Journey to Join the Telepaths

Book II

[top] Monday, 9-19-88. Gentle readers, many of you live in psychological armor shells whose inner territories were long ago crucified, taken for dead, and buried. Buried in rotten careers, tangled in burnt-out homes, or floating aimlessly around in caves dimly lit by fluttering Bingo games.

Some of you are college students or young adults, and I want to reassure you that sooner or later everyone discovers the truth, and for many it comes at a very tender and fragile age, the time at which most human beings of our culture are cast into circumstances that would kill a baby.

To be honest with you, a very simple Utopia would be a daycare cooperative run by the aged. Because the truth is, it's the child in you that must live.

Now I would like to serve your imagination a little breakfast.




a controlled nervous breakdown

[The Church]
the teacher,
inner life





your shell,
plates of lies,
the lottery &
the pub

[The Crucifixion]
sex-approval disapproval mechanism





true love,
your strings

[Garden of Eden]
zoo genies





fads & fancies,
escaping the culture

[Lost in the desert]
Attention -
the body





great art,

[God the Provider]
symbols &
poetic metaphors

real understanding,




a company man,
paid benefits,

[The Flood]
neurological growth,
new pipes for old

an individual's life,




your origins
& end, meat
& electricity,
place, time
& person

the facility,
its true use,
the problem,
the hints,
the way

an inner chemical factory,
real work,


[back] Tuesday, 9-20-88. For the first time in my life I have made direct conscious contact with my real mind. It happened night before last, and was reinforced by my teacher in last night's meeting.

My mind was literally overjoyed that I had made the hookup, and bless its soul, it kept me up all night only once. Last night it let me sleep.

Ordinarily on Monday nights we have two meetings, one at 5:30, the other at 9:00. When you consider what my teacher is doing, it's amazing he charges only $70 a month. Back in 1972 it was only $30. Can you believe that?

So I came home after the 5:30 meeting, and because I was a little angry and distracted when I got out of my car, I locked the keys inside. E., my next door neighbor, whom I have known ever since Boston, helped me haul a ladder and huge long pipe around to the back of my house, where I climbed up and tried to hook my spare key from a pair of bluejeans hanging in my room. I couldn't go through the louvered window myself, but the pipe could. It was such a funny scene, extending this 15-foot pipe into my room. I just kept repeating to E. and his son, "This is so funny."

Eventually, I called the Albany police from E.'s flat, and with E.'s son I. standing lookout, we waited on the cool evening porch.

I can't tell you how nice the police are in Albany and how quickly they can get into a locked car. They use what looks like a long hacksaw blade to slip through the window at its base, right into the inside of the door itself, where they jimmy around for a moment until, pop, the door comes unlocked and there you have it. After I asked him, the officer told me it was illegal to own one, and that most honest people such as myself would keep it locked inside the car anyway, so what good would it do?

I can't tell you how nice the police in that town are. Two cars showed up to help me. Can you believe that? And it was free.

So I got my apartment keys out of my car, went inside, and promptly fell asleep. I never miss those late meetings, but last night thank God I did, because I really needed the rest.

When I first made contact with my real mind, I knew exactly what I was looking for. I have to tell you this. For sixteen years I have been going to meetings, and it has been going to meetings, too. We've both been sitting there year after year but unable to talk to each other.

So when we finally met, so to speak, it was quite an occasion. Let me explain how we talk. I speak in English, and ask it questions. Then it responds with a metaphoric symbol. If I were to draw a picture of it (mind you, it's really a metaphoric symbol), it would look like this:

It's a little pipe deep inside the organic liquid of my body. Go back in my journal about 4 days and you'll see when I first spotted it. Let's see, that's Saturday, the 17th.

(I just misplaced my pen, but then I found it on the car seat beside me and I'm back with you again.)

Mind you, when I found it for the very first time, I didn't know what, or who, it was. I just thought it was sort of an interesting vision, or hallucination, or what have you, kind of powerful in its beauty, but otherwise just one more random event in my wonderful life.

