made in their skin—slumping and dying without a sound.

He would wonder long about why they were so willing to die but he would not lose the sealed determination in his heart—they would never do that to him…

~~~

By the time the boy had reached the age of ten, he was the secret leader of his small band of children.

The priests were intelligent enough to notice the small preferences the other children rendered him and administered extra lessons—periods of repeating the words the priests uttered—repeating many times—accepting silently the blows to his body when he misspoke the chant.

His lack of ability to bend to their wishes eventually had them deciding his banishment—unprecedented for one so young—necessary for the ordering of things…

~~~

His early time in the Unholy Lands was a trial of wits—a strengthening of clear thought—a life of evading contact with the other sinners…

He wondered why these were called the Unholy Lands—such lush fields of crops—never a worry over food—surreptitiously observed people who laughed a lot and never hit each other…

He slowly evolved a plan—took a few years to gain the courage to implement it—capturing one of the sinners and questioning them.

~~~

It was his fifteenth birthday when he began his interrogation of the sinner—a sprightly  blond woman who hadn’t resisted his manhandling of her, had said lovely things to him as he tied her up, made him feel guilty for the first time in his life…

“Woman, be quite!”

She stopped her litany of sweetness.

“Tell me why this is called the Unholy Lands.”

“May I stop being quite?”

“Tell me!”

“You must have escaped from the Lord’s Army territory.”

“They threw me out!”

She had the most melodious laugh. It nearly stunned his senses.

“Forgive me for laughing, we’ve only met youth who escape. You must be a very special person to have earned their expulsion at such a tender age.”

“Expulsion?”

“Throwing you out…”

He stared at her.

She stared back…

She finally said, “You are welcome to our Lands, oh most unholy boy.”

His stare began to melt into tears.

~~~

When he was twenty he met the newly arrived Prophet, Akla—the “Promised One” of these people.

He’d worked up seven questions to ask the Prophet—questions to test his authority.

As he entered the hut, his limbs suddenly weakened and the Prophet helped him to a chair.

He was given a cool drink and a cloth to wipe his sweat.

After he was settled, Akla said, “Your first question is why should anyone believe what a Prophet says.”.

He shuddered and began to cry, very softly…

Akla’s next words would stay with him for the rest of his life.

