Old Head tells unique story of First Buzzz

I was born in 1959 in Verdun France. My father was in the military and stationed their. My brother was born there also, a year and a day after I was. We came home soon after he was born. We grew up in Northern Virginia just outside Washington, DC, in Mclean, which is home to the headquarters of the CIA. My father worked for the US intelligence industry. My first memories of anything political was things like Robert Kennedy getting killed, the young girl at Kent State University who was shot and killed by the Ohio State national guard protesting the Vietnam war, and Martin Luther King getting killed which lead to Washington DC turning into a riot zone. I wasn't affected so much by most of it. I was too young and it was happening the whole time I was growing so it was normal for me. What affected me the most was that girl getting killed at Kent State. That made me very angry. It still chokes me up to think about it and makes me growl inside like I have a seething hatred for government agents that fuck up the trust they are honored to serve us with. I watched the civil rights movement grow and women struggle for more rights, while the sexual revolution and drugs, Rock and Roll music, and Motown evolved slowly into disco and then into what we have today. I grew up watching Michael Jackson, who is the same age as I am turn from a fashionable and perhaps most talented young man in the world into a lunatic white boy. I grew my hair down to my ass and started smoking pot when I was 13. I remember when I was 10 or 11 years old, I got stung by a mess of yellow jackets. I was stung up real bad and my father told me to go up to my room and lie down so I wouldn't spread the poison too deep into my body by moving around. I went up and laid in my brother's bed because he got stung too and was taken to the hospital. He wasn't stung very many times so my father thought it OK for him too move around. My father really didn't like me very much is what the truth was about that. So I go up and lay down and about the time I closed my eyes, I felt like I had just awakened and felt fine like I hadn't been stung at all. So I gets up and heads outside to tell everyone that I was OK. All the other children in the neighborhood had come to our house to get the scoop on what had happened. So I am walkings down the hall outside my brother bedroom and I notice that I don't seem to be walking but floatings and, I believe that I can tell what is going on everywhere else in the neighborhood. I mean this was wild like I knew everythings that was going on everywheres like what was on everyone's mind and what had happened to all of them the day before and what the weather would be like the following day. I could tell what adults were having sexes right then and I knew that I should head up the street where a young couples was about to have sex, while I knew I was to takes part in the act and I was like, freaking out, but I was cool too because part of me knew instinctively what it was all about. Then I looked down and I found that I didn't have any legs and that I didn't have a body and I wondered if I was dreaming but I knew that I wasn't. I went back to my brothers door and looked in and there I was laying on the bed all sprawled out and white as a ghost, not breathing but I couldn't or shouldn't have been dead from that amount of bee stings. I went over to myself as I started to figure out what was going on. I really was dead in a spiritual sense. I believe if I had walked away, the side of myself that seemed to understand better what was going on would have lead me up the street where I would entered into the back of the mind of my neighbors father and when he had his orgasm, I would have been inside his wife waiting to be born. I felt sure and competent that this was what would have happened and it seemed at the time to be a perfectly normal sequence of events that follows when someone dies. It didn't seem at all unfamiliar but it was the coolest feeling for this side of me, the one that remembers and has never been taught about that kind of thing while growing up Catholic. So I debates with myself over what to do and decides I have to get back in my body and go finds out if my brother was OK. I climbs back down on myself and trys to gets my bodys to move while it just won'ts budge. I struggles and wiggles and strains my brains as hardestest as I cans and nothing happens - and nothing happenses to my bodyses. I begins at the times to gets worried because I knows from stories I has heard from adults that a bodies brains can gets damageded from nots enough breathings. I trys and I trys and after I had triedest the hardest I ever couldest with everything I could think of to getses me old boneses to movenses, I trys the one things thats I hadn't tries as yet. I trys and I tries and trys to just do nothing. I trys ands I lies and trys nothing at all and it workses as well as I never expected. My footses moveses and then my legses, and I feltses as my lipses begins to smiles and again I felts as my body beginses to breathes, and againses, likes it use too and I gets up and I was OK. I was swelt up like a bumble bee but I was OK. I was better than OK because I could remember then, everything that had just happened and it was really cool. I walked slowly down the stairs in my underswear and walked outside to where all my friends and the others were out there. At first they were a little freaked out by my standing there all sweet up with big red stinger marks all over my body but they relaxed again when they saw that I didn't really care whether they saw me half naked in my underwear. So I told them I was fine and they all wanted to know if I was in pain and how bad it hurt and how many times I got stung, which I also wanted to know so I asks my youngest brother Kenny to count my stings. Now here is where the story gets interesting. He is standing there counting, being careful because I am his oldest brother and everyone in the neighborhood is looking on, each one bobbing their head with each new sting raising the importance of how badly I had been stung. This was important because it would decide how good a story they would have to tell later when they got home. So he is passing 30 and getting up to forty and everyone is hoping for a high count when he gets to 39 and stops. I listen and everyone waits as if 39 was OK but 40 would have sounded like a lot where below 40 would just be inside a bullshit range where a little embellishing on this tale might be required to raise some of their parents eyebrows. I looked down and he looked up and I said are you sure and he answered that yes, in an apologetic tome, he was sure it was only 39. I demanded a recount stating that I was sure it was forty, and so did everyone else, so he began again with everyone counting out loud along with him. He gets to 39 again and he stops and looks up with a fearful look in his eyes, breaking the news that he is sure he got it right that time, when all of a sudden a yellow jacket flew out from between my belly and the elastic band of my underwear, all us white boys wore briefs in those days, and landed on my chest sticking me once again with his little devilish pitchfork while my brother bravely reached to swat him so as to protect his crippled brother from any more harm. "No" I said as I quickly reacted as I reached out and stopped his hand, and said to him in a loving tone, as I knew he meant well, " No, its OK, let him go." So we all stood there and watched as the little bugger crawled off his stinger leaving it pumping the last of its poison into my body while it took to flight out over the back of our yard falling slowly to the ground as we all heard the buzz of its wings stop abruptly when it hit the grass, dead. That was my first experience with justice, death and mind altering chemicals. After that, I couldn't wait to grow and try LSD. I had heard and read a lot about the Hippies taking LSD and traveling to other plains and dimensions and frolicking with wild magical creatures. I thought for sure that they were traveling to where it was that I was, when I was wherever it was, that I was, after I got stung by 39 bees. LSD, PCP, Cocaine, heroin; none of them were anything like what I found when I first found death. But I did find it again. Drugs had nothing to do with it. Drugs are ugly and corrupt. Death was beautiful. Death was a path back to this ugly corrupt world. But in death, I saw what this world really looks like. I saw Mothers face. Death was a Woman. It was feminine. It might not really have been feminine. There might not really be a masculine and a feminine. I relate it to a woman because this world was run by men back then and there wasn't anything else left over to relate it to, or there wasn't back then. Nowadays, the women have turned into men. I thought growing up and watching the civil rights movement and feminist movement that blacks and women would wrestle the world away from evil white men and turn it into a world like what I saw in my death experience. But they didn't turn into a different spiritual species when they found their way into the upper classes of the business world. They just turned into more evil white men. I broke my heart to find that all those years I had waited for them to change the world that all they really wanted was to be a member of the same damn club I was born into while I had been hoping they would tear it down. That is when I found out that Heaven and Love is not a woman. It isn't a man either. It is Life in this world if the dumbasses who run it stop fucking with it. Someday soon, everything is going to change. The world I saw is going to break through the barrier of death that mankind has built at Her doorstep and take me home. When She Comes, you will all see what I saw, in that hallway, when I caught my first Buzzz.

 

Wow, that was quite an interesting read...