In retrospect, I have to say that it found me. Let me put it this way. All along, my whole life really, it has understood my language. Specifically, it knows and understands English. But it does not, repeat, does not speak English. The top of his home is really his mouth (it looks like an inverted asshole really), and from its mouth, it emits a single indivisible symbol, (I don't mean to be gross, but imagine a really beautiful turdball) which floats up out of its mouth into the vast liquid ocean of the deep computer.

Needless to say, you can see why this escaped my notice. Ordinarily, this message, this individual metaphoric symbol, floats through the ocean of the mind, and is very quickly delivered by the deep computer to the point of transaction.

As you live from moment to moment with your free floating attention meeting the reality of the physical world, your mind meets the world at what I call the point of transaction. The point of transaction is extremely small, and has room for only three messages. One message is the gestalt of the impression from the outside world. If your free floating attention happens to be in your optic nerve, it would be whatever happens to catch an instant of your attention through your eyes.

Or maybe a beautiful girl has just sat down beside you, and your free floating attention darts to the gestalt of her smell. Notice we don't know how she smells yet.

One message box at the point of transaction is now filled with a raw impression from the physical world.

The second message box is filled probably .02 seconds later – I made that up – it's very fast. It is a little jolt of energy that arrives from the deep jukebox. Nice name for it, no? I make that up, too. The deep jukebox you were born with, and it generates what could only be called pure energy emotion prods. I have to be honest, I have not fully deciphered its language, nor have I found its home. I do know it understands my instincts and everything deeper (whether or not it understands English I can't tell you yet, so I won't).

Here comes the jolt from the deep jukebox — *ngnngnn*! It has a fear component, and a "hmm, this might be interesting to explore" component.

I repeat, I have not deciphered its pure language yet.

Two messages at the point of transaction are now filled. The third message box is still empty.

We are waiting.

Well, while we are waiting, it might be nice to see what we know about the smell of the girl sitting next to us. I can tell you with certainty that it is something very much of "might be interesting to explore."

Oh, at last, here it comes. The little nugget that my deep mind sent humming along, from its point of view into the vast ocean of existence, arrives here at the point of transaction looking like a turdball with another one of those ridiculous messages.

But the rule is, three boxes have got to be filled, I don't make the rules here. It took the little turdball almost 1 whole second to get here. Really!

So unconsciously, at the point of transaction where our free floating attention has momentarily settled, the three message boxes are filled and delivered as input to the deep computer for some serious action!

The little jolt that came in from the deep jukebox did contain enough fear component to keep me motionless, but the deep computer in short order delivers its command, which in this case is the realization, broadcast from my transistor radio, that this baby smells good, and it ain't deodorant!

So my unconscious free floating attention lingers there while I secretly lick my chops, until eventually I can't smell her anymore, so it's on to whatever's happening next in my three point circus.

I hope you don't think I'm being mean, but I have to tell you that whatever message was contained in that turdball used to really bollix up my deep computer. So much so that I never paid much attention to it, letting the deep computer process it automatically along with the other two inputs.

And I can't tell you what my deep jukebox thought of the situation, but I have it on the strictest authority now, that whenever the deep jukebox got pissed at whatever was happening to foul up the deep computer — you know, when the deep computer issued the stutter command, or the put-your-foot-in-your-mouth command — the deep jukebox would send a very intense volt, something like *ggggngg* — almost pure fear, straight to my deep mind's home, mind you, scaring it half to death.

Let me tell you that would be one scared deep mind, and to make matters worse, it would spit another turdbomb out of its chimney to Lord knows what end.

I mean, I've seen my body in complete paralysis while this was going on, and I"m sitting there wondering what's going to happen next. But I'm so far out of it, I think the trouble is the girl next door, so to speak, and not my own brainstorm.

I've got to calm down a little because the situation is different now. Very different.

