Monday, June 13, 2016


Sometimes I was just gliding
along, intent on knowing that
all things will take care of 
themselves. Even the 'correcting'
of my dumb mistakes. Follies:
I never believed in 'Medicine'.
At Waverly  Place each day, I'd
pass by this little triangle in the
street  -  not little, really, that's
a misnomer. It was a triangular 
square, of the sort that you only
find in Greenwich Village, mostly,
not only. Large enough for a small
building. When they laid down
the grid plan, in 1800, all of the
area of the city, up above this,
was still pretty bare, so the grid
worked  -  all new streets and cuts
and stuff. But here, in Greenwich 
Village, which pre-existed all that,
as did all of 'downtown' below it,
they often had to, instead of the 
rigid 'grid', go with what things 
were often already in place  -  
houses and gardens, lanes and 
buildings. So, in many spots, 
where streets were already in 
place, they sort of had to make 
things 'fit' and adapt themselves
to the pre-existing format. So 
there are all sorts of cut-offs 
and alleys and lanes; things 
like Patchin Place, Greenwich 
Mews, MacDougal Alley, 
Minetta Lane, and Minetta 
Street too  -  where once
The Fat Black Pussycat was
located (my days), the bar
in which 'Blowin' In the Wind''
was written  -  about Dylan's 
girlfriend Suze Rotolo doin' 
him in a storm. Ok, just a joke. 
But it was written there. (You 
see this banter, this is the very 
sort of stuff people used to do 
here, sit around in all these 
dark little bars and cafes and 
go endlessly on with witty 
stupidities and endless 
harangues. Including Bob 
Dylan and Victor Maimudes
and Ramblin' Jack Elliot too). 
ANYWAY, class, back to 
the lesson plan. The point 
here was my distaste for 
'Medicine', the whole 
profession, the very idea,
blows. The precious and the
vital consciousness of the 
'Body' will heal or repair, 
or cure itself, one way or 
the other, if just left to be, 
and tended to correctly and
spiritually, by developing a
presence, not a crutch. Filling
the body up with toxins and
poisons, in order to heal (?)
simply confuses the divine 
order within, and begins the
layering of the complications,
which then become the 
affliction. It's all too
confusing, and it's just,
after a certain point, a
'business' from which to
make money. Ever see a
Doctor in a heap, or even
in a Volkswagen? No, of 
course not, you're always 
paying for lifestyle. On
this little triangle of land, 
still standing (oh, watch 
out, little building, I am
the kiss of death), there's an
old brick building  -  right 
now it's all in bad shape and
neglected. It's very old, NY 
old anyway, like 1830 or 
something, and it's called
'The Northern Dispensary'.
The lettering is still up on the
now abandoned building. 
(You can look it up, and
see photos of it too). It had
(then) a nice little stairway
and porch thing  -  I know, 
because I slept cuddled 
along it a few different 
nights that first Summer  -  
and in its original days it 
was an emergency, walk-in 
clinic for ill people of that 
day. It was called 'Northern' 
because, back then, it truly 
was  -  at the northern terminus 
of the city, even outside of 
it for a while. (Greenwich 
Village was an actual 'village', 
a place of its own, later 
absorbed and swarmed by 
the city proper. It was a 
place to which, during the
smallpox epidemic of those 
years, the New Yorkers from 
the base of the island (today's 
financial district) fled for the 
open and fresh air and sea 
breezes. It also had the original
Potter's Field, for all those dead, 
epidemic or not, and which is 
now Washington Square). It
was called 'Dispensary' because
that's what they did  -  whatever
they diagnosed you with, they'd
dispense to you medicine for,
whatever the 'drugs' were in 
those days, natural stuff, I'm
sure, simple remedies and 
nothing synthetic. It was for
everything, toothaches to 
bad eyes, and for everyone.
Edgar Allen Poe, who lived
just up the block, was treated 
there. (He lived in any number
of NY places, mostly still 
existing and making some 
note of him. The one near 
here, NYU has long ago 
taken over and built on, 
leaving only the falseness
of the fake and 'recreated' 
facade of the original  -  they 
claim  -  red brick building 
of his day. It's bogus. The 
community had a fit over 
this, but NYU, in their 
usual 'Good Neighbor' 
Policy, could not have
cared less. No matter, now.
There's another dumb-shit
something pretty to look at).
The Dispensary is one of 
those timeless landmark 
things that, if you know 
how to feel and read the
past, can still come alive 
in your presence. The old
building is all locked up
and sad now, but I used to
sit there and know the 
open-door breezes that
slid across that little,
polished wood hallway
which brought you in  -  
two entrances, three or 
four steps up from street
level, and one from down 
below, a few steps down, 
and up through the cooler 
concrete. The windows 
went up and down, and 
attendants lurked. The
strange locals came and 
went. A different world,
yes, for sure, and so often
I had one foot right into it.
