Beyond Isness

By Joey Ashley

. He breathed in the chanting of his name by the enraged audience. Ambulance attendants burst backstage, hastily loading the body onto a stretcher. He raced with the ambulance through red lights, whizzed to the emergency ward and watched the body frantically jump-started.
‘What do we have here?’ A doctor burst in.
‘Another rapstar OD’ing.’,’ replied the nurse,
‘The Rapstar of the Century!’ added Steve, floating above his body. But nobody heard him.
‘He doesn't look like a rapstar,’ the doctor winced at the patient’s geeky costume made of recycled plastic bags. ‘Looks more like something a baglady’s cat would drag in.’
‘We’ve lost him,’ sniffled the nurse as she removed her mask and turned off the EEG.
‘Farewell, sweet nurse,’ the rapstar's spirit kissed a tear on her cheek and slowly drifted through the ceiling, through the hospital roof, and into the beyond . . .

And that's how the story screeches off. Spiced by odysseys in Bali, the Inner World, the Pleiades, and the Chinese takeaway in Percy Street, this eclectic smorgasborg is all chucked in the wok and stir-fried with a pinch of sex, a dash of humour, and a liberal sprinkling of spirituality.

Beyond Isness is Conversations With God – if channeled through Tom Robbins. A profound but wacky perspective that demystifies our dark side. This whimsical portrait of the spiritual scene desperately aims to lighten them up a wee bit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joey Ashley
• Release date: Mar 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476198446

Joey Ashley

Innately non-conformist, Joey Ashley was kicked out of several schools. He struggled through College with his attitude, but the world of advertising loved him for it. He played creative director for four years then dropped out in 69 to play with the hippies in Europe. After the fling with Amsterdam, Ibiza, Copenhagen, Goa, and others, he fell for Australia. His longest affair was with Bali where, forever playing roles, he cast himself as a businessman; and with his architecture background, designed houses, furniture, and jewelry. He OD'd from the creative world and did broadcast film-editing for foreigners producing films there. Recession ended that affar. Overnight rich in time, he decided to cast himself as a writer. Subliminally autobiographical, his first book brings alive his multi-personalities. Favourable reviews from seasoned writers made him decide to get his feet wet.

Book preview

The Eco-Rapstar

New York . . . He breathed in the shrill whistling and the chanting of his name by the enraged audience. Ambulance attendants burst backstage, hastily loading the body onto a stretcher. He raced with the ambulance through red lights, whizzed to the emergency ward and watched the body frantically jump-started.

‘What do we have here?’ A doctor burst in.

‘A classic case,’ declared the nurse, ‘Another rapstar OD’ing.’

‘The Rapstar of the Century!’ corrected Steve, floating above his body. But nobody heard him. Even in death I look cool, he regarded himself, admiring the lopsided sneer he’d perfected.

‘He doesn't look much like a rapstar,’ the doctor winced at the patient’s geeky costume made of recycled plastic bags. ‘Looks more like something a baglady’s cat would drag in.’

‘We’ve lost him,’ sniffled the nurse as she removed her mask and turned off the EEG.

‘Farewell, sweet nurse,’ the rapstar's spirit kissed a tear on her cheek and slowly drifted through the ceiling, through the hospital roof, and into the beyond . . .

Steve Farrow, the rapstar who pissed down religion's leg, the recycling missionary, the leader of The Earthlings, was adored by millions of women . . . especially, other men's women – but not so especially by their men. Women yearned to wrap their arms around his neck. Men yearned to wrap their fingers around it – his epitaph could have read.

Poste Restante, The Void

‘AND THERRRE THEY GO . . .! The Unknown immediately takes the lead with the 10-1 favorite, Fear of Dying coming in fast on its heels. In third, Being Alone thundering in, and . . . OWW! The frisky Loss of Security just bucked its jockey off and is coming in – riderless – in fourth . . .!’

When it comes to Fear, medical bookies would certainly give 20 – 1 odds in favor of Fear of The Unknown; although Fear of Dying could very well beat it by a nose. But not to underestimate Fear of Being Alone which just might give them both a run for their money . . . or Fear of Loss of Security. Quite certain you’d put your money on other personal favourites, but upon careful study, you wouldn’t need Sherlock Holmes to deduce that they, genealogically, come from the same stable. Loss of security, of a loved one, or one’s material possessions translate to being alone or being left with nothing, which in turn translates to feelings of nothingness – emptiness’ kissing cousin. Dreading this emptiness within us, we try to fill it up with esoteric quests for meaning. The truth is – we are this nothingness, this emptiness that we fear. The sooner we accept this, the easier it will be for us to handle the mother of them all . . . The Fear of Dying.

The Unknown.