What you can bring to an experience in advance is very important. This morning at 8:20 I picked up a guy at SFO who was going to Lombard & Leavenworth in the city. We had a refreshing conversation in my taxi — turns out he's a world traveler, fresh in from Vancouver, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, he says. Trouble is, he'd been in a downpour for two solid days and was so glad to get back to our sunny days. I told him I preferred the grey overcast days. He paused a heartbeat longer than I would have expected and said, "That's kind of weird." I came back strong, "That's my experience. I love cool rainy days." He said they depressed him.

Soon we had passed the freeway exit at Broadway and as we were turning onto Columbus, I said, "You know, I'm sort of collecting ideas for traveling from people who are experts. Things that it would help you to know in advance. For instance, one guy told me he carries a Xerox copy of his passport with him at all times to use as identification, and he keeps the real one locked in the hotel safe."

He was very quick to reply. "First of all, there's this," I turned around to see him pulling a really nice wallet from the groin area of his pants. Thank God it wasn't his dick. I asked him where I could buy a nice money belt like that and he said any fine leather store. Then in quick succession he said, "Keep all your valuables in the hotel safe, have more than enough money so you have a cushion, and never let anything be a problem."

I said, "So many hotel rooms are not trustworthy?"

He said, "No, and not letting anything be a problem is very important. I've only seen three in the entire time I've been traveling, and I sailed right through them. They really solve themselves. But I've seen so many people get into a problem, then they make it more of a problem. It's what you bring into it, I guess."

We arrived, I dropped him, he paid me, I left.

At 12:10 this afternoon, less than 45 minutes ago, I picked up a couple of guys from SFO who were going to the Fairmont. I loaded their suitcases in the trunk, so I knew what to ask.

"I've noticed," I said before we'd even made the freeway, "There are two extremes in suitcases. Some are so solid you could run over them with a tank, and others are the soft kind you buy at a knapsack store. I wonder if you know which kind are best for traveling."

I had been addressing neither one in particular, and my eyes were on the road. One of them, the guy on the left, said, "When you have any bags to be checked, you want to have them as indestructible as possible. It doesn't matter what they look like."

"It just matters when you carry them," chimed in the other guy.

"Have you ever seen the way they throw those things when they're unloading a plane? They don't care."

"Once," said I.

"Then if you have any bags that you're going to check in on the plane, you want 'em as soft as possible."

"So you can squish them into those compartments," said his companion.

The two men were from Greenville, South Carolina, a state I knew well, so we discussed traveling around in that state for a while.

Then as we started climbing Nob Hill in the city we were talking about the rich old ladies who live in the Fairmont. I told them when I was really old, I wanted to own nothing. One of them said, "Not many worries, people to take care of you."

"When I reach old age," I said, "I want to be a free-floating frailty."

All I do when I drive a cab in the city is ask the natives what's their favorite restaurant. I make check marks and notes next to their names in my taxi guide. Then when I have a tourist who wants to find a certain kind of restaurant, I tell them the best. I get really good tips.

In my opinion, the good ideas you can carry into a situation are all that matter, and it's why I find so little to enjoy in the fad magazines. Reader's Digest, please help me at my points of transaction!

So the other day, when I said something like this to myself, my real mind sent me a direct message – not through the ordinary deep computer channels, mind you, through new ones.

It's sort of like the way I'm writing about my taxi experiences less than an hour after I have them. We're talking real time.

Looking back at it, I realize the first message came on Saturday, the 17th, when it was disencoded into a brief vision of its home. It lasted all of three or four seconds, and I cannot tell you how beautiful it was.

At the time I thought of writing about it, but I didn't, because I have always practiced writing about reality. I think recording my daydreams, my night dreams, my feelings, my visions is a waste of time. Some people don't. They keep hate books as a form of therapy. Believe me, I can do that one live-action.

In this vision, my eyes were shut and I saw a three-dimensional, in color, organically moving scene of that little chimney I drew a few pages back, its entrance at the top girdled with weird, shimmering crystalline molecule-like structures, but diamond-shaped and wafting delicately like seaweed at the bottom of a salt pool. The entire chimney was a dull purple color that gave the impression of being in the dark, but extremely beautiful. I realize now that this was a symbolic metaphor of the living grotto of my deep mind.

