Just a few short months ago, reason dictated that I end my ten-year marriage to perhaps, the most capable and amazing woman I have ever known. Moreover, she was my life-mate and the only woman I have ever truly loved. The decision to go our separate ways was agreed upon mutually. Being twenty-three years senior to one’s mate posses unique challenges, but it had nothing to do with our break-up. The exact reasons for the break-up are not important in light of the fact that each of us still loves each other and has agreed to provide support wherever possible until the dust settles and our individual paths become certain. My experience of dissolution quickly confirmed that when one door closes, another one opens up. Now successful in my dual careers of restaurant manager and writer, my financial circumstances afford me the ability to make my former partner’s transition far more comfortable than it might have been. I feel responsible for the welfare of her and her nearly fifteen year old son, who I helped raise from the age of four.

When the decision to separate was made, I was on the brink of signing the largest writing contract of my career. I used to spit out $100 resumes for decades, but this project was a very lucrative career maker. I love ghostwriting and I’m damn good at it. This will be the third book I have ghostwritten. Fifty-hour work weeks at the restaurant, a commitment to work another forty hours a week on the writing project, ending a marriage, and moving, was the perfect storm of physical exertion, pressure, and distraction. Turning to the Gohonzon, I beseeched the Buddhist gods of the universe to guide me through this challenging time.

Immediately, and with a synchronicity like a lucky streak in sports or gaming, fascinating phenomena emerged. Out of the blue, I was offered an office suite with spacious living quarters in a quiet old office building one block from my work and downtown central in Urbana, Illinois. Where I am is on the fringe of what is known as campus town, a bustling center of youthful spirit, intellectual integrity, and liberal nuttiness. I was shocked when the building owner insisted on totally remodeling the suite, refusing a security deposit, and lowering the rent for the first few months, then charging me a below market rate. He did this because of his friendship and trust in me, and because he had gone through a similar experience some years before. Not only did I acquire a beautiful place to live and work, it’s zoned for business and one block from the public library. I have always been of the opinion that what appears to be a benefit needs to be respected, cultivated, and fully realized or one can take that opportunity or fortuitous circumstance and through negligence, stupidity, and a host of other foolish, undisciplined acts, take that benefit and turn it into a loss. Greed, anger, and stupidity can destroy any good fortune if you allow yourself to take a favorable situation for granted, get lazy, or make impulsive decisions. My approach has been ultra conservative - to immerse myself in my work, on a tight schedule, spending next to nothing, avoiding all social activities until the project is in the can, and most importantly, connecting with the Gohonzon on the most intimate level of my life.

To be frank, I don’t know how it will be possible to write two books in 90 days. Yes, you read that right, I am to ghostwrite two books in three months. Ambitious yes! Foolish, maybe. Possible? Possibly, but I don't know because I've never done it. I'm well on the way now, and it is the biggest professional challenge of my career. I have always been prolific. There have been days where I have churned out 10,000 words in a sitting, with about 1000 words being my average. When you take a 1000 or so first draft words then edit them, the copy may shrink to 250-300 of gold, or in some cases gold-clad pig metal. There are times when I get my 1000 words and find out that its not worth two shits in a jeweled chamber pot. Add into that process fact checking, spell checks, on-the-spot research, actual contemplation, and you find that time has seriously gotten away from you. Pure writing is a form of trance – absorption or rapture in the ten worlds, with whatever mutually possessed ten worlds that you bring to the writing desk. The original trance is the same mind state of a painter, the musician, the athlete, the scientist, the lover. There are times when writing is more akin to hard work with a major hangover. Fortunately, I was a born writer who does so as naturally as walking. If someone were to ask me what I am, I would say “I am a writer.” A writer is someone who expounds or creates, even if no one reads a word they’ve written. For many, their audience are the gods or the universe. With the internet, any bozo can speak to the world. Good for them, but it wasn’t always that way.

The beauty and heroic nature of the project that I am working on is that the subject deals with the obstacles that I am facing. Understanding the essence of the subject will be proof positive of its veracity, and I am augmenting the final crystallization of that book. There is scant little that I can actually tell you about the subject and when it is finally published, I will never acknowledge that I wrote it, nor will I divulge who the author of record is. But I can tell you that the book incorporates the latest research and application of visualization and intention to enable people with any type of problem to redesign their lives. The book utilizes ancient wisdom including the wisdom of Buddhism. The author of record, after reading my books, began to chant daimoku and has been doing so for months. I never encouraged this person to chant, and have only answered questions on the nature of daimoku when asked.

Life is full of opportunities, crossroads, set-backs, and transitions. Nichiren was perfectly clear in how we should meet with the trials and tribulations of life. We should meet obstacles head on with daimoku and confidence. The Lotus Sutra is the basis of our life and the mighty wand, that when waved, makes all adversity eventual victory, and all benefit eternal. This is not only the promise of Buddhism - it is the manifest truth of the Lotus Sutra.

Attachment is found in our connection with people, possessions, and circumstances. How can one live and not acquire a sense of attachment? We love and develop a sense of attachment to others, especially our own existence. We live and acquire things that matter to us. We hope and long for certain outcomes. From these connections, we form attachment and when there is change – and change is inevitable, we suffer.

Namu-myoho-renge-kyo can enable us to enjoy our relationship with loved ones, possessions, and our hopes without becoming a victim to the certainty of change. Relationships go up and down and end. Loved one’s die, fall ill, or become estranged. Prized possessions wear out, are lost, stolen, or have to be sold. Our current situation is in a constant state of change. Dreams for the future quite often don’t work out the way we intended. All of these changes and losses are a source of suffering unless we become grounded in the power of Namu-myoho-renge-kyo. With daimoku, one can awaken to the truth that change is constant and to hold on, only leads to more suffering. Easier said than done.

Certain sects state that our earthly desires equal enlightenment and then urge their members to practice what has been humorously termed “gimmie Buddhism,” of chanting for all kinds of things like money, possessions, and specific circumstances. It’s not even strange for members to chant for drugs or sex, or for whatever thing they feel will satisfy them. I did this myself long ago, and have no regrets about it - the universe is utterlly impartial. In certain sects, there is no understanding or perhaps distinction between targeted prayer that specifies a certain result and open-ended prayer that makes one open to whatever the universe can provide. Maybe this is so because the science that has studied and compiled data on non-specific and open-ended prayer is only about twenty years old. It is my opinion that equating desire with acquisition of personal “things” is a misreading of the concept of earthly desires equal enlightenment. Instead, it should mean that those latent desires that we possess should drive us toward deeper faith, not more acquisition. Is it wrong to pray for things? I would say that we are conditioned to believe that it is natural to pray for things and in some cases it is the right thing to do, but as a general rule, non-specific or attatched prayer is supreme. However, my belief is that when we pray for things we are only spinning the wheel of more desire, not channeling innate desire into wisdom or contentment. I agree that as believers that the right way to conduct oneself is to desire little and be grateful for what we have.

Regarding attachment, when we have appreciation for those we love and what little we have without clinging, we move closer to the Buddha’s ideal of being free from that which leads to suffering from inevitable loss.

When my early twenties came, I lived a strange but reckless life, and thought with the attitude of the Who’s lyric, “Hope I die before I get old.” Interestingly enough, it was at the age of 22, that I had my second near death experience, when a car I was riding in with five other gifted mopes crashed hard. As we hit the gravel at the side of a sweeping curve on the bottom of a hill at nearly one hundred mph, our vehicle was launched upside down into a small forest, where we did some crude landscaping. The driver neglected to tell any of us that he dropped a tab of LSD about twenty minutes before he got behind the wheel. That life-changing event tore my left foot in half, causing me to lose four of five tendons. I also dislocated my right hip, broke my left collarbone, and was put into traction for three weeks with some brain damaged guy named Gary, who was about my age, that liked to crawl out of his bed and poop in the middle of the floor. Just like the bizarre novelty of when a tornado causes destruction, like driving a piece of straw through a 2” x 4” or gently landing an infant on a mattress a half mile from the trailer park it just leveled, amazingly, none of us lost our lives. Just five months later, I was a homeless, hobbled, acid eating longhair, chanting daimoku on the frozen banks of the Fox River in Algonquin, Illinois. After seeing the light – literally – I seriously set upon the task of enlightenment. When I say that NSA and its practice saved my life, I really mean it. I never forget my debts of gratitude, so that’s why I might offer opinions that expose problems with the SGI, but I don’t maliciously bash the SGI or president Ikeda. Without that youth division training and the order/discipline NSA restored in my life, I would have been taking a permanent dirt nap in the neighborhood marble orchard.

Often, when people reflect on their past, their trials become more dramatic and their accomplishments somehow become much greater. Let me spare you all that hyperbole and give you the plain truth without embellishment. Honin’myo implies, “from this moment on, while hongom’myo refers to looking at your current life from the past. Even though I am relating a story of the past, let me assure you and my detractors, I live a full life that has exclusive focus “in the present moment.” Time, the space in this blog, and the general readability of any good essay necessitates that it should be short and to the point. So please allow me to skim over myriad nonessential details.

It was a bitterly cold winter in 1973-74, with deep snow. I slept in a sleeping bag in the back of my friend’s broken down station wagon, eating frozen sauerkraut my grandparents had given me. About all that did was shield me from the wind and snow. On February 27th, I walked down a lonely railroad tracks some five miles to the district chief’s house, then took a fifty mile ride to receive my Gohonzon. Since I had no home, I wore my Nittatsu Gohonzon around my neck in a beautiful blue sheath my Korean Chikutan had made. Each morning, I would eat a handful of sauerkraut and descend to the riverbank, where I would walk in a large figure eight chanting the daimoku at the top of my lungs. My place of practice was somewhat sheltered from the wind, but the snow was up to my knees. It didn’t take long to pack down a path. Free from the gaze of people by virtue of the location, I would walk that figure eight until dusk, shouting out to the universe for a change in my destiny. It took months until I cut my hair and beard, found a job, and turned my life around. Thank you NSA.

My twenties were characterized by the crude motto of “Practice until you puke.” I got married, fathered a daughter, and became a widget in the establishment that I had once rebelled against. I made every mistake a man could make from illegal drug use to adultery. Even though NSA promoted happiness, I was never, ever a happy person, but more of a hard driving narcissist that believed the erroneous idea that happiness was not a tee-hee and a smile, but the pride one took from being able to overcome any obstacle. In other words, I substituted resolve and the ability to endure for a peaceful mind. There was no peace in me, only restless turmoil and the desire to practice harder than any person on the planet. Even after tens of millions of daimoku, endless study, and non-stop activities, I was about as happy as a Tasmanian devil defending its territory from male rivals.

My thirties began with more of the same and as you all know, at 36, I was felled by stage four Hodgkin’s lymphoma, which wiped off the smirk of whatever satisfaction I may have had from being able to endure any and all obstacles.

My forties began with rebuilding my shattered body and running from bill collectors and the tax-man. I wondered how someone who practiced so much and so hard could still be literally plagued by so many problems. Where was all this good fortune I was supposed to have been accumulating? My leaders would vary their opinions in an effort to console or encourage me. Some said I had to change my attitude. Some said I was angry and was short circuiting my benefit. Others said that I still had a great deal of negative karma to overcome. Others said that my obstacles were proof of my correct practice. No one said, you have so much misfortune because your practice is based on incorrect doctrine that goes against the spirit and will of Nichiren and the Lotus Sutra. I continued through my forties with a second bankruptcy, a marriage that went from seriously ill to DOA. In twenty-five years, I never conceived or believed that the misfortune I experienced was due to my practice of incorrect doctrine. I ended my forties with divorce and a slow, but steady estrangement from the sangha that had initially saved my life.

My fifties began with marriage to a gal that was twenty-three years younger. I never thought I would get married again and never, ever considered becoming involved with a younger woman, it just happened. In 2002 my first book was published and I had that “A Ha! “ moment with the SGI. By the time of book two, in 2005, I had left the organization and began to re-educate myself about Buddhism. Thanks to people like Robin Beck and a number of others, I was able to deprogram the cult mentality that had shaped my world view and thwarted my benefit.

Throughout my fifties, and coincidently, from the moment I marched off on my own as an independent, my life has bloomed in every aspect. Go figure.

At 59, I appreciate the 23 years of extended life, when death seemed all but certain. In that time, I have been able to encourage many, many people in the grips of cancer, chronic illness of all type, and even those facing their last moments. If I were to die in the next moment, I could honestly say that I made a difference in this world by comforting the sick, the suffering and the forgotten, all very much under the radar, on my own time, at my own expense. I made a promise back then to tell my story far and wide to repay my debt of gratitude to the Buddha for extending my life.

Right now, I am encouraging a new friend in faith who is battling latter stage non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Each day I ponder what I might do for him to turn the tide of that wretched disease. If I could trade places with him, I would. Why? Because I know what to do and what it takes to conquer cancer right down to the quantum level. But the way this universe is constructed, we all have to face our own demons, fight our own battles. The wonder of this person’s situation is that he doesn’t know that he has already conqured cancer. Right now, the karmic cause that brought forth his suffering has been transformed. He will take the banner of victory from me – hobbled at first, because he’s been through a war of sorts, and he will help the next person find the Lotus Sutra in their heart, and so on, and so on.

Although I turn 59, physically, I feel like I’m 30. Spiritually and awakened to the Lotus Sutra, I feel 120 (but that's a good thing). The older I get, the younger I feel. Perhaps that’s the most striking aspect of the Capricorn. With a wife that’s 23 years younger, I better feel like I’m thirty, or as they say in the restaurant biz, she’ll 86 me.

I have no animosity for any of them, just pity. In fact, because today is the anniversary of my first serious mentor’s death, on December 1st, 1947, I thought I might write about my subsequent mentors and the great influence they had on my development.

When I think of my former mentors in the SGI, I do not regard them as slanderers or heretics, even though they could never successfully defend the contradictions between the SGI doctrine and what Nichiren and the Lotus Sutra state. It’s not because I could out debate them. Even after almost two decades apart, I would probably still feel like a young, uneducated lad if I were in their presence. So profound was my respect and admiration for my teacher’s, even after twenty or more years, I would hesitate to correct them or if they took me to task for veering from the SGI way of mentor-disciple, I would probably let them scold me without rebuttal. What would be the point of refuting my mentors?

When I think about the SGI and its members, I do not think of them as heretics and slanderers. Why? Perhaps it goes back to the words of the Lotus Sutra and Nichiren’s himself. It is patently obvious that the SGI has relegated the Lotus Sutra and Shakyamuni Buddha into an idea embodied by president Ikeda and his guidance. Such a cultish transition is most troublesome for me, but the fact remains that even though priorities are seriously misplaced, the SGI members still recite portions of the Lotus Sutra and its daimoku. The members believe in the Lotus Sutra, even though some accept the idea that the daimoku is chanted to smash the Hoben-bon and Juryo-hon. The members still believe in the Lotus Sutra despite their notion that the Gosho is the modern day Lotus Sutra. The members believe in the Lotus Sutra, even though it is rarely cited or studied at meetings, and studying it is a waste of time due to its complexity. The members believe the Lotus Sutra even though the focus is on president Ikeda and his guidance. Even if, as some might say or believe, that SGI members betray the Lotus Sutra by their doctrine or behavior, they utter the daimoku and Sutra with their voice. According to the Lotus Sutra and Nichiren, this brief moment of faith is a virtuous act bearing benefit beyond calculation.

Functionally, the members believe in the Lotus Sutra like a parent believes in Santa and tells his children about what happens on December 25th. My problem as a member was that I knew that the Lotus Sutra was Nichiren’s spirit and will, even though I also believed in the Gosho and idolized president Ikeda like a living Buddha. It was incredibly painful to wake up one morning and realize the marriage was over. By that I mean, there came a point where the evidence was so overwhelming that the SGI had replaced the Lotus Sutra and the will of Nichiren with the ideology of the three presidents and that president Ikeda was now the embodiment and focus of their sangha – not the Lotus Sutra or the eternal Shakyamuni Buddha. Even though I awakened to this, my feelings for my mentors and the SGI members have remained something of warmth and beauty, even when they regard me as a slanderer and heretic. The president Ikeda issue is particularly troublesome to me because he allows the perpetual adulation to continue instead of telling the members to focus on the Lotus Sutra and the will of Nichiren. It is impossible for me to fathom how president Ikeda allows this to happen when it goes against everything that Shakyamuni Buddha and Nichiren stood for. It is frightening and pitiful all at once. Regardless, I still consider president Ikeda a great man, my former leaders sincere to their cause, and the members I knew, unforgettable friends.

I grew up in a very disciplined household and was an athlete in school. My fate was to be coached by very strict coaches, but these are not the teachers I write about today. Nor will I speak of my instructors in yoga and magick. It was my Buddhist teachers that had the greatest impact on the direction of my life, and they were all Soka Gakkai leaders. Their methods of training were a mixture of compassion masked as severity, like castor oil to relieve constipation. I was full of crap, they knew it, and they were the remedy.

My first teacher was a Korean woman who was my first chikutan. Her name was Sun Hi. We called her Sunny and that’s what she was; bright, cheerful, and warm. She fed me when I began coming to meetings. I was a skinny, unemployed, longhaired acidhead, with an intense desire to move away from acid and the occult, and attain enlightenment. She taught me gongyo and the NSA way. I repaid her by coming to the meetings high on weed, refusing to cut my hair, and sleeping with the YWD. She continued to feed me and make me feel special (which I wasn’t), and educate me in basic Buddhist theory. She was a nag that eventually got me to cut my hair, shave my beard, and in reward, found me a job at the factory where she worked. There, I met my first wife who was secretary to the president of the company. It was at Sunny’s house that I met my two primary teachers in Buddhism, Joe Firoved, Richard Sasaki, and later, to a lesser extent, the late, great Ted Osaki.

Joe Firoved was the mentor that taught me the NSA spirit and the importance of the master-disciple relationship. Joe strictly trained me for many years and provided numerous opportunities within the organization. Without the influence of Joe, I would have never met president Ikeda or given the responsibility of being toku betsu chief when Sensei came to Chicago in 1980 for the Capture the Spirit cultural festival. For that particular event, my dear friend, the late Pascual Olivera, wrote, directed, and produced the entire event. Many members fondly remember Pascual as their teacher – to me, he was more of a peer, but his influence on me over the years was enormous. My relationship with Joe was truly one of teacher and student. I always thought that there was an insurmountable gulf of knowledge and experience between us.

Joe was an introvert. I remember riding from the Great Lakes Naval Training Center in North Chicago, Illinois, to Minneapolis. Joe was finishing his twenty-year hitch in the Navy. I was newly married and had been practicing for less than a year. I compiled a long list of questions for Joe. It was the longest, quietest ride of my life. If I asked a question, he would answer the question in a dismissive way in a sentence or two. I realized quickly that I was not in the same league as this guy. If my knowledge was a tree, I would have been a sapling and he would have been one of those giant redwoods. Joe was never really friendly to me in the conventional way, but he surely had my back. He gave me responsibility, always a notch or two above what I was capable of, and he would take me to task over faith, practice, and study. As an example of faith, I have never known anyone who was more devoted to president Ikeda or the activity of faith. If I said something incorrect or foolish at a meeting, he would use me as whipping boy to get the point of faith across to the members. On more than one occasion, Joe humiliated me in front of the members. Why? Because I could take it. In that sense, he was my zenchisiki.

Not a day goes by when I don’t think fondly of Joe, although I’m quite sure he would be profoundly distressed and sad to know the path I have now taken. Sometimes our best teachers are the ones that are the strictest, and Joe fits that bill for me. That strictness leads me to my other great teacher, Richard Sasaki who is a senior vice-general director. Without the powerful training and stress on practice that characterized Mr. Sasaki, I would have never had the ichinen to face and overcome cancer.

If Joe Firoved was an introvert, Richard Sasaki was an extrovert. I remember intimate youth division meetings where everyone was required to bring president Ikeda’s guidance memo. Mr. Sasaki would call on a YMD to stand up straight, read a guidance, and then explain it. If your voice were too weak, you would be reprimanded. If you interpreted the guidance wrong, you would be strictly corrected. If you were late for gongyo, or the meeting, you would be singled out. If you didn’t pay attention, you would be admonished. If he thought you hadn’t chanted enough daimoku, you would be challenged. Thus, the YMD were molded into capable young men.

Once I figured out what Mr. Sasaki required to earn his trust, I would be the first person at the Kaikan for 6:00 a.m. morning gongyo each Saturday, even though I lived 50 miles away. To please him, I tried to memorize the guidance memo. To make my life shine, I would chant two hours a day, even when I was dead tired. To meet the goals he set for us, I would do non-stop shakubuku. In retrospect, I now realize that even though I was doing this for him, and by way of extension, for president Ikeda, I was actually doing these things for myself.

When president Ikeda came to Chicago, I led a team that protected Sensei. When Nikken Shonin and president Ikeda came for the opening of Myogyo-ji temple and the First World Peace Grand Culture Festival, he appointed me as co-toku betsu chief and entrusted me with guarding the High Priest of Nichiren Shoshu.

When I think of my mentors and our different take on Nichiren’s teachings and the Lotus Sutra, I do not think heretic or slanderer. I remember Nichiren’s master, Dozenbo. Even though Dozenbo lacked the courage to embrace and propagate the Lotus Sutra, Nichiren never forgot his debt of graditude for his former master. I also ponder how easy we have it here in America with freedom of speech and freedom of religion. How brave would some people behave if they were in an Islamic country where there is no freedom of religion? Would they throw the dodge ball of slanderer and heretic so forcefully? I doubt it.

To be continued

This essay was inspired by the Fort Hood massacre and an incident at work. I was approached by a nicely dressed man outside our business weating a crucifix who told me a story of his daughter dying and he needed to buy her a flower. He told me how he sat at her bedside while she passed away. He had just travelled by bus here from Georgia and had no money. He claimed to be a man of God, but had no money for that flower. He wept emotionally. I reached into my pocket and gave him $10.00 which he insisted he must work for, so I had him pick up cigarette butts outside our restaurant. I told him it was a gift from God and to go in peace. What the man didn't realize was that he pulled this exact same scam on me last year - perhaps his daughter was ressurected and died a second time. It was at that time I discovered that it was easier to pay him to leave than reason with him or call the cops. God sent me a very nutty disciple, so I gave him a ten-spot in name of the Lord. The whole incident made me think of how many other whack jobs there are in the flock? Praise the Lord and pass the Lithium.

Consider all the wars and atrocities committed in the name of God. If God experiences life through us, don’t you think his thirst for cruelty and blood is more devilish than benevolent? I do. When one considers the actions of the Fort Hood murderer as he screamed “God is great!” while slaughtering his fellow soldiers, it would seem that people like this murderer have betrayed God, or their God relishes the horrors and suffering of murder - don't blame it on diablo as he is a creation of God as well. My suspicion is that belief in a delusion such as God has the potential to foster madness in the minds of people who have an unfavorable predisposition for mental illness – it may actually hasten evil acts.

Let me just state for the record that I have no objection to people believeing in God as it certainly gives them comfort and strength. They turn to God in times of trouble and to grant or reject their wishes, no matter how great or small. Fine, believe as you will. Over the next week or so, I just want to explore how people use God to justify their evils, how God apparently listens to some people and allows others to suffer - a lot. Take off the rose covered glases because God has no problem with you twisting in the wind, He may even enjoy it!

Over the next week or so, I will go further into this idea and hope that no more people are killed because their God is so great.

I suspect that at that moment of lying down to sleep, many people will recount the events of the day. Some will wrestle with their emotions, while others will visualize their to-do list for tomorrow. More than a few of us use those in-between moments to engage in our darkest sexual fantasies. There is nothing wrong with that beyond the fact that sexual stimulation has a chemical origin which is, by its very nature, distracting. For those who are familiar with, or have studied my work on visualization, sexual fantasy, with its mind-body power and attention to elaborate detail, is the exact mechanism to mimic for potent healing visualization. Who can deny the power of sexual fantasy as an illustration of the mind-body connection?! Unfortunately, I have found out the hard way that this kind of visualization just keeps you up - by that, I also mean awake.

Being unable to turn off the perpetual surges of thoughts, feelings and emotions, I have found my own way of bypassing the difficult feat of quieting the mind while successfully connecting with my faith. Through the following means, I can enter sleep mode with relative rapidity. Let me explain.

Since early childhood, I have said a prayer. It began with the Lord’s Prayer of “Our father who art in heaven….” Even when I ceased to have any belief, I was still superstitious enough to continue doing that. I then imagined my two bedroom dressers coming alive and performing a ritualistic sword fight before my bed to protect me from the dark, scary unknown of sleep. Like most kids, I had my fair share of nightmares like my father boiling me alive in garishly green split pea soup, which was his hobby to make. I must have really hated that soup!

As time went on, I would change my nightly evocation, asking the beneficent masters to watch over me. Since becoming a Buddhist, I began to chant three times and ask for the protection of the Buddha and bodhisattvas of the universe. But this prayer did not aid me in falling asleep, and many a time, I would lay awake, wrestling with my thoughts.

A number of years ago, after exhausting all manner of sexual fantasy and counting so many sheep that I longed to make them all into gyros sandwiches, I stumbled onto something that worked for me and never failed to connect me with my faith.

After my detailed prayer of thanks and determination, I imagine myself as a time traveler with the ability to go back in time and visit Nichiren and Shakyamuni. Sounds bizarre, I know, but let me continue.

At first, I imagined myself travelling back in time with the ability to bring provisions to the Daishonin on Izu and Sado Islands. I would see myself bringing rice and goodies to him in his dilapidated hut, along with a space heater. I then imagined that I brought him a video projector that showed him our culture festivals and how much we had grown his teachings. Never mind the language barrier as, at first, I had a universal translator - later, I used telepathy. The visualization became so detailed and personal that He would rejoice on my arrival and be thrilled by what I showed him. Needless to say, when I broke from the organization, that particular imagining came to a halt. This mental connection with Nichiren actually made me feel like we knew each other in the waking state.

Now, as I try to drift off, I don’t think about making whoopee with some curvaceous cutie, I go directly to my hero, or rather the hero of the world. I see myself as a time traveler who can take with him, audio-visual equipment, and visit Shakyamuni at various times in his life. I begin with his time of attaining Buddhahood. I watch him from a distance to see if his aura changes while in His deep meditation, and if he moves about after, wondering how he can possibly share this great awakening just like his legend claims. I look for the gods, devils, and demons said to be his witness. I can see them and they can see me. I'm supposed to be there and they know it. I am part of the events. It all seems quite real to me - perhaps it is real.

I then imagine standing on the dusty road, waiting for Him to come by as he begs for alms. I listen to him preach and understand everything he says. I stand before Him, trying to quell the urge inside me, of literally throwing my body to the ground at his feet in worship. As I stand before him, He towers over my six-foot frame and when He walks by, he is smaller, as if his size is an illusion. He is the most beautiful being I have ever seen - perfect in all ways. His skin a whitish blue, His eyes as green as the grass. Perhaps his eyes are brown or sky blue, but I am hypnotized by his majesty, as if I am standing before a God and I am the lowliest of creatures before Him. I have never felt this way before. About Him is an enormous golden glow, and as He looks at me, He knows everything about me and about every thing that is and is not. He knows that I’m from the future and it's no more odd to him then a stray cat wandering the villiage. Later, as the vision matures, I am one of myriad beings to witness His preaching of the Lotus Sutra. There are entities from other worlds, vimanas hovering in the air - grey and blond aliens, elementals, arc angels, and what seem to be projections or holograms of life forms from every dimension in the multiverse. In fact, there are countless others like me in the sense that they have arrived from all parts of the world and universe as engaged observers and time travelers, all who are part of some eternal spiritual mosaic that bears witness to His ultimate teaching. The assembly of beings is vast and diverse and we are all a part of its history. His voice and intent thunder in our minds.

This basic scenario is played out each night with impromptu variations. Each time, I fall asleep quickly, free of anxiety, free of nightmares, but not necessarily free of the bubbling travails of the unconscious. When I do dream of trouble, the new-found lucidity of my dreams enables me to chant daimoku and gain power over demons of the mind. I have come to know the Lord Buddha and he knows me. Is it real? It is to me.

I had almost given up on being able to fall asleep quickly until I went to meet the Buddha. Now, I enjoy the benefit of being free from medicinal sleep aids and the all too common problem of the futile restlessness that had plagued me for years - no, decades. Try it, you may just be surprised how well this works. You never know, you may meet the Buddha.

Although I am estranged from the SGI – well, perhaps a little more than estranged, I have another perspective on their amassment of wealth and power. For what the SGI is trying to do, it is necessary to conquer the world markets, academia, politics, and the hopes of the suffering masses. Establishing kosen-rufu, or rather, the global dominance of Nichiren Buddhism requires immense resources and far reaching influence. Since the twitty hoards of financial gurus and bewildered economists have managed to misjudge the world economy like some craps table doofus on a losing streak, my opinion holds about as much weight as theirs, or anyone else’s for that matter. I'm not going AAO anymore, but I am confident that even though Mr. Ikeda isn't going to win that Nobel Prize, he has laid the ground work for the global dominance of Nichiren inspired Buddhism. My hope is that as time goes on people will see that what the SGI is really about is the mighty Lotus Sutra, Shakyamuni, Nichiren, and not about the three Soka Gakkai presidents. Right now, it's about the mentor and his endlessly documented and hearlded greatness. Yes, he's great, we all know he's mega-wonderful - you can stop reminding us, please, for the love of god, just stop and let us get back to the Lotus Sutra and the eternal Buddha.

Although financial transparency is a noble trait, this world is a plague infested cesspool of greed, duplicity, and power, with demonic minds just waiting for a way in to destroy the good works that other's have built, especially when there's money there. To know the extent of the SGI's wealth or how they spend their money runs counter-agenda to their strategic plan for the simple reason that no good would come out of it for the SGI and their enemies would try to use that information to discredit and ultimately ruin them. There are many former disgruntled SGI members who want nothing better than to destroy what they once loved and help build instead of going in a positive direction. This is patholigical behavior, although no group or person should be beyond investigation or criticism. It's so tempting to take a shot at the SGI after leaving - kind of like dissing your ex after things ran their course. There are also hideous, pin-headed, so-called investigative jouranlists that will go to any length to dig up dirt, ignoring the positive, bending the truth for the sheer thrill of scratching off the shiney finish, just because they are so damn unhappy in their own lives. These hacks jump at the prospect of making themselves look great while going out of their way to take someone else down. You wouldn't want to be in a foxhole with someone like that. Now, with the internet, any nutless yippy-dog is able to piss all over someone's manicured lawn. The SGI, president Ikeda, or any other large group/bigshot can be instantly smeared with the odious excrement of inspid adjectives and utterly fuzzed out facts by anyone with a laptop and a grudge. To me this behavior is the same pathos as penis envy

Face it, the SGI has mastered capitalism and are probably streetwise to the shady parts of the alley as well. You can't get to where they're at now if you're little goody two shoes. Capitalism is all about the building of wealth – it has little, if nothing to do with democracy as those most brilliant and apt Chinese communists have proven. The SGI is aggressively building a financial, educational, cultural, multi-media, and political empire that spans the world, using the advantageous status of a tax exempt religious corporation. The SGI has been mining the professional and intellectual brain trust of the planet for those people who can grow their agenda. One might believe that by doing this that, the SGI is an evil entity, but I ardently disagree for a variety of reasons.

This dark, evil age is just as The Buddha described. Our civilization is spinning out of control. The world’s financial markets are on the brink of collapse, nuclear war by renegade nations or terrorists, and biological warfare could happen at any moment. Global pandemics, starvation, natural catastrophes, and all manner of civil unrest could occur with little warning. Moreover, let us not forget the ominous threat of global warming.

No matter what one might think of the SGI, it is a true powerhouse and modern day religious success story. Call it a cult of personality or a power hungry religious corporation gearing up for world dominance. Think whatever you like. The reality of this era made the SGI the future defacto alternative to the Catholic Church, the most powerful sects of Islam, Zionism, Hinduism, and especially the evangelicals who long to annihilate us all to fulfill Biblical prophecy.

How can the SGI assume world dominance? One might think of arms or military might, but it seems that this battle will be decided by wealth and resources. I find it interesting that investigators have fixated on the Soka Gakkai’s wealth at $100 billion. It might be to their advantage to consider that their wealth is far beyond that and the SGI plan and methods are operating on a timeline that is looking backward from more than a hundred years in the future.

Consider the SGI’s keen interest in the great nation of India, that is sympathetic to Buddhism and economically on the rise. The SGI is thinking hundreds of years into the future by taking decisive action today. Just imagine buying up huge tracts of land, building schools, and investing in business. Strategic planning, targeted investment, and Soka education for the masses in India and other countries will lift that low-ball estimate of $100 Billion to many trillions. The wealth of the Soka Gakkai will make the Saudi princes seem like modern mavens of upper middle class – oil will eventually run out or be displaced by an alternative form of fuel for energy. The SGI is so smart that they might harness the next form of energy. They might even control the world’s food sources by creating and controlling a vital crop seed repository to restart blighted fields.

We will not know the full extent of the SGI’s wealth and power, at least not in our lifetime. It will grow quietly, flourishing without pause and nothing will stop it except internal fracture and factionalism, then it will arise again like Baby Bell’s or that hydra headed mythological Greek serpent which grew two heads each time one was cut off. The recent defeat of the Komeito is little more than a speed bump – at least that’s the way it would seem. I do not view this assent to world domination in a negative way. If the establishment of a world alignment based on the will of The Buddha and the prophecy of the Lotus Sutra is to be realized, no matter the negative anomalies currently evident, the SGI will transform. My humble ancestors chose to follow Martin Luther and break from the infallibility of the Pope and the crushing hand of the Catholic Church. My stance today is not all that different from my ancestors. The main difference for me is that I expect that the SGI will accomplish its goal of kosen-rufu, but over time will shed its false doctrines.

By false doctrines, or rather, improper doctrines, I mean the exaltation of the three presidents above and beyond The Eternal Buddha Shakyamuni, and The Lotus Sutra. I mean the improper teaching that Nichiren is the True Buddha rather than Shakyamuni. I mean the teaching that the Dai-Gohonzon is authentic. I specifically mean the inappropriate, endless adulation and glorification of president Ikeda which has created a cult of personality not dissimilar to the reverence seen directed to North Korea’s Kim Jong Il or Chairman Mao. There are other improper doctrines, issues, behaviors, and attitudes that must be changed. I wonder what form these changes will take – and when they will occur.

It is not my intention to impugn or diminish the validity, legitimacy, or potential of any other teaching based on the Lotus Sutra. It would be possible for me to write many, many more words on this subject, but they only amount to personal speculation. It is my opinion that the SGI is far more wealthy and powerful right now than we think and it is poised to become the wealthiest, most influential religious organization in the world whether we like it or not. I expect people to disagree with me and have nothing more than my own intuition as the basis of this opinion. No matter how wealthy, powerful or influential the SGI becomes, even if it offered me a million dollars a year to write about its greatness, unless the SGI changed its improper doctrines, I am still like my ancestors that stood by Martin Luther, even at the risk of their life.

How rare is to embrace The Way – to walk the path of the dharma in this saha world? It is rare indeed. It is more rare than finding a diamond in a corn field. Attending were some 300 classmates and their partners. They looked wonderful and our spirits corresponded to the fifth world of Rapture or Heaven with an array of mutually possessed worlds. I, Charles, was an observer. This is what I saw:

I observed three hundred people of varying degrees of secular accomplishment and nary an awakened being. When I arrived, I was greeted as a sort of rock star. Yes, everyone was greeted with great enthusiasm. It seems that many if not all my classmates had been following my career – some for quite a while, and most had read my profile. I was treated with a strange sort of awe that I found somewhat uncomfortable. People seemed eager to know what had changed me from an arrogant jock to a compassionate Buddhist, but they really didn’t want to know. With the thunder of so many drunken classmates it was not the right time or place to share the dharma, nor was it possible to hold anyone’s attention for more than a minute or two, as there was so much stimulation in the air. One would have come across as a total bore if they tried to do shakubuku or convert others in such a venue. One classmate told me that he received the Gohonzon in California some thirty years earlier, but didn't do anything with the practice. Even though I never drink alcohol, it was party time, and I watched as my friends got tanked. My friend who received the Gohonzon was too smashed to encourage beyond me saying, "That's Great!" That night, I'm sure he and a hundred others worshiped the Porcelin God.

One of my peculiar traits is wondering who among the crowd – any crowd - is awakened and who most needs to encounter the dharma. As I looked out among my beloved classmates, I realized that none of them had cracked the shell of the lesser ego, and were tied to the wheel of samsara with titanium shackles. Among the numerous profiles of my classmates that I had the honor to read, quite a few mentioned being reborn with their Lord Jesus Christ. I am happy for them if they are happy for themselves. Most of the classmates I encountered were intensely devoted to career and family, while many were obviously a slave to the grape, hops, or those gut buring spirits. The aura of an alcoholic is unmistakable, taking a merciless toll on facial appearence and the slow, yet subtle necrosis of one's vital innards.

So many were concerned with nothing more than the sensory trappings of mundane existence. I never felt above anyone nor did I feel out of place, but the experience made me wonder just how very rare it is to have encountered and embraced the Buddha dharma, let alone for decades. Even though Buddhism is an ancient teaching, I did not feel like some obscure relic of the past, but more like a visitor from the future to a primitive culture. I longed to help them all, but it was neither the time or place for such discussions. Better that I do shakubuku with my life and hope to connect with them later. By shakubuku with my life I mean, to beam with confidence and compassion, allowing other's hopes, dreams, and sufferings to merge into my life like tributaries into the ocean. If one shows sincere interest in others, that act alone surpasses eloquent argument, the flash of wealth or fame, and the mask of prejudice.

As the evening progressed, I engaged as many old friends and acquaintances as possible, enjoying all the stories of their lives that they would share. I listened carefully and without judgment. My experience was 95% listening and observing and 5% talking. The deepest question anyone asked me, besides where to get my book was, “How are you?” My answer was “Amazing.”

My experience drove home the fact that we have a tremendous amount of work to do in terms of spreading the dharma, teaching people how to practice Buddhism, and enabling them to awaken their Buddha nature, thus providing a means to conquer suffering. I suspect that there are many more diamonds to be discoverd in those endless cornfields.

If magickal memory serves me right, Golden Dawn adept, Allan Bennett, took a twenty-something prodigy under his robe and turned him into the foremost cosmic enigma of the twentieth century. I know Allan Bennett and I know Aleister Crowley as I know my own reflection and my late brother. I understand perfectly if the terminology I am about to render is not in your realm of knowledge, but there exists a sphere of understanding that has endured throughout the millennia in various forms, always obscure and essentially secret until now. Here's what I was up against with him as my student. I never treated him as his telling poem shows us how he regarded his own pupils.

From Aleister's "The Book of Lies"

"[185]
88

The term "gold bricks" is borrowed from American
finance.
The chapter is a setting of an old story.
A man advertises that he could tell anyone how to
make four hundred a year certain, and would do so
on receipt of a shilling. To every sender he dispatched
a post-card with these words: "Do as I do."
The word "sucker" is borrowed from American
finance.
The moral of the chapter is, that it is no good trying
to teach people who need to be taught."

I don't know where I went wrong. Aleister Crowley was perverse and deliberate. He was a neophyte whose persona could barely fit inside the consecrated circle. He literally became the eye in the triangle. His ambitions were boundless, with an ego more massive than K-2. No wonder he conquered the order grades as he did the Himalayas. I introduced him to altered states, plying him with opium, cocaine, chloroform, hashish, and morning glory seeds - serving as his navigator. Soon, he was a pilot no less skilled than Magellin. My asthma necessitated the wholesale consumption of the aforementioned drugs. Medicine was much different at the turn of the century - at times backwards. What passed as therapeutic, all seems so ridiculus now. But I think my asthma was brought on by my many conjurations of elemental forces and my frequent travels through the astral plane. Drugs were the difference between breathing and dying for me, while their effect facilitated my magickal work. He enjoyed "my drugs" far too much, so he quickly found a compounding pharmacist that could prepare his own, personalized concoctions. By the end of his life, drugs had him by the balls.

Aleister’s initiatory name was Perdurabo, or the motto, “I will endure, and mine was Iehi Aour, or “Let there be light.” I had my hands full to hold back this acolyte who wanted too much too soon. Perhaps I made an error in becoming his friend, the older brother he never had, rather then his detatched, strict teacher. When Aleister rebelled against my defacto, authoritarian, controlling stepfather, Golden Dawn order founder and head, S.L. McGregor Mathers, I was torn, but for only a moment. Mathers would have killed me that fateful day when I, myself, also reached the point of rebellion over his egomanical ruination of our wonderful Golden Dawn. I assumed the lotus posture, stared into the emptiness and chanted “Shiva, Shiva, Shiva,” for the destruction of any world that was ruled by Mathers. He did not shoot me, but he did conjure up a vampire to kill Aleister. By tracing the pentagram and focusing his will, the future Master Therion, caused a beautiful seductress to necrotically wither into its true ugly form, then disintegrate back into the swirling madness of Choronzon’s lair.

Aleister moved into my run down flat. My asthma made my career in chemistry all but impossible. I had barely enough energy to compile the order teachings, let alone to endure the banal formalities of academia. With my consecrated “crystal luster,” that wand of all wands, I taught my precocious young protégé the finer points of occult theory and practice, as well as ritual, alchemy, the proper construction of magickal implements, and various forms of relevent divination. Expanding consciousness was of great interest to him, and the easier the path to satori, the better. I tried to teach him the longer, more pragmatic methods and means to center the mind, quell the clamor, and traverse the ethers. I had been employing pranayama and asana to invoke dhyana states, insisting he master the rudiments of the time honored means of meditation. I taught him all the proper yoga postures and a host of mudras. When he learned that the Yoni Mudra was a tantric means to intensify orgasam, he left for a few days and upon his return, he embarassed me with his debased tale of sexual conquest and the unrivaled success of his mudra experiment. From a practical standpoint, once he put his Will or spirit to the task, any associated task, in short order, he could rival senior monks in practice or discipline. I finally gave up on teaching him from an authoritative standpoint and assumed the role of friend and guide. He could not be taught, he was relearning what he already knew. It was his affluence and generosity that enabled me to keep my flat and I repaid that debt with sharing with him everything I knew. Beyond that sharing, we ventured together as co-explorers into realms that ordinary men dare not enter, and if they did, might never return, and if they did so, would remerge mad.

Perdurabo rose through the grades like an eagle upon the swift updraft of an Alpine peak. Mathers was at first impressed, then alarmed, later mortified, and finally, broken. Real power is not given, but taken. Moreover, Aleister extracted the very life from the order and from that vibrant cutting, transplanted his own tree of life in the orchard of knowledge of good and evil. Restoring the DAATH of conception that separated ordinary men from their higher self, Aleister soon outgrew me and my occult acumen. He had worlds to conquer, in the world of men, and more so, in the dimensions of mind.

His career, so well documented and utterly reviled, remains the modern day deadly touchstone for those constructing the magickal body of light. Alesiter had a natural proclivity and uncanny aptitude for practical occultism that no one of the order had ever encountered. No human is born with paranormal or occult gifts that automatically enable them to be adept at magick without proper instruction - these powers require education, repititon, correction, informed instruction, and testing. Not until the fundamentals are thoroughly mastered and subjected to the most rigorous of evaluation can an aspirant be moved through the grades or acquire the secrets incumbent to that grade. Even Aleister had to prove his worth before promotion and his powers only ripened after years of intense discipline. Thus, the insipid myths of witches and wizards being born with supernatural powers with the ability to perform magick without years, perhaps decades of proper education and training, must be uprooted from belief, like rotted trees in a strong gale. Magicians are not born, they are trained, tested, and graduated like an apprentice for the trades. But as a final note on the subject of occult acumen, more than a few have come to learn, know, and live what might be called a meaningful, masterful Pagan lifestyle. They are solitary with books and life as their master, carefully observing the world, charting their own course, faithful explorers at one with nature and the elements. The primary difference between the self-learned Pagan and the formally trained magician is in the humbug of hermetic ritual. The planes are the same, the gateways universal, and the archetypes don't give a damn about your pedigree or sense of self-importance. A mature, solitary witch is every bit as capable and worthy as a Golden Dawn adept. This has become my understanding over a long period of time. While magicians tend to be a more highly educated, many of the adepts I knew, were egomanical and reckless. In modern parlance, Pagans, have way more street smarts.

Somehow, at some point, perhaps after his humbling encounter with the mighty devil, Choronzon, Aleister lost his way and whatever good he might have done for humanity with his unparalled potential, he became lost in a public battle against evil, that he ultimately lost. He spent the remainder of his life indulging his whims, gripped by base carnality and highbrow disdain for the masses. He never stopped caring for me, but I could never forgive or forget his random murder of animals for sport on that river in Burma. He had little regard for life beyond the preservation of his own. I loved him like a brother and taught him to rise through the planes with the ease of a starling, but he was more hungry hawk, interested in descending through the planes from on high to snatch titles and honrarium, then the salvation of souls. He would rather raise an army of adepts to conquer the world then save the wretched masses beneath his class. I could not change him. No one could change him. He became a master that knew no master, a sage of all religions and despiser of them all, save his own. In the end, I did not know the man I once roomed with. We were young men, full of hope and grand dreams. I walked the path of the dharma, while he blazed his own path as Master of the Temple, and oracle of The Secret Chiefs. They used him and spit out his flabby carcus on the dung heap of happless humanoid attainment, leaving nothing but a cursed shadow where the Tathagata's ten foot aura should have been. Instead of saint, I turned out a wild beast whose subsequent incarnations would shake the world in horrific ways. For Aleister, the dharma was an opium pipe. I failed him when I turned away from the dharma out of disgust over the monastic apathy and corruption that I came to know. I pray he never forgets that I was once his teacher, his friend. Perhaps I can turn him away from evil. Perhaps it's too late for him and us.

My own story ended long ago in Brittan in my mid-fifties, succumbing to the horrific complications of asthma, after being turned away from a self-imposed exile to San Diego, USA, so as to restore my health in that perfectly warm, dry air and to maybe bring the dharma to America. My spirit was mortally wounded and my faith, if I ever had any, was crushed when I was denied passage because of my health. I had no more strength and most of my desires had been abolished in samadhi a decade earlier. Having mastered magick, establishing the first Buddhist order in the West as Bhikku Ananda Metteya, amd then, for the most part, abandoning the sweet dharma for my hermetic roots once again, I died alone, without a shilling to my name, in a strange, melancholy place, with an aching in my heart that only death would embrace. The order couldn't save me, and the dharma became a mirage, elusive and utterly defiled by the conduct of the monks that raised me. They were a utterly wretched, self-serving lot, more concerned with alms and self-indulgence then spreading the dharma as The Master clearly instructed. It made me ill in body and spirit. I had a droll laugh when Alesiter once told me the reputation of the monks where I was tonsured. He said, "The monks of Ceylon are not born, they are made." It was the perfect indictment of a dispicable class.

Needless to say, as this writing attests, I was soon reborn and able continue The Great Work. My next incarnation proved to be short and bitter-sweet, as an obedient, yet conflicted Japanese soldier, who dreamed of being a Nichiren priest, but instead was marooned and died a slow, lonely death from malaria on some desolate beach on that sweltering, nameless Philippine island, near what I assumed was the end of the War. I knew we would not win as we were so cruel and evil. I vowed to fight to the death for the Emperor and was happy to die, not for the honor of the Emperor or my country or even my family, but because I had passively participated in great cruelty and did not deserve to live. Passive participation in evil is still evil. Since I uttered the daimoku with my last shivering breath, salvation was mine. I was subsequently born in a fortuitous time, in a favorable family, destined to spread the Lotus Sutra both far and wide. My contribution as Allan Bennett to the world was birthing The Great Beast 666 – may Lord Buddha forgive me. If Mara had offspring, Aleister would be of that bloodline, although he could have gone in the direction of good or changed his path at any time. My current incarnation is well known to all of you as Charles, Gakkoren Mokuren, jinyo bosatsu, and once the initiate, Frater Da Via Sola Solis. I patiently await my old friend to greet me with an embrace or his dagger. Either one will suffice.

I will write more as my memory allows.

In May of this year, I was required to visit Springfield, the state capital of Illinois, to represent my company at a hearing before the Illinois Liquor Commission. Anyone whose dealt with state agencies and those damned revenuers can appreciate why our state governments are going bankrupt. It was proof positive as to why State workers and bureaucrats find little sympathy with the citizenry beyond their desire of seeing them at a hard labor camp, little ones out of big ones. In Illinois, bureaucratic hard time is as common as freckles.

Below is a letter to the editor that I wrote that described my utter disgust with the way our state conducts business as Illinois citizens stand on the precipe of a huge tax increase that will harm people and business. I thought that I was doing a public service. A few days after the letter was published in the Champaign News-Gazette, there was a knock on my door by a badge carrying agent of the Illinois Department of Revenue, requesting a face-to-face meeting with the Chief of Internal Investigations for that taxing body. Big brother was watching.

Not long ago, I had the opportunity to observe how our tax dollars are being spent on a trip to the Illinois Department of Revenue in Springfield. I would like to share with you that experience as we approach another huge tax increase that our leaders have left us and our children.

If you want to trim the budget and maintain vital services, start with eliminating the unnecessary jobs for these overpaid, underworked State employees. Before you raise our taxes, clean up your own house first.

I was rather excited to arouse the attention of the state’s super-honchos and thought that our meeting would address the overt apathy of state workers. Wrong.

