9/11 and the Canyons of Fire

By B. Burnett Brown

The 9/11 tragedy is foreseen by a former Viet Nam era prisoner of war, working in the Twin Towers for a prestigious Wall Street firm. He struggles to save his friends and himself from a coming disaster he doesnt understandand to simply keep a job that is becoming more and more ethically challenging. His struggle becomes infinitely more complicated as beings from his distant, forgotten past re-emerge in his life some requesting help, some to help, and some to confound and destroy. Ultimately, modern conceptions of time, reality, human
feeling and economics also find themselves under attack.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479730773

B. Burnett Brown

Bill Brown, an American by birth, a traveler of many roads, and a trained observer of the human condition, has lived in Thailand for the past 15 years. He is presently involved in the exploration of contemporary social and philosophical issues through books and characters that others have called fictional or semi-fictional. The present volume is simply a collection of articles about Thailand, and certain destinations in Thailand, which others requested him to write. Your comments, criticisms and observations are welcome at [e-mail]. A page on facebook is also maintained at “burnett brown.”

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Copyright © 2012 by B. Burnett Brown.

Library of Congress Control Number:         2012918925

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Contents

 Foreword

 Chapter One

 Chapter Two

 Chapter Three

 Chapter Four

 Chapter Five

 Chapter Six

 Chapter Seven

 Chapter Eight

 Chapter Nine

 Chapter Ten

 Chapter Eleven

 Chapter Twelve

 Chapter Thirteen

 Chapter Fourteen

 Chapter Fifteen

 Chapter Sixteen

 Chapter Seventeen

 Chapter Eighteen

 Chapter Nineteen

 Foreword

Those who have lived in New York City have often compared the walls of concrete and glass which tower above and around them to canyons. Like the canyons which nature has created, they are dark, deep and all encompassing . . . or so they can seem to the mortal beings who live their lives within their shadows. In fact, some have called it a shadow world. I have lived and worked in New York City, and I can say that these canyons are as dark, as deep and as encompassing as any which nature has made. And I know about canyons. All my life I have been surrounded by canyons . . . the canyons of Eastern Kentucky and West Virginia, where I grew up; the mountainous canyons of Korea and the walls of jungle in Vietnam, where I served in the military; and those of Colorado, where I simply worked. And then there was China, but that is a different story altogether. And so I know all about canyons. There are, however, canyons darker and deeper and more encompassing than even these . . . the canyons inside of us . . . the canyons of the human mind. Here, past, present and future can meet. Here, there can be confusion, destruction and death. Here, we can be separated forever from what we believe we once were and what we had hoped to be. But this need not be. Awareness, courage, and understanding also prowl these canyons. Within them, one can find the strength and wisdom to survive, even when the canyons of the world we thought were real and unchanging crash down around and on—us.

John William Barry

 Chapter One

WYAK . . . New York City’s 24 hour talk radio station: We join host Genevieve Washington as she interviews Doctor Brandon Gates about his current best seller, Having it all in the New Millennium.

Yes, Genevieve, it’s never been a better time for America or to be an American. Money is free, houses are free, and the Internet brings us everything we need to know. If you are listening to this broadcast and you aren’t a millionaire, it’s your own damn fault!!

Well, Doctor Gates, you make it all sound so easy. Are you going to tell us the secret, or do we have to buy your book to find out how to be rich?

Genevieve, you gotta realize that we are living in a new age of human development and the laws of classical economics which governed the previous era are simply no longer valid. They have been succeeded by a new paradigm, the paradigm of unlimited opportunity. What is needed to be successful in this new era is a new morality. That’s what I try to help readers develop in my new book.

"Well, Doctor Gates . . . ." click . . . .

*     *     *

‘No, I can’t handle any new morality crap so early in the morning. The old morality is difficult enough to handle,’ I thought to myself as I clicked my headset off. No sooner had I done this, than I heard or sensed something. I looked up.

A short, stringy haired blond, a file in one hand and a coffee mug in the other, was peering through the open door of my cubicle. It was Alice. She was a perennial morning visitor and I always enjoyed chatting with her a few minutes.

Oh, hi Bill, she chirped. How are you today? Did you have a nice weekend?

I looked up from my monitor, and greeted her. Of course, I was fine, or so I said. After all, we are always ‘fine’ when others ask us that question, or so we politely say.

Well, Bill, if you are fine, why do you look so unhappy? she inquired.

I laughed. She was pretty good at seeing through facades . . . Very good, in fact. Since she asked . . . I guess I would tell her!!

Well . . . I just finished my weekly appraisal conference with ‘the Squire,’ I answered, referring to Mr. Squires, our section manager and a vice president of our employer, the Wall Street firm of Pierpont Brothers Investment and Financial Services. Then, I told her all the things he had . . . told me . . .

He told me my numbers were down in all categories, particularly in the collateralized mortgage bonds. He told me I had to push them more or I would be the first investment broker on the Moon . . . and he told me the only reason I was here with Pierpont Brothers was because of the company affirmative action program for people like me . . . He told me I should be working in Twin Peaks, not the Twin Towers . . . .

Oh, he didn’t really say those things, did he? she interrupted. ‘People like you?’ Sometimes, ‘Squirrelly’ is just so mean. Did you know that last week he told me that if I didn’t shape up, he was going to send me back to Munchkinville where I could find a new career as a movie extra . . . ? she laughed.

Yeah, I replied a little sleepily, shaking my head but trying to smile. He’s just a real scream . . . the life of the party!

I would have continued but Alice was busy today. She was on the way to a meeting and didn’t have time to chat. She left me some sort of . . . pastry or dessert . . . she had cooked over the weekend and was then on her way.

See you tomorrow, Bill, she said as she departed . . . . Don’t let the bastards get you down!!