Then night before last came the message that changed my life.

"In poetic metaphors," my teacher had said. "The deepest part of you is very poetic and it only knows how to speak to you in metaphors."

I saw the first as sort of a "bip" from deep in unconscious. As I stabilized my free floating attention (Now what!) the "bip" opened up into a realization and for the very first time I had the ability to read its language.

Then "bleep, bleep, bleep," all night long the damn thing delivered to me the complete story of my mind's evolution, all in metaphor, of course, and I had the stupid task of writing it all down.

You would shit if you could see my notes, and someday someone might, because I'm keeping them.

Not only did my deep mind contact me and teach me its language, it also laid out the entire structure of this book, which I intend to follow more or less, but I've still got some plans of my own.

I have to tell you one of the drags about dealing with telepaths like my teacher, and newly awakening deep minds, is they can really make you work sometimes. My deep mind is a little kinder than my teacher, though. At least it lets me sleep.

The way things are going, though, I'll be quite content to leave things the way they are. Specifically, I do not want my deep jukebox to wake up because I have the feeling it will be holy hell.

I did pose an interesting question to my deep mind. I said it would be nice to be able to prove its existence to the world. I indicated to it that anything I wrote down could easily be seen as a dream, a hallucination, or the outpourings of a vivid if not mad imagination.

So as I was about to blab about it in last night's meeting, I felt a gentle touch in my throat that moved my conscious attention into speechlessness. Didn't I tell you I would reveal ways that telepaths communicate with cognizant non-telepaths?

And soon after that touch, my deep mind symbolled me, "I will help you remove all difficulties. No dream could do that."

[back] Wednesday, 9-21-88. I have to tell you my deep mind is with me now as I write. (Deep Mind's motto: Bring as much of yourself as you can into every experience.) It is an experience Herbert Reed would call "glory."

Probably all great literature has come from the deep mind. The way I write is the way I breathe. How can a person lie about breath?

What I'd really like to know is how can a person lie about sex. My teacher has long mentioned that the oldest and wisest part of a person is sexual center.

I took that to heart by doing what so many writers do in the beginning of their careers. I wrote sex poems, sex notes, sex books, and when I wasn't holding my pen, I was holding my penis.

I guess if I were a girl I'd be doing something flat, like ironing (keep those crinkly hairs down) or tucking in hospital corners.

But I'll tell you the truth, what men accomplish by extending, by becoming great artists and shapers of the world, women accomplish with no less grace, the gestation, nurturing, and birth of the most exquisite inner artlings imaginable.

Now acquainted with my inner and deepest mind (so far!) I see the connection it has with sex. The optic nerve and genitals are connected in some way. Very primitive wiring. Think alligator, think predator, think thieving monkey.

The deep mind, being an ordinary guy, just like you and me (I have to personify him – I'll call him ...? Ooop. I better not. When I asked him what for a name, he said mine) likes to kind of get out and look around. So guess one of his favorite ways. You guessed it. Ever feel telepathic while you were fucking someone?

And you girls, again, think primitive. Think planter, think nurturer, think killer-defender. Ever feel telepathic while searching for a mate? Ever feel telepathic nurturing your child? Intuition is a gentle way of putting it.

My deep mind symbolled me this morning as I was driving to work across the Oakland Bay Bridge. It was 4:36, as it always is, traffic clear, city lights peaceful. No longer having to rely on my balls for a view, he was resting around my shoulders, energizing himself at the back of my neck at the top of my spine. I felt the sensation. He was looking out of my eyes along with – what shall I call my old self? Reason. The calculator. The memorizer. The Great Pretender. I like that – my deep pretender. Fair, ain't we?