I really should have 
jumped in.
What we try to define as
'place' and as 'time' aren't
really either one. I learned
that, at least that, in my 
time in that city. My 
world was fluid, and 
I kept it that way by 
force. It's all so easy
to, almost accidentally,
start to make things begin
reading, or sounding, as
complete crap, but this is
all I know and this is what
I did. Life lessons, so to
speak. It's all so bizarre.
Consider this: In 1967, the
physicists of the world, the
real world, were just coming
to the acceptance-conclusion
of 'parallel worlds,' of things
that could be and not be, at the
very same time. Quantum
leaps, invisible particles, 
more psychic than real, 
inhabiting no 'real' space 
or time, and moving off,
dissembling, or disappearing
upon being examined. A
sort of 'magical' particle 
physics in which there 
were no 'particles' and 
certainly no certainties.
That was then  -  things
being and not being, 
together at the same time. 
Back then they considered it
a big deal to proclaim that,
for this reality, there was
one other reality, a parallel 
universe. Now, 50 years later,
and  -  I find  -  only affirming
all I've learned alone in my 
own life  -  there are, just 
as these 'Physicists' now say,
endless layers of parallel
universes, in which we are
each involved : layers of
realities, of both positive
projections, and of 
deceptions and all those 
black darknesses of death
and bad power.  The 
aspects of each of us, as
one; mass-induced and
thinking organically.
Creating wars and battles.
Inducing conflicts and the
dark  -  kids growing up
on war-games and hand-held
destinies they don't even know.
Even these physicists of today
are astounded by what they
keep finding. All things exist,
and nothing does. We are apart
in a world together. Live is
the force of Love and Goodness,
the mad chemical bond that holds
things. If, back then, I had the
chance, and if I'd reached the
prime portal for myself into that
other 'place', I'd have stepped 
through it, believe you me, again,
and never-more have been seen.
["Putting this as simply as possible, your actual 
experience is far too vast for you to physically
follow. Your particular kind of consciousness is 
the result of a specialized focus within a
particular area. You imagine it to be
'absolute' in that it seems to involve an
all-inclusive state that includes your
identity as you think of it  -  only to give
it boundaries like a kingdom. It is, instead,
a certain kind of organization that is indeed
inviolate even while it is itself a portion of
other kinds of consciousness, with their own
points of focus. Your body itself is composed of
self-aware organizations of consciousness that
escape your notice and deal with perceptual
material utterly alien to your own ways. There are
affiliations of a most 'sophisticated' fashion that 
leap even the boundaries of the species. You look 
upon your cultural world with its art and
manufacture, its cities, technology, and the
cultivated use of the intellectual mind. You
count your religions, sciences, archeologies,
and triumphs over  the environment, and it
seems to you that no other consciousness has
wrought what man's has produced.  Those 
'products' of your consciousness are indeed 
unique, creative, and form a characteristic mosaic
that has its own beauty and elegance. There are
organizations of consciousness, however, that 
leapfrog the species, that produce no art or
sciences per se, yet these together form the
living body of the earth and the physical
creatures thereon.  Their products are the seas
upon which you sail your ships, the skies through
which your airplanes fly, the land upon which
your cities sprawl, and the very reality that makes
your culture, or any culture, possible. Man is a part
of that trans-species consciousness also, as are the
plants and animals. Also, part of man's reality
contributes to the  trans-species organization, but 
Man has not chosen to  focus his practical daily
consciousness in that direction, or to identify his
individuality with it. As a result, he does not
 understand the greater natural mobility he
himself possesses, nor can he practically perceive
 the natural psychological gestalts of which he is
a part, that form all of your natural  -  meaning
physical  -  world.  In dreams this relationship is
often revealed. The truth behind such relationships is 
inherent in all God-Man, God-Woman, God-Animal,
or Animal-Woman legends and mythology. There are
connections, then, between man and the animals and
the so-called gods (in small letters) that hint at
psychological and natural realities. Any section of land
has an identity, so to speak, and not just symbolically.
Such identities represent the combined organizations
of consciousness of land, man, and animal, within any
given realm. Simply enough put, there are as many
kinds of consciousness as there are particles, and these
are combined in infinite fashions. In the dream state
 some of that experience, otherwise closed to you, forms
the background of the dream drama. Your 
consciousness is not one thing like a flashlight, that
you possess.  It is instead a literally endless
conglomeration of points of consciousness,
swarming together to form your validity  -  
stamped, as it were, with your identity. Whether
dispersed, concentrated in tight grouping, appearing
'alone' or flying through other large swarms, that
particular organization represents your identity."]

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