Going through the darkness of The Void, the Unknown’s PO Box, based on consistent documented reports by Astral travelers, is not quite the same as paying a quarter to have a good squeal in the Tunnel Of Horror . . . as Steve found out.

While going through the Void, an evil-looking entity encircled Steve like the IMF closing in on a third world country. Panicking, he invoked a protector’s name. A movie buff, he invoked Bruce Lee . . .

And Lenny Bruce appeared!

‘I know, I know,’ the comedian empathized. ‘It’s His idea of a joke. He doesn’t get enough up there. But don’t worry, I’ll handle this guy.’ The comic cracked his fist, did a few chops, a few kicks, even threw in a couple of sumo wrestler stomps, approached the entity hunched down looking like a constipated poodle, and addressed it:

‘Have you heard the one about – Unconditional love?’

‘Oh, no! Not that one again!’ panicked the entity.

‘How about – Oneness with the Universe?’

‘OH, NO! PLEASE, STOP!’ the entity covered its ears.

‘How about – Who you really are?’

‘ENOUGH! ENOUGH! I’M GOING!’ the entity shot off into a black hole.

home

Elvis Who?

Kauai, Hawaii . . . Rebecca watched four-year-old Jazz show her new toy to the potplant. She secretly felt a twinge of guilt regarding her daughter. From the day she crawled, she’d animatedly held court with the hoover, the doormat, her slippers, and for that matter, every object in the house; and squealed at every flower in the garden. At first, Rebecca found it cute. At age three, Jazz had lively chats with the toilet bowl and esoteric conversations with doorknobs. At age four, when children start to socialize, she started socializing with the neighbor’s apple tree. Rebecca, still with an approval issue, wasn't quite sure whether she found it cute then, especially when the day-care center informed her that Jazz spent most of her time with the potplants. Guilt-strings plucked, she threw a dart at Charlie, who was checking the waves with his binoculars. ‘Must've been all those mushrooms you indulged in, darling.’

However, Charlie – binoculars riveted to a topless sunbather – smirked and nailed her to the cross with ‘Remember your wagglies?’

That was what Rebecca's parents called it. She had a thing with strings when she was Jazz's age. She tranced epileptically when she wiggled them. She gave them names, chatted to them and dragged them everywhere she went.

‘If anybody could relate to her, it should be you, babe,’ chided Charlie. ‘You turned out just fine.’

Not so sure about that, mused Rebecca . . . born and bred in Yorkshire by an English couple whose watch ran out of batteries during the reign of Henry VIII. With her mother's father being a vicar, any kissing scenes and the telly was switched off. Parties, pop music and going to the cinemas were definitely no-nos. Dating, unthinkable. When she met Charlie, Rebecca was twenty-four, a virgin, generally clueless, and didn't know who Elvis Presley was.

It was for the latter that Charlie fell in love with her.

Charlie was one of those who made it before the DEA choppers swept the hills of Kauai for hidden marijuana plots, one of the lucky ones who made that one-last-run. Grateful as he was to the hills that supported his surfie lifestyle, he got a 100-year lease on a piece of the heavily forested hills behind his property. Charlie was twenty-four and had a forest, a cool beach pad, a cool wife, a cool and loopy daughter, and the coolest, most consistent left-break in Hanakapei right in front of his nose.

‘Don't go far into the woods, darling,’ Rebecca called out to Jazz who was swinging her little basket and hopping along after a rabbit.

‘Don't worry, babe. She's not alone,’ quipped Charlie. ‘She's got her potplant.’

Deep in the woods, Jazz hopped after a butterfly until it settled on a water-lily flower.

And that was when she saw it. It was swimming in the pond at the foot of the cliff. It swam towards her.

‘Hello,’ greeted Jazz.

‘Ca . . . can you see me?’ The startled nymphet didn't know which part of her nakedness to cover. She chose her face but peeked through her fingers.

Jazz nodded. ‘What's your name?’

‘I'm called Naomi.’ The nymphet hesitantly uncovered her face.

‘My name’s Jazz. And this is my friend, Danike.’ Naomi smiled and nudged noses with the wee fairie hovering over Jazz's potplant. Jazz joined in and they all giggled. ‘Where are your clothes?’

The pre-pubescent nymphet shrugged her shoulders.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Come, I'll show you,’ the nymphet daintily stepped out of the pond and glided towards the giant ferns at the base of the cliff. She slid behind the fern and slipped through a narrow slit of what appeared to be a cave. Leading Jazz by the hand, they reached a clearing within a few minutes. ‘Well, here we are! This is where I live.’