Let's see, the character so far: my monkey mind who's an agile pretender and skillful memorizer keeps a movin' along; my deep mind has gotten brave enough to show his tail; my deep jukebox feels Lord knows what about all this; we can't forget the deep computer who responds like a machine to various points of transaction; let's call all my buried memories that still contain charges my deep grudges; my deep animal – I like him a lot. And of course my friend, my teacher S., the master guide and hunter extraordinaire. Oh – my emotional computer, that's really a storehouse of knowledge a person can bring with him to points of experiential transaction in which the emotional jolt input is really a feeling ("I feel hurt") a charged pretension ("I feel I'm not doing good enough"), a charged grudge ("Murder!"), or an instinct (the master spy is out and around); and the experiential input is simply what's going on in the physical world around you.

Using this storehouse and the three inputs (impression, emotion, knowledge), you will certainly follow a more interesting path through life's external systems: bureaucracy, family, employment, love life, and personal fulfillment.

Anyway, my deep mind symbolled me that the secret to understanding anything is to think like that thing. After all, he symbolled, the only way you met me was by thinking like me. My ex-wife used to go hunting for blackberries when I was living in Vermont and going to Dartmouth. I'd asked her, "How did you find so many?" and she'd reply mysteriously, "I was thinking like a blackberry."

On my way to town in the taxi a few moments ago I made a major discovery. My deep mind breathes! Its rate of breath is about one cycle per two minutes. On its inhalation it is drinking experience, looking though my senses. Get this! What it used to inhale was my charged drudges and pretensions! Anyway, after it spends about 15 seconds drinking in an experience, I presume it condenses and stores it as a metaphoric symbol, for later recombinations – Lord knows what it does. During this 30 seconds my mind is crystal clear. Then in its exhalation – maybe 90 seconds – it literally bubbles with a stream of symbolic metaphors which come to me in translated form as a stream of realizations. I'd say a cluster of 3 every 2 seconds, then a slight pause, then another 4 bubbles, and so on.

Well, for a moment I saw this as a problem. Here I am, driving this nice man, a young man I think, to what gradually appeared as a job interview. When we arrived at 670 5th Street, he said, "I'm a little early, can you drop me down at the end of the block?" I told him where the train station was so he could get some treat for himself and hoped he enjoyed our city. He said he wouldn't be here long enough to see it.

So I'm driving along the freeway taking him to his deep pretender's point of transaction, and my deep mind is breathing, alternately allowing my senses to be clear and then cluttering it up with metaphoric realization which I would play with and monkey into streams of words for this journal.

Well, that's a problem, because I've got both hands on the wheel, I'm really supposed to be paying attention to my passenger, not to mentions the other California moon rocks hurtling cityward with me in tight formation. How can I stop this onslaught of prose too beautiful to lose? That's the marijuana smoker's lament. Well, luckily my mind was not fucked up, so I could use the analytic skills I honed as a computer programmer and the practice I received in three-hour meetings for sixteen years to simply memorize whatever nugget-grams my deep mind was belching.

(How do you think I acquired my knowledge? I smuggled it out of meetings.)

Here's how I memorize: I know that ordinarily my short term memory can hold 3 to 5 objects of meaning before spilling. Each time I spot an idea that is not old hat, I quickly condense it into a single English word. This word will subsequently trigger the stream of words I am jamming into long term memory in as a relaxed manner as possible, mainly by repeating them over and over, perhaps six times. Now the symbol word that will later serve as a lookup key into long term memory is still in short term memory, along with a growing backlog of maybe 2 there already.

Now these symbol words I start jamming into what I call the flesh of my physical experience.

These are the three key words I was holding on my trip to town: pretensions, breathing, hurry. So I look around me. I jam "pretensions" into my image of the man by thinking about it repeatedly. I jam "breathing" into my image of myself. I jam "hurry" into my image of passing cars. Finally, I clear my short term memory completely, replacing it with a single lookup key – the indivisible impression of my single trip to town. It's nice to notice I can memorize a lot in this way. Next time I get a chance, I pull out my trusty scrap of torn-off newspaper and jot down the key words as I visualize the "what's charged in this picture?" I hold in my memory.

Flat, I tell you, flat. I'd like to be able to divide my attention.