‘Yeah,’ I thought as I told her to break a leg, trying to use authentic, idiomatic, New York City communication to indicate my growing sophistication in the ways of the Big Apple.

Then, before I could get back to my monitor, Jerry was through my door. An Italian-tall, dark and handsome—and a New Yorker by birth, Jerry was movie star material. He also dropped by most mornings to pass time.

So, Bill, do you want in on the Mets-Cardinals office pool? he asked.

No, Jerry, I replied as I shook my head. I’m tired of losing money on the Cardinals.

He laughed, too, as he sat in my one comfortable chair, my yard sale special, which Alice and I had bought for my important guests.

Don’t feel too bad about it. That son of a bitch, ‘JD,’ upstairs wins most of them. I think he’s using the algorithms he developed for the market to pick his winners, he told me with a smile and a sigh.

At least they’re good for something . . . and he’s good for something! I couldn’t help but throw in as I laughed and Jerry joined in. We didn’t like JD much. No one did. Then, he noticed my computer screen.

Hey, what’s this? The Wild West? Are you thinking of getting a new job as a cowboy or something? Can you even ride a horse? he asked.

I was a little embarrassed. I was looking at Arizona landscapes and ghost towns before I got down to more serious business. And no, I could not ride a horse. I don’t think I had ever even seen a horse, face-to-face, except, perhaps, for some I worked with.

Uh . . . well . . . . maybe I’m exploring all my options, I told him in a deadpan kind of way.

Jerry smiled and seemed genuinely concerned.

What? Bill, you can’t leave this tower. Too many people here like you too much! he told me . . . sounding sincere!

They do? was all I had time to say.

Before we could talk more, Jill, one of our coworkers—tall, dark haired and regally attractive—came into my cube. She greeted us and then proceeded to pass on messages.

Jerry? Jill began, They asked me to tell you that Sheik Omar has just entered the building and will be here to meet you in fifteen to twenty minutes. You should probably get ready. That might be a good idea.

Jerry just smiled at the subtle hint and departed, chuckling about how he had such a personal touch with sheiks. Then, Jill turned to me . . .

Bill, you have a walk-in today. An Indian Chief, Mr . . . . uh . . . He Who Walks With Buffaloes and Flies With Eagles . . .

She was laughing by the time she stumbled through the potential client’s name. It seemed that the potential client represented some of the Indian—or Native American—tribes or tribal groups in the Southwestern United States and that they were looking for somewhere to park their money.

Looks like a winner! Now, to see JD, she said rather unenthusiastically as she hastily departed—always in a hurry and on the go, she never had the time, or the interest, for small talk with Jerry, Alice or me. Today, however, I had detected in her voice some interest, surprise and/or curiosity as to how I had managed to receive a referral to such a potentially valuable account.

I began to study the data sheet she had given me. Yes, this might have some potential I thought as I wondered—like Jill apparently wondered—why Mr. Squires had given it to me. He wasn’t usually so generous.

‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘never stare a gift horse in the mouth.’ This was certainly much better and easier than making random phone calls from telephone books, or making calls to little old ladies whose husbands had just died. If Jerry had a way with sheiks, well, maybe I could have a way with Indian chiefs.

I struggled to straighten up and arrange my cubicle correctly before the client arrived. It was okay for me—some folding chairs, a couple of tables, two computer monitors and keyboards, books and printouts, and some plants—but for some reason I felt self conscious about it today. And I really wished I had a window! But, before I could do much preparation, my guest had arrived.

I was not a short man but my visitor was two to three inches taller than me, and quite slim and, seemingly, fit. He appeared to be in his 50s or 60s . . . but it was kind of hard to tell. He wore a gray business suit and one of those Western style, stringy, turquoise neckwear . . . things. His long, white hair was neatly braded. He smiled. I smiled. All I could do was extend my hand, invite him in and offer him my one comfortable chair, the one Jerry had been sitting in a moment earlier.

Nice to meet you, Chief . . . I mean Mr. He Who Walks With . . . I began before he interrupted me and laughed.

‘Chief’ is just fine, he said. All my friends call me Chief. Or you can just call me Geronimo or Thomas if you like! When I was in school, my teachers called me Thomas . . . but Chief is just fine. It sounds good!

I liked the Chief. He was friendly and easy to talk to. He explained in clear, easy to understand language exactly what he wanted. I tried rather half heartedly to go through the company sales pitch before he stopped me in my tracks as he looked at me. For just a split second, I was speechless. I actually could not speak even though I tried. In another instant, I just didn’t care about the company sales pitch anymore.

Just don’t worry about that stuff, the Chief said, as though reading my thoughts. I’ve heard it all before . . . . We know what we want and we know we want you to help us. We selected you because we want you. You’re the right man to help us with this project.

I felt my head and heart swell, but before I could ask why I was the right man for ‘this project,’ and as he prepared to leave, he offered me a gift.

Here, he said as he handed me a small charm and silver chain. Please accept this token and wear it around your neck, especially when you sleep. It has a long history and brings wisdom and understanding. It will help open your eyes to many things . . . many things.

I held the charm in my hand. It was lovely . . . a small crystal encrusted in silver and turquoise, and attached to a hand wrought silver chain. As I handled it, and felt it move around in my palm, my body felt something clean and pure moving pleasantly within. The tattoos on my upper body and arms—lovely red, green, yellow and blue textured etchings of Asian Gods, deities, spirits and animals I couldn’t begin to comprehend—seemed to stir. I imagined that they were moving, almost dancing. I also felt other unusual and difficult to describe—but not unpleasant—sensations. I was so transfixed on its beauty, and on the sensations that it seemed to be generating inside of me, that I really didn’t hear or consider the remarks the Chief made about ‘wisdom and understanding,’ or its ability to open eyes