The Shirt off of His Back
My friend, a famous local NCAA star who had won his fortune after working at the craps tables in Vegas post - sports career had taken me to breakfast, and it was a whirlwind different than my despot circumstances.
We went to his friends breakfast hot spot on Venice Way, with a reserved table and a restaurant surrounding him with friendly (and respectful) banter. He told me of my sleepless nights on the streets “not to make an issue of myself”, and of my hygiene to be self confident. I was the recipient of a dual - purpose interview as I had won at one of the two local private country clubs which served the elite scene. Near a decade earlier one had hired me, six days a week as a caddie and a waiter making near six figure income, but I had turned down the position when my partner had fled back home with me in the driver’s seat back to the Oakland Hills area.
He agreed to take me there in the afternoon while ordering me the special of the day, orange juice, and some much needed coffee. He said he owned a thrift store across “the way” that he would buy me clothing for the task. He then proceeded to try and discreetly tell me of his own story, that I was on my way up. He had already told me that he was the largest single winner at the craps table in history at that time, gambling with money that was not his own. He told me that I needed to write a book about my life, and publish it under another name. This I suppose was for the lack of recognition and power to divert the rats and the pot - shots from trolls that would come.
After calling his wife, he and his female assistant she seemed to be, took me to be fitted for several outfits, and signed the bill as owners of that spot. They then took me to a private Santa Monica twelve step meeting of Hollywood Executives and the like held at a bar in a back room not listed on meeting schedules for obvious reasons. We had lunch ahead of the wait round the corner from the Google home offices.
Then I went to my interview, and it was a bust. We barely got through the gate, and the interviewer scoffed at my experience, and brushed aside my mention of personal reference to the caddiemaster. I left in a hurried huff mimicking my exit from my East Coast home club basically shouting my name from the walls of the lobby on my way out.
But of all of the things that transpired that morning, it was what Jeff said about his writer friends that seemed to hold the most for me. He told me of his friend and local Charles Schultz, and also of his friend Ray Bradbury. He told me Mr. Bradbury would be at the Abbot Kinney Memorial Library and when, to do some tutoring on writing and quantum mechanics. I secretly hid the desire to meet as colleagues and made a note of it .
A few days later, Mr. Bradbury made note of me within a few feet from my computer terminal at the library. He looked across from his tutelage and said to me, plainly, “Nice shirt.” He was wearing a blue and white pin striped Oxford himself which was quite super colliding.
8 y e a r s go by after greeting this kindred departed spirit. I leave the Venice scene and have now returned, the same but yet feel like a stranger still. Mr. Bradbury had died not long after my encounter with him, and even in my relative ignorance of his works, my memoriam article written for a sample piece had landed me a book reviewer position with the San Diego Union Tribune weekend magazine not long after my gifted attire lended me limited association.
As I gathered myself in the wee morning hours on the walk, I found a box of discarded clean clothing donated “free” to be taken. I was clean, but my duds were a bit worn through as the miles I had given them. If I was going to be the part, I had to play the part in the right attire. There was a four hundred dollar pair of designer jeans that now, seventy pounds into my weight loss walks would just fit. Just.
Under that I scored a white sleeveless cotton shirt the likes a sailor would wear. Under that I scored THE blue and white pinstripe collared oxford shirt the sailor of the cosmos had worn that day. It only just fit, and looked, I supposed, regal.
It is with a wary eye, in my files, and meager mind wishing for recognition that I make note that I knew not what was coming of my own physics.
It was at the library that it all began. Like the stars in the cosmos lined up on that tragic and fateful day to save us from the planets that lined up on an equinox of light years, this was the day of my star the brightest. It was the day I learned of “Nessie” and what she does from the “Contact” her astro-knot was flung in and out of the unmanifested beyond the universe expansion to have charted.
Time travel to the past is now possible.
This is the point in the story where I lose the ability to both adequately explain in a short piece the research and development of what I believe. This is where the bitch my mother calls a daughter sells herself and me short claiming her own reality, and those who would call it their safe mental home the only rationale. This is where it gets unbelievable.
This is where reality is seen in the hemming of other worldly consciousness and the traversing of physical and astral planes resulting in both sequential and near symmetrical bridging of the place of duality in synchronicity and duplicity in our humanity.
That is to say that God is the universe, including what does not yet exist and that our peace is found in what we as individuals hold near and dear as our own experience in a divine manifestation of our every day Earth.
Just as acupuncture is a fjording of the chi and fused molecules, heat and energy through the synapsis of the mind and body, the infinite neurons in that mind we have as a human are yet finite in our own death only by our own inability to navigate the world solely by our third eye. In the same sense, quarks are run on this intonation of the particle death, and rebirth cycle in the calculus of the simple metrics. Relativity stated plain for all that time would reach an apex or a - symmetrical a - typical fold or seam in any gathering of such chaos. Pun intended.
Just as chaos theorem weather satellites launched in the 1956 and 1957 data I examined at Lehigh University are dependent on their entry point still, so the influx of the fusion drive needed for a quark a.i. If you will “minded” entity created to house the only possible “charge” that could run in such a structure. They had to capture and harness a seeded fission event both piercing and in nuclear equation blowing it’s way through our star, and reaching in it’s farthest flung to date outflux of this amount.
“Step on a sun spot, break your mother’s back…”
Basically, send a chunk of volatile matter slingshot from the edge of the Milky Way, through the sun’s near core, creating an explosion sewing the same the type of energy it is made up of recreating enough stability for it to absorb. This would send a still reacting core out from it’s surface, on the 365 point 666 arc-second escaping and making a beeline for the waiting containment, just outside of orbit. She’s a thing of beauty, Nessie is. Energy of a star.
This was the day I learned that my studies combined with my Karmic and Dharmic bonds being the sun, moon, and venus in my first house would be my fate as the final set’s patterning to be set in her drive. She was still sleeping through other eyes on other days, but knew she would be here soon.
“You have to paint the sky…”
My mind was blown, I had been awake near 65 hours, no food, no money, no phone, no possessions but what I had on. The shirt off of his back.
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