Jazz was all confused. ‘I’ve been here before . . . in my dreams. I don't understand.’ She looked around her. It was exactly as she dreamt: towering limestone cliffs surrounding an enchanted forest. Half embedded in the cliff was the same massive Banyan tree, spreading feathery branches festooned with hundreds of vine-like trailers. It canopied over an intriguing circle of twelve megalithic stones. Sloping down to the left and accented by a giant umbrella fern on its edge was a rock pool with lilies, hyacinths and lotuses. Pockets of ferns accessorized the walls of the cliffs. And lots of butterflies, just like in her dream. She expected to see elves, gnomes, fairies and nymphs, but did not expect to see the god of nature prancing around with a flute while everybody danced around him. Pan awed her. It was all too much for four-year-old Jazz. What was she to do? Run back home and hide under the bed?

Not little Jazz. Not little loopy Jazz. She squealed as she and Naomi ran to join the dancing.

‘Was that Jazz squealing?’ startled Rebecca back at the house.

‘No, babe,’ replied Charlie, ‘just the teakettle. I’m brewing some mushrooms. Want some?’

Barbecued Monk

Rebecca would probably describe it as a whimsical Rembrandt, but to Charlie, the sky that day looked more like a betel nut splat spat by a rickshaw-driver on the side of a cow grazing on the main street of Calcutta. And the onshore breeze was just not on. But the so-so swell that had as much guts as a gutted fish didn’t seem to dampen the enthusiasm of the hordes of Japanese who surfed the surf-meccas of Hawaii. Must've been at least fifty surfers fighting for the left-break in front of his house alone: barely 4-ft, with the gusty onshore blowing its head off.

He watched Taki, a notorious local, bop a Jap on the head after the tourist dropped in on His wave. And to aggravate the capital offense, for some weird reason, the Jap dove to the right of the obvious left-break, crashing into the 300-pounder who, surprisingly, just bopped him one. Any given day, he would’ve mashed the adulterer into sushi. Obviously, must've gotten some from his girlfriend this morning, mused Charlie.

‘Who are you gawking at now, you pervert?’ Rebecca teased Charlie, busy focusing his binoculars on the folks who’d moved into the property beside them.

‘Fancy car! Just like the guy who laundered my money.’ Charlie gave her a blow-by-blow: ‘She's upstairs . . . headed for the bathroom. She’s not wearing any . . .’ his voice strangled. ‘Hey, babe, wanna know her real hair color?’

‘Charlie! You pervert!’

‘Just kidding, babe,’ Charlie chuckled. ‘They’ve got a little boy. About Jazz’s age.’

‘That’s nice. Let’s invite them over for lunch.’

Charlie focused on the little boy in the garden, ‘And he seems to be . . . Well, I’ll be . . .! He’s talking to a bucket!’

Animated conversation with inanimates such as dialogues between winos and their parking meter buddies is, to a certain extent, tolerated by society. But the ones ten kilometers north of rational are frowned upon, classified and certified as delusionary schizoids and, quite often, institutionalized by their loved ones on the advice of psychiatrists. It’s not the purpose of this book to pick bones with psychiatrists as, like a gas station attendant or . . . a dentist, they do fill a need: the paramount and undeniably psychological importance of an ear. Now, if I could only find a q-tip . . .

‘Where do you go around here if you need a shrink?’ asked the new neighbor as he basted the chicken that Charlie was grilling.

‘To the nearest pub?’ quipped the tipsy Charlie.

Not the least bit amused, both women eyed their cackling husbands disapprovingly. ‘You think we should take our kids to see one?’ asked Rebecca – worriedly watching Jazz introduce the little boy to her potplant.

‘Our little Steve’s got this thing with water,’ confessed Steve’s mother as she watched her son introduce his little bucket to Jazz's potplant. ‘He carries that little bucket of his everywhere.’

Rebecca, worried that they might see her as the type who dragged a bagfull of wagglies, guiltily defused hereditary insinuations, ‘Nobody in my family had a case like Jazz. Heaven knows where it came from!’ Charlie started to say something but she pinched his bare leg.

‘Oww! I just wanted to announce that the chicken’s done!’

‘Sure looks like it,’ chortled Steve’s tipsy father on the furiously blazing chicken that resembled a demonstrating Burmese monk on fire.

‘What was that all about?’ Charlie quietly asked Rebecca after hosing down the monk’s carcass.

‘This huge ant was about to bite you,’ she coyly lied as she served Steve and Jazz a charred monk’s leg each. ‘It’s quite hot, you two. Don’t burn yourselves.’

Rebecca seriously reconsidered the shrink as they watched Jazz, a notch short of being certifiably loopy, offer the charred leg to her potplant.

Pots And Pan In Her Mind

It didn’t bother Jazz that her mother forbid her to talk to flowerpots in public when she turned eight. Nor did it bother her that everyone in school called her Loopy. What bothered her was not being allowed by Pan and the nymphs to join their hide’n’seek games in the caves. Overhearing some girls in school giggling about what grownups did bothered her even more so. Nobody loved to squeal more than she did. What did Pan do to make the nymphs squeal? she wondered. What am I missing out on?