“Never believe a Prophet’s words until you’ve subjected them to your best scrutiny. Use the mind and heart God gave you.”
~~~~~~~~~
Read more Behind the Scenes posts…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To Leave A Comment, Use The Link At The Top-Right of The Post :-)
For Private Comments, Email: amzolt {at} gmail {dot} com
* Google Author Page
GRAB A FREE COPY of Notes from An Alien

Select as many as you like:

 

This post was valuable.

This post was fun.

This post was a disappointment.

This post was interesting.

This post bothered me.

I did not understand this post.

Submit

Δ

Words That Give Birth To Words . . .

WARNING: This post contains Poetry…

I have a friend named John who writes some of the most amazing poetry–often, so ripe with meaning, I come away gasping for my literary breath.

In response to his poem, “No Longer”, I wrote these words:

“All is
Lost but the
Chance to
Lose it
All.”

John then produced …in interaction and appreciation of the poetic words of Alexander M. Zoltai…

I’m going to post the poem right here but first want to say:

When someone honors you for something you’ve written that deeply affected them, don’t consider why they honored you as much as considering why you should honor them :-)

JOHN’S POEM
in interaction and appreciation of my comment

Aptly expressed; a delicious thought, actually.
There is unequalled truth to this, the bailiwick
of those who know no doubt that blessings and curses
of this life are in fact inexhaustible, inextinguishable.

What is left then, but Creation, itself? What courage
does it take to approach all aspiration and consummation
in the ashes? Every planet’s doom is reunion with its star;
every star, its own appointment with the beginning

and the end of all that matters and energy’s just what’s left over.
And perhaps this is, after all, the raison d’être
for the inexhaustible,
the indivisible, inextinguishable

pain or sorrow, joy or bliss
within the mansions of this world.
If it is of God, it will last beyond leaving,
and as the longed for inauguration into the Next.

Be it the either which, expressed quite simply,
the Heavens and Earth may cease to exist–
in fact must in the end expire–but His Word
will never pass away, and neither the one

privy to Its existence;
and like all that is, we are in the end,
indivisible, inextinguishable.
Whilst we breathe, so, too, breeds our sacred company,

so, too, our own clear magnification in direct proportion
to recognition of one another and in the reality
of His oneness, our own dear being,
indivisible, inextinguishable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Our Comment Link Is At The Top of The Post :-)

We’re Infected by Materiality . . .

Our last post, was a setup to prepare for a series of posts dealing with the tragic split between Body and Soul.

If for some technological reason you can’t scroll down to read that post (and, I hope you have read that post before you continue with this one), it’s also right here.

I usually write these posts in a way that can include the perceptions and sentiments of most people. Today, I must be rather specific in my offering and I may lose a few readers…

It began in earnest around 600 years ago. Science, in it’s newest garb was “born”.

It took a little while, since the earliest “modern” scientists still held metaphysics to be an important part of their mental equipment, but a war broke out between the entrenched and materialistic religionists and the new breed of rational explorers.

If the proponents of religion back then had been able to be more rational, science and metaphysics could have had a very fruitful marriage and we might not have inherited metaphysical practices that are completely irrational and scientific establishments that are more concerned with prestige and money than the honesty of actually submitting their “theories” to the rigor of experimentation.

Perhaps you don’t know that much of “science” these days is an orgy of mathematical computation that feeds speculation into the equations then uses the resultant answers as proof.

Perhaps you don’t know that much of religion and metaphysics is floating free of rational thought, lost in a fog of self-importance that preys on people’s fears and insecurities.

“What the heck does any of this have to do with Reading, Writing, and Publishing??”

All three of the raisons d’être of this blog depend on words and words are what we think with and respond to emotionally.

In a culture that has hobbled any appreciation for what lies beyond the merely physical and has become attached to a priesthood of materialistic scientists who have abandoned their own best practices, words have their meaning warped–words, too often, are used to attack and befuddle rather than enlighten and comfort.

How would most present-day scientists define the word “value”? What are their thoughts on the word “moral”? Can they, without clear and precise language, think rationally about the forces that effect us but can’t be seen–like gravity?

How do most present-day religionists expect us to respond to a world ordered on the principles of production and consumption of material goods? Shall we shun our bodies? Should we just pray and wait to die? Should we kill other religionists for the sake of our “God”?

I want to quote one of the most practical yet mystical men I have ever read. He uses the word “religion” in this quote but, due to the extreme opinions about that word in our culture, if you need to substitute the word “spirituality” to have it make sense, feel free:

“Religion and science are the two wings upon which man’s intelligence can soar into the heights, with which the human soul can progress. It is not possible to fly with one wing alone! Should a man try to fly with the wing of religion alone he would quickly fall into the quagmire of superstition, whilst on the other hand, with the wing of science alone he would also make no progress, but fall into the despairing slough of materialism.”

~~~ Abdu’l-Baha, Paris Talks, p. 143

So, I’m going to go out on a limb here and ask my readers to tell me what this post really has to do with words and their use in reading, writing, and publishing.

Care to comment?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Our Comment Link Is At The Top of The Post :-)

Take Part In Our Reader Survey

AND, Get A Free Copy of Notes from An Alien

Coming Out of The Closet ~ I’m A Poet At Heart

I’ve written what one author friend has called a Documentary Novel which will launch on May 16th.

That will be followed by a Short Story Collection.

Then there’s my Poetry Book…

It was reviewed recently by an author I’ve interviewed on this blog–Joel Blaine Kirkpatrick:

“Don’t be surprised to learn that Alexander is a poet. A fine poet.

“I own his collection from 2005, which he subtitles ‘A Poet’s Struggle With God’.

“This is not poetry in a page, nor in a phrase, or sentence.

“It is poetry within a word.

“Here is my review:

“How many words does it take to say something profound? If you are Alexander M. Zoltai, sometimes only three or four. ‘Is Your Soul in Here?’, is not a question this poet is asking you, the reader. He is asking himself, and listening very hard for an answer. In this book is the silence of rushing waters, the stone-stillness of clouds, the laughter that pain causes, and joy in feeling the search for love in your soul.

“Alexander claims this ‘spiritual struggle [is] an activity best performed alone…’, and he’s listening to hear if God agrees.

“This is a deeply personal writing, dedicated to his daughter–with the simplest expression of pure love that I’ve ever seen in text.

“I wanted to share this, to thank him for those pages. I find them wonderful to know.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Our Comment Link Is At The Top of The Post :-)
Follow the “co-author” of Notes from An Alien, Sena Quaren:
On Twitter
AND, Get A Free Copy of Our Book