The meeting was more about about homeland security. I must confess that for a moment, I was never more proud to be a citizen of Illinois. The proactive energy to protect our citizens was mighty impressive. The Chief of Internal Investigations could not have been more gracious. I never, really, felt like a suspect, but I was questioned in detail about my own background like a suspect. Being Buddhist, a tax paying, law abiding citizen, author, and all around fun guy, I was quickly able to convince them that I was merely a concerned citizen and not a mantra murmuring terrorist hell bent on giving their atrium greenery a golden shower.

Before I left for the meeting, I called the newspaper to inform them that some freedom of speech issues might be tested, and I contacted one of my good personal friends, a man I speak with virtually every night, our U.S. Congressman, to inform him that I might be under siege. All that precaution was unnecesasary, as the actual meeting itself proved to be little more than a forced reach-around by authorities that feigned respect for me, but were clearly not my pals. What did come out of this event though, was just how very powerful old Chuckie’s pen can be. "I'll stick my pen right down your throat, and it hurts, baby."

My longtime friend, a third term U.S. congressmen (R), reacted with these words, "That's gestapo tactics!" Furious that his friend and constituant (moi)), had been profiled, tracked down like a fugative, and interviewed over a simple letter to the editor, my congressman promised to take appropriate action against the responsible parties. What action his offices will take, I do not know, nor do I particularly care, but if there's any political mileage to be booked, he will rack up quite a fare. I never felt threatened by any of the events at any time and sort of got off on the fact that I made the state squirm for just cause. Call it the great American rascal in me to poke the soft underbelly of the rabid beast. I must have been imprisoned, exiled, tortured, and even put to death numerous times in previous lives for such a perverse, adversarial nature. In some countries I would end up in a gulag or buried in a mass grave along with other dissidents. There was a part of me that thought it was an honor to get to them that way. I've been known to scare the hell out of my daughter being the way that I am. To me, to let the staus quo go quietly about their dirty business is the true treason of trust. In the face of dishonor or persecution, I prefer death to complicity.

There might have been a time when I would have declared this event to be persecution by one of the Three Powerful Enemies. Now, I consider it to be a sign of the times as to how paranoid our government has become, perhaps out of necessity. The pen is truly mightier than the sword. And paranoia is mightier than the pen. I would rather stand up to tyranny and take my lumps than live in an artifical peace while the bastards have their way. It's the way I was drawn.

UPDATE:

My friend and U.S. Congressman was profoundly disturbed by what happened to me. He voiced his opinion, rendered specific advice, and began to take immediate action, of which I am not yet fully informed.

His opinion was this and I paraphrase here: "Chuck, this is Gestapo tactics! This is like Naxi Germany. I've been in politics for forty years and I've never seen anything like this. You may have a civil suit here."

He went on to say that I had done nothing wrong and that his office would coordinate an appropriate response with the State and in the media. He said that if I wasn't afraid to stand up and face the authorities, I would strike a powerful blow for free speech - against those entrenched and emerging elements that would oppress and persecute free speech.

He lectured me on how my case was of immense importantce both locally and nationally, and after he brought it to public attention, it would be headline news here and may get national coverage, because it was so important. Oridinarily, I would be satisfied with a written apology and maybe a cash settlement that was NOT hush money - I won't do that. His idea was that if I had the guts to face down my enemies and followed his lead, he would use his powers and influence to defend free speech for everyone. He said it was a win-win situation for me and everyone else that spoke out against the government.

Knowing him, a man who has never lost an election in 40 years, I asked him how much political milage he would get out of this and he suggested that it would be enough mileage to make the wheels on his car to fall off. Honest anwser, supreb cause, committed legislator, jinyo-bosatsu resolve. I formally then agreed to accept his challenge for myself as well as for everyone else who wants to express themselves or take on the authorities or corporations. This morning, I made this determination, "Bring it, bitch."

I'll keep you all posted as these things can take time.

US: You’ve been a counterculture icon since your teaching days at Berkley, when you were expelled for allegedly dosing Henry Kissinger with some Owsley acid. Next, you meditated naked atop of the Empire State Building Tower to draw attention to the Vietnam War. You followed that event with your first bestseller on modern magick and mysticism, Mister and Mythology. You’ve been stirring up the world for more than forty years, what’s this new book all about? Based on my reading, you take on Wall Street.

OL: It’s a book about liars, cheats, and well dressed demons. It’s more than a book on Wall Street greed, it’s about the greed that has gripped the human mind.

US: How so?

OL: We are surrounded by liars, cheats, and capitalistic henchmen who think no more of robbing grandma of her life savings or ruining your grandkids college education, just so they can live the high life now.

US: Let’s backtrack a little, in Bee Hear Noun, you challenge conventional science with the notion that all things are inter-connected; an idea in Buddhism, but unknown in modern science at the time.

In Tantra Interruptus, you challenge our conventional ideas of sex. In Sirius Buddhism, you assert that the universe is inhabited by races of living beings that practice teachings akin to what we call Buddhism.

But in your new book, Rectangular Crop Circles in Times Square, you take aim at capitalism, the very system that has enriched you.

OL: Capitalism has some very ugly aspects to it that no makeup can conceal. Becoming wealthy or not, I would still write, even if there was no other reward except personal satisfaction. At heart, I’m no different than any other struggling writer who seeks publication. We write for the love of writing, even when no one’s reading.

US: Lot’s of people are reading.

OL: Maybe they won’t when they realize that I’m writing about them. It’s not just the big shots who rake in millions, I’m taking to task the people who sell defective merchandise, say a used car, knowing it’s defective, just to make a buck.

I’m “outing” the suburban couple who put their nest egg in investments that yield far more than the reasonable return on investment, because they’re greedy, but then lose their nest egg and cry on TV.

I’m taking aim on the credit card companies pushing their high interest rate cards on college kids with no appreciable income, and I’m giving a nasty shout out to the millions of people in America who live on their credit cards, piling up enormous debt on frivolity. Our standard of living here is a house of cards and the wind is starting to blow.

US: Well, lot’s of people need to live on those cards in order to survive.

OL: Nonsense. People ignore the value and importance of a home cooked meal. People don’t really need the latest gizmo or newest car. I go in to great detail on how we got into this mess and why we need to get a grip in order to get out of it.

US: Although I agree, I don’t see that happening.

OL: And you won’t until the system stops working.

US: Can we stop this before it’s too late?

Part two to be continued…

Some of you who read my book Modern Buddhist Healing, may remember chapter one of the second experiential part of the book, "My Battle." Chapter One is called Double Tiger. Cancer is like a tiger that stalks you and cancer is an internal tiger that devours your nerves. You must face this beast or you may very well be devoured and die. It's not an easy battle, but it must be fought. And, yes, there are many thousands that have faced this tiger and have lived to tell about it. Daniel may never get that chance if his weak willed, misguided mother continues to protect him - TO DEATH.

Daniel’s mother absconded with her son to places unknown to pursue alternative treatments because her son became ill after a single treatment. They are Catholic and believe in natural remedies like nutrition, pure oils, and other natural methods. There is nothing wrong with these methods as an adjunct to proven, conventional treatment, as long as his physician is informed and agrees. Where Daniel’s mother is loving her boy to death is her break from reason, logic, and science. The treatment for Hodgkin’s lymphoma is one of the few true cancer treatment success stories out there. For the mother to fall sway to her son’s reaction to chemotherapy is tragic. The chemotherapy drugs make you vomit for a short while, but it’s over in a few hours. That’s the meager tradeoff – puke for a few hours and live for 50 years. The nausea goes away and they have medicine for that as well. What Daniel's mother is doing in her attempt to fight cancer with alternative treatment is to stop a tiger with a twig when she needs an assualt rifle. It all seems so obvious to an outsider, but emotion, mis-channeled compassion, and bad science have deluded her into thinking supplemental treatment is primary treatment. Daniel needs Nitrogen Mustard, Vincristine, and the other proven combination chemotherapy drugs that literally kill cancer cells (along with some good ones). If the mother comes to her senses, the boy can be saved. Whether the courts can actually mandate treatement is an entirely different issue. Reason, logic, and science are the prime point here and Daniel can be saved by a difficult, but tolerable method that has gone through many clinical trials. The treatment is not miraculous, it's scientifically viable in most cases. With a 90% survival rate, how can anyone reasonably look for something better. You feel sick, but you get over it.

The mother thinks she is protecting her son, but she is hastening his demise. If he had a cavity, would she keep him from the pain of the needle and drill until the tooth developed an abscess then went septic? The treatment for Hodgkin’s lymphoma works, even for extremely advanced cases. Daniel’s mother needs to know that the tradeoff for a long, cancer free life is most minimal when you consider the alternatrive, which is an extremely painful, protracted death. Yes, chemotherapy is harsh, but it is a breeze compared to the devouring tiger that chews up your body and mind, one bite at a time until you’re dead, dead, dead. She is not doing him any favors. She is, in reality, going to cause her son, herself, her husband, and her family, far more pain than if she told her boy to “Man-Up,” and take the treatment.

You may not be able to outrun the tiger, but you can outsmart it. Wake up Mrs. Houser, and save your son. The tiger is hungry, but you have wisdom. It's only natural for a parent to feel intense compassion for their child, not wanting them to suffer. In this case, the treatment will cure your son. Your son has the right to live and you have the responsibility to lead him to safety.

Update: Mrs. Houser and her son have returned and appeared in court. The judge ordered Daniel to undergo chemotheraphy.

Question and Personal Opinion: Should the courts be able to mandate treatment in a free society? My opinion is, in certain cases, that the courts are within their rights to protect the welfare of minors, such as in this particular instance. As a general rule, unless a public health hazard could ensue without quarantine or immediate treatment, individuals must maintain their right to refuse treatment or pursue alternative means. I would even go so far as to say, in my humble opinion, that physician assisted suicide should be a legal option in certain cases determined by law.

Without doubt, the customers are the lifeblood of a restaurant. Without them, there is no business, no jobs, no paychecks. The idea that the customer is always right has never been truer than in the hospitality industry. If service is not excellent, the food is not expeditious and of good quality, or if the customer is not pleased in any way, they will go elsewhere. If that’s not enough, they will go out of their way to tell their friends and strangers what lousy restaurant you have. I have found that good news travels slowly but surely, and bad news spreads like wildfire. Every restaurant faces this daunting gauntlet of high, often unreasonable level of expectations, but that is our reality. Because competition is so intense for the dining dollar, those who don’t provide what the customer needs and wants they quickly will find their seats empty and their future in doubt. It has been my experience that success begins with the person in charge, just like the principle of cho-no ichinen. The leader determines everything and this phenomena is revealed from moment-to-moment.

As the general manager of the night shift, I have only three rules: 1. Show up for your shift. 2. Be on time. 3. Give me 100%. Once you’ve been hired, I don’t care if you’re a drunk, a crack head, you make and insert methamphetamine suppositories, or shoot heroin as a hobby. I don’t care what your sexual orientation is, if you have tattoos on your private parts, or if you have a felony record for running assault weapons. You start with a clean slate on my shift and I don’t play favorites. All I ask is that you show up for your shift on time, look clean and decent, and be sober/straight until after your shift ends. You must do all your side work (and there’s a lot of that), and give me 100% at all times. If you do that, I will be in your corner. If you don’t, I will fire you faster than an attacking swarm of pissed off killer bees on a threat to their queen.

I have zero tolerance for bullshit, excuses, laziness, apathy, or being rude to the customers. My rule is for you to leave your baggage at the door wearing your game face. When you interact with your customers, you must be like an award winning actor on stage - all smiles, with total focus on your table's needs. If you need to vent, do it to me, I'll understand and try to pump you up or get you back to center. But don’t spread the poison of negativity to the customers or your co-workers. As a personal hard and fast rule, I do not socialize outside of work with my employees. I am the boss and not your buddy. I can be considered a friend within the framework that you work for me and I have your back at all times, but I will not be going out with you after work for a drink or to smoke a joint of that primo bud you've been bragging about – ever. And I never, ever stick my pen in the company ink, no matter how cute or hot you think you are. I have seen many a manager fall hard because the lines of employer/employee have become blurred - there are no exceptions to this rule. No one has ever faulted me to my face for not hanging out with them after work and my crew knows that I lead by example versus my authority. Instead of crossing my arms and watching everyone work, I roll up my sleeves and sweat with the troops. It's not easy for a 58 year old man to run with the 20-somethings, but I give up my body for the cause. If you don’t strive in your labors or if you consciously pass the buck with your work, making extra work for others, I will fire you. Since the employees are not my buddies, there are no exceptions. I don’t care if you’re a single parent and the sole support of three little ones. If you don’t follow my few, but very strict rules, you will be gone. If you do follow them, I will put my own job on the line for you, and I have done so more than once. Here is a vital point that the Nichiren Shoshu priests have never understood: Respect does not come with a title, respect is earned through one’s actions. Even if I am not loved or considered one of the gang, I am trusted and respected by my employees.

It’s now been ten years in the business for me and I have seen, heard and experienced many things. I have found some truth in a number of stereotypes. Most of that experience has been positive, but the next time you go out to eat, I want to enhance your awareness of what goes on behind the scenes. We have all watched the food channel and observed the glamorous and sometimes glorious aspects of the culinary arts. We have even gone behind the scenes to see how it is done, but I have yet to see programming that captures the often dark, harsh realities of the restaurant business. Let me share with you some observations on how it all works and what the staff that serves you really does and what they often think.

A Restaurant Manager’s Candid Perspective

Front of the House

As general manager, I am responsible for the front of the house where diners eat. There are many, many things to be aware of to ensure a good experience is had by all. If you don’t, customers won’t come back, they will tell their friends what a lousy establishment you have, and they will go out of their way to report your negligence to the powers that be. It never ceases to amaze me how vicious people are and what great lengths they will go to get someone fired or in trouble for some perceived negligence or personal offense. Although most people are decent, it has become apparent that a great many people suck.

In my case, because our restaurant seats more than 100 people and is perpetually busy, there is a constant turnover of tables, and I must be concerned with the dining experience of all our patrons. I must supervise a large staff of overworked, underpaid employees who are assailed by every mood and quirk of a clientele with a wholly unrealistic level of expectation. Even when we are filled to capacity, many customers will throw a hissy fit if their food is not at their table within ten or fifteen minutes. There is no reasoning with customers when they believe they have had bad service. Customers have come to expect that they are the only people in the restaurant. If they feel hot or cold, they demand the temperature be adjusted to suit them, even though 100 other people are perfectly comfortable. It’s all about me, me, me.

I must supervise hosts, servers, bussers, cooks, dishwashers, maintenance, watch the quality and speed of service, and above all watch the money. But this is only a small part of what has to be done. I really need to be two people – if I could become two people, I hope the other Charles has a full head of hair.

Back of the House

There is nothing romantic about the restaurant business. We have seen plenty of grunt level line cooks who spent 50K going to culinary school who now flip burgers in a greasy, 100 degree kitchen. The kitchen is hot, loud, thankless, full of dangers, with a an intense pace and unwavering mandate for perfection. If anything with the food is even slightly wrong, it reflects back on the kitchen, and the server is punished with a diminished tip. Ultimately, all problems with quality and service land in the lap of the manager, who is responsible for everything.

One of the functions that I have is expediting food that comes out of the kitchen. I turn in and put a time on the tickets and when the food comes out, I need to check it against that ticket to make sure it is correct – any error creates a cascade of problems for the kitchen, the server, and for me. All of this is done at breakneck speed with zero margin for error. It’s not as difficult as it sounds if one can think clearly, quickly, and decisively. With experience, it is not uncommon to serve three or four hundred meals without a single error – but that one error can come back to bite you like an angry Doberman.

The Staff

The Hosts

These are the pretty young gals that greet the customers at the door and seat them. They are subject to considerable attitude by guests who insist on being sat in particular places, even when those places are not available. They are responsible for all money transactions, to-go orders, bussing tables as much as possible, and obtaining customer comments. They are often the lightening rod for complaints. They must do this job with grace, ease, and a perpetual smile on their face. They are underpaid, overworked, and unappreciated by the servers. They are my treasures, but only when they do their job right.

The Servers

Servers are generally type A personalities who are in transition or have settled for their fate of not getting a better job. They frequently suffer from bad relationships, substance abuse, and they generally burn out on customer abuse, the grind of the work, or self-created drama of their workplace. Servers at a good restaurant can make a living wage, but it is grueling, high pressure work that propels them into various vicious cycles that causes them to self-destruct. There are exceptions to this rule and those are the “lifers.” Someone described the servers life aptly when they said, “Waiting tables is like kissing Smelly Ass for Quarters.”

A warning for those who come right before closing – you’re not Elvis or Michael Jackson. The server with a smile hates you and the cook hates you even more. Check your food carefully as there may be a price you pay for keeping the staff late to induge your oblivious little lifestyle. The staff wants to get off of work - they're tired, they want to go home or out for a drink, or get to their kids. They don't want to spend another hour serving your selfish needs, for one lousy tip that won't even buy a pack of smokes. They'll hate you, they really will, and you don't even realize it because you're lost in your own little world of "me, me, me." I really don't care because I have to stay for much longer than anyone, anyway, but they might spit on your burger or cough on your ice cream. This holds true for even the fanciest four star restaurants - they will hate your guts and you'll be damn lucky if they don't get you back, some how. Of course, if I caught anyone doing these things, they would be instantrly fired, but suspecting is a far cry from knowing for sure. But you've been warned.

The Brutal Demographics of tippers or, "Oh, please, don't let some stereotypes be true!"

Indians - Perhaps the most polite, yet lousy tippers on the planet.

Asians - Better than the Indians by a small degree and subdivided into two types. 1. The well travelled and more affluent tip great. 2. The younger Asians tip at less than 10% and are strangely demanding.

Blacks - Very rarely is there any middle ground. Expect to get stiffed or overcompensated.

Hispanics - The best tippers in the world; why? They or a loved one works in the business and they know what a difficult rat race it is.

Whites - Often a pain in the ass. You have the 15-20% types, the little old ladies who think $1.00 is the maximum, and then you have the trailer trash grifters who have a plot or plan to complan about everything, so they can get free stuff or get out of their bill. Just last night I had someone with a $77.00 bill try to stiff their server just because he was a dick.

The bottom line on tippers is that there are exceptions to every race or cultural type. I must remind myself that I should never stereotype because that's foolish and wrong! Then, a group of 20 Indians comes into the restaurant 10 minutes before closing, louder and more annoying than howler monkeys. They keep us open an extra half hour, then either stiff the server or leave a tip of 7-9%. Next day, I remind myself that there are exceptions and I should not stereotype....Sometimes I feel as if I'm in a time loop and the universe is testing my logic and compassion. I know I should not be judgmental, then a table of 20 Indians come in 10 minutes before closing...

Leave Your Screaming Brats at Home or Smack Them Upside Their Little Heads Before They Come

Since our restaurant is a "family restaurant," parents often bring their children. I like kids if they're well behaved. One of my favorite sayings of the late Geroge Carlin, was to parents who thought their children were "special." He said it best when he said "Your Kid's Not Special!" Let me say it again, "Your kid's not special," so keep that parental glare and hickory switch in your disciplinary tool box. Remember the most important thing you can teach your kids in those formative years is a resounding "NO!" By that I don't mean, "maybe," or if you keep pushing, I'll cave. No means no.

Call it a sign of the times, but kids today do not, as a general rule, experience the strict, guiding hand of mom and pop. No longer do children get nervous or sweaty plams when they misbehave in public. It is common for children to run through the restaurant, getting in the way of patrons and staff, and if they don't get their way, scream at the top of their lungs, ruining others dining experience. Lord help us if we say a cross word to someone's little darling after they poured a milkshkae on their little sister or drew pictures on our wood counter tops. These kids are provided crayons which they frequently rip off the wrapers, then break them and throw on the floor. Mom and dad just leave them for the staff to pick up. These kids do not say "please" or "thank you" either. There sure are some good kids, but they seem to be getting more scarce.

I remember growing up in the fifties - a different age for sure! For us, it was sit with good posture, elbows off the table, "Yes, mam or sir," "Please and thank you." If I demonstrated the rude and disruptive behavior of the children so common now, my dad would drag my sorry little white ass out the door and tan my hide with his belt. It is clear to me that many parents don't have a clue how or why to keep their little darlings in line. They don't know how to say "No!" or "Shut up, you little shit!" And they should as I can see these kids getting to their teenage years without guidance or proper discipline, creating a generation of self-involved brats. The exceptions stand out and it is always the parents who do not tolerate rude behavior. Unless your kids can act quietly and respectfully in public, keep your little darlings at home.

The Fast Track To Obesity, “I’ll have some fat with my fat."

It never ceases to amaze me what horrific eating habits people have. It is very common to see people come in late at night and eat large meals. This is a big weight maintenance no-no. I try not to pass judgment on anyone. Sometimes, though, people really astonish me. When I see someone order a half pound burger with fries and ask for extra mayo, there is a raised eyebrow. I see people barely able to walk because they are so overweight. They sit down and order the most fattening items on the menu. Sometimes it seems like we are no better than drug dealers, dispensing their poison, only ours is in the form of food. I watch, day after day, as these people slowly kill themselves and there's not a dman thing that I can say about it.

The sad thing is all the young people from foreign countries that come here and take up our awful habits of eating fatty meals and desserts late at night and you can see them growing larger before your eyes. I am very sensitive to all of this and am bound to slience as eating as often and much as possible is important for a restaurant. If you tried to correct a customer, even if they were one corned beef sandwich away from a heart attack, you would be committing career suicide. So I stand silently, with a smile on my face, making our guests feel comfortable and welcome, knowing that we are complicit in their dietary murder. I am man who fashions the noose. It's murder, one calorie at a time.

Although you all know my history, I thought it might be fun to share my profile because it is so different than any of my classmates. I went to a Chicago suburban high school with a graduating class of 303 students. Looking at their profiles, some became lawyers, doctors, and teachers, with the usual life track of marriage, divorce, kids, and expensive toys. A few have been born again, so more power to them. More than a dozen have gone to that great reunion in the sky. Since posting my profile, dozens of classmates have written me to catch up.

One of my very best friends from back in the day chided me for posting a detailed profile. His argument was that our classmates had forgotten their Age of Aquarius roots and now lived in little house made of tickey-tackey that all loooked the same. He scolded me pretty good. He asserted that they wouldn't understand the exstensive use of psychedelics for self-discovery, and they especially wouldn't be able to grasp the long, slow Buddhist journey to enlightenment. He actually talked me into taking it down, but then I remembered Robin Beck's recollections of me as a Chershire Cat kind of personality, so I put it back up, then took it down, and have repeated this process a number of times.

Where I disagree with my childhood (non-Buddhist) friend, who has been with me every step of the way on my long, strange trip, was that he didn't give our classmates enough credit. Maybe there was a time along the way that I would have tried to identify with all of them and speak in terms of expedients and mutual areas where we were actually very much alike. This was the provisonal approach Buddha used to raise up his disciples so they could understand the path of awakening. It occurred to me that what was required was a Honmon approach that refrained from seeking things in common and just retraced the mile markers and result.

I thought it might be fun to share this "warts and all" profile with a promise of more serious writing in the very near future.

Spouse/Partner: Jennifer DuBois: Wiccan master, beautiful, much smarter then me, and twenty-three years younger.

Children: Devin, born September 8, 1979. Devin is a blues singer. She is attractive, an expert in WWII history, and has been a practicing Buddhist her entire life.

Step son Thomas, 14, going on 21, born April 28, 1995. He has a black belt in Kung Fu, has a master scuba diving certification, he's a drummer in the jazz band, and he's a straight A student. At nearly 6' and brutally handsome, we have had to have that serious "talk" with him, as the girls are swarming.

Profile: For several years after graduation and the Army, it might have appeared that I was lost. The short explanation was that I was searching for something, but didn't know what. You remember what a chaotic time it was - go to college, get a trade, the draft was like a riptide waiting to pull us boy's under, and we all remember that unpopular war that took so many of our generation. We were all living on the cusp of a cultural paradigm shift.

Please forgive the length of this profile. In 1969 we were an idealistic generation out to change the world. I chose a different path that put me at odds with my family, with convention, and the status quo. My path, because it went against the grain of society was the self-imposed cause for great suffering for myself and especially my loved ones who thought I had gone mad. For this reason alone, I owe it to you to share a snapshot of this strange journey.

I was doing a lot of psychedelics and my personality went from the halcyon daze of "Leave it to Beaver" to the lunatic in the "Dark Side of the Moon." I was utterly lost, but as it is said; "When the student is ready, the teacher appears." In the early 70s, some old friends created what could best be described as a multi-million dollar international pot smuggling organization. I had a choice of whether to be an intentionally poor seeker of the Way, or I could live the exciting but dangerous life of an affluent smuggler, forever looking over my shoulder, while seeing the disapproval of my father in every stranger's face.

At times, I had been foolish, but I was no fool. I knew that some of my so-called friends and acquaintances secretly referred to me as "Crazy Charlie" because of too many acid trips. In reality, I probably wasn't welcome with my smuggler friends anyway, as I was too outspoken, strange, and unpredictable. Regardless, some beneficent archetype, in what C.G. Jung called the collective unconscious, must have been watching over me, and steered me in another, more positive direction.

My true path to self-discovery soon appeared, leading me to what the Lotus Sutra calls “The Phantom City” - that midway respite on the way to awakening. I remained there, in the phantom city for decades, learning the finer points of meditation, the Four Noble Truths, the Eight-Fold Path, and most of all, how best to help the sick, the suffering, and the forgotten. I became somewhat skilled at eight-limbed yoga, dhyana and samadhi meditation, understanding and reciting the sutras, and the ceremonial/practical magick found in the Heremetic Order of the Golden Dawn. It must be stessed that none of these skill-sets will buy you a cup of coffee, unless you're some kind of metaphysical hooker and exploit them for money. I may have been a cheap date, but I was no whore. The true worth of these varied disciplines are found in awakening to the true nature (or entity) of life, and navigating the bardos after death, replete with those rascally peaceful and wrathful deities so aptly described in the "Tibetan Book of the Dead." That must be worth a cup of coffee or a spot of tea - don't you think? My evangelical Lutheran grandparents were positively mortified.

I was a late bloomer. In a symbolic gesture, at age 23, I cut my hair and began an inward journey that put me as a student in training before a series of world renown Buddhist masters that had all the tact, charm, and mercy of coach Buck Sayre with a hangover. Let's just say, you can't run away from your karma, and I attracted teachers whose compassion was measured by how many dreams they shattered, and how many grown men they made cry. Let's just say that my appreciation for those "Full Metal Jacket" kind of instructors is boundless, tempered by the acquired knowledge that holy men, by and large, are Assholes - up close and personal. Their preconceived holiness was a mirage, like the allure and beauty of a first time lover after a night of heavy drinking.

For what it's worth, I bested them all in attainment, by their own criteria, on their own court. Maybe that was their purpose all along, but it's doubtful. It's more likely that these Vedic, Buddhist and occult masters thrived and got off on their own arrogance, attaining supreme Sphincterhood without a single regret. Few moments are more savored than when student surpasses teacher. Let's just say, for a moment there, I was sporting cosmic wood, and in a detached way, it felt good. Now, however, I have become a teacher, vowing to never use humiliation, cruelty, or passive aggressive intimidation to teach others.

I broke the cycle of cruel teaching when I established a new Buddhist sangha (order). In July, 2008, after 35 years in the trenches, I took the spiritual name, Gakkoren. "Gakko" is the Japanese name for one of two healing/protective bodhisattvas that accompany Yakushi, the Medicine Buddha; and "Ren" means lotus - the mystic flower that symbolizes karmic cause and effect. My spiritual name means "Moonlight Lotus," although, as some of you may remember, there's not much gentle about me. Perhaps the most apt description of me was given by one of my students when they said, "You're more like Aleister Crowley than Mahatma Gandhi." I never sought to be a guru, just a decent human being.

The end-result of these tedious, esoteric, and exoteric spiritual disciplines transformed my mundane existence into one of altruism with a life-long effort for enlightenment. The mind blowing truth that I learned was that enlightenment was there all along, just waiting for me to stop doing those expedient things that my teachers taught me to do, to bring forth enlightenment. All I needed to do was to stop doing, and be. Once one eliminates that fervent desire to attain enlightenment at all costs - that attachment to attain, enlightenment emerges as naturally as the rising sun, or in my case, the full moon. Enlightenment is all about being in the moment. It is not a state above anyone, it is recognizing, realizing, and respecting the enlightenment in others (and all life).

There occurred two great awakenings around 1987, I fell or was shoved down the rabbit hole with Alice, emerging later as a better person - one that was less self-involved and far more compassionate. This was brought about by a life and death battle with stage-four Hodgkin's lymphoma, a samadhi (or grand awakening), and a near-death experience. Obviously, I survived advanced cancer, and am now a better person for it. In case anyone's interested, here's my post transformation resume:

Wrote and published two popular books on spiritual healing and visualization: they are Modern Buddhist Healing, Nicolas-Hays (Boston), 2002 & Riding the Wheel to Wellness, Nicolas-Hays, 2005.

Created a spiritual healing website at www.spiritwell.net for those suffering from cancer and other chronic Illnesses; Currently author of a Blog called Phantom City at www.fraughtwithperil.com.

Founded The Society for Modern Buddhist Healing July 2008. This group, with an international following, teaches chronically ill people how to use mantra-powered visualization to attack diseases like cancer or other chronic illnesses while boosting the immune system through primordial sounds and meditation. It also provides end-of-life support.

Founded the The Order of Jakkodo (Land of eternally tranquil light) in July 2008. This order is a ten-level higher consciousness training program for spiritual adepts to advance their awareness and powers.

Founded Modern Buddhism a new Buddhist sangha (sect), in July 2008, with followers throughout the U.S., Europe and Asia.

In high school, at times, I could be a bully, and a thoughtless, narrow-minded jock. Because of my immaturity, I want to finish this profile with a sincere apology for whatever trouble or hurt that I may have caused any of you, my dear classmates of 69'. Each and every one of you are my precious friends.

School Story: Played some sports, read a lot of books, and day dreamed way too much.

Military Service: U.S. Army

Namaste,

Chuck Atkins