She had Pan in her mind when she achieved the state of magnanimity at 14 and decided to give it away to a 15-year old boy she met while skiing in Switzerland. It was love at first sight for her and lust at first glance for him. Or was it the other way around? By the time he managed to close the door to his room, she’d already stripped off and hopped into bed. She could’ve washed her hair, done her nails and gone through college by the time he’d torn off his four layers of clothing, three pairs of socks, knee braces and three corn pads. It might’ve been less memorable if he hadn’t slipped on the puddle of his uncontrollable hormones that took the earlier flight as he drew down his underpants.

Back unconsummated from the ski holiday, she joined the Elemental feast in her secret forest. With Steve and Arthur surfing that day, she looked forward to a tussle with the god of nature. She pranced around the stone circle with the Elementals until Pan chased the squealing nymphs into the caves. Then, she tiptoed in. The smell of Pan in heat was like police brutality. You’d confess to any crime. It was punishing. It penetrated every corner of the maze. It violated every pore of your skin.

Jazz could hardly wait to be punished, penetrated and violated. A squeal jolted her from her libidinous pondering as Pan found one of the nymphs. The agonizing squeals of the nymph and Pan’s lusty bleating humidified the maze. Moisture dripped off the walls and between Jazz's thighs. Unlike the heroic Dutch boy who fingered the dyke to save his country, she slipped a finger under her skirt for a less patriotic mission. The lead finger, the one fronting the quintet, relentlessly swished – like one hand clapping . . . Swish, swish . . .

So preoccupied was she with the task at finger that she failed to notice Pan finish with the nymph. She almost ejected out of her skin when she felt a hand slip inside her partially unbuttoned blouse while the other slid underneath her skirt. Her hand immediately fled the scene of the crime as the intruder replaced the first shift.

‘Uhhh!’ she stifled a squeal as the intruding finger agonizingly swished.

‘Ohhh!’ she sucked in her breath when a scorching tongue replaced the second shift. The tongue, produced and directed by Jazz’s lower self, had the same script: swish, swish, it went. But after a while it adlibbed and swished up and down – like a religious minister’s underpants.

‘Oh, God!’ Jazz whimpered.

The tongue adlibbed and teasingly swirled around . . .

‘Oh, God . . . !’

And around . . .

‘Oh, my God . . .! Uhhh . . .! UHHHNN!’ Jazz’s young body convulsed spasmodically as the torturous tongue swirled around and around – like the three Irishmen screwing in a lightbulb.

‘OH, MY GOD! I’M CUMMING . . .! UHHN . . .!’ Her legs caved in. She sat splat on his tongue.

Head still swirling from the bulb-job, she held on to him as he lifted her, wrapped her still-twitching legs around his waist, and sat her on something that went ‘slish.’

‘OH, MY GOD!’ she sucked in her breath; almost choked on it. It was longer than a finger! Thicker than a tongue! It was . . .!

‘OH, MY GOD!’

Her seat ‘slished . . .’

‘UHHH . . .!’

And ‘slushed . . .’

‘UHHH . . .! UHHHNN . . .!’ she threw her head back and held on for dear life as the bull bucked wildly.

‘NGHRH . . .! UHNGHRKH . . .! UHRGJRGPNH . . .!’

Was that the bull groaning? Jazz frothing? A Tibetan monk on a headstand gargling? A mangy Balinese mongrel humping a tourist’s leg? A truckdriver priming for a spit?

‘I’M CUMMING . . .! I'M . . .! ARGHNJBNGKH . . .!’

Why, it’s only . . .!

‘STEVE . . .?!’ shrieked Jazz upon vocal recognition.

‘JAZZ?’ Steve croaked in F-sharp, and his wiki (that’s how Wikipedia calls it) shrunk microscopically and aborted its mission.

Both shocked, embarrassed and speechless, they froze in their Kama Sutra position (leapfrog schlepping cello?).

‘IS THAT YOU?’ Jazz strained to see in the darkness. ‘I thought you were out surfing?’

‘Jazz, you’re very naughty,’ he counter-attacked. ‘You shouldn’t be doing this!’

‘I didn’t do . . . this,’ she checkmated him. ‘You did!’

Inasmuch as he wanted to plead circumstantial, Jazz’s allegation did have grounds to pirouette on: the incriminating evidence, Exhibit A, after all, was still embedded into her, though microscopical.

And on its own accord, due to the consensual insinuation of the prosecution’s reply to the defendant’s allegation, Exhibit A started to throb.

Oh, God, please don’t do this to me, prayed Steve – thinking The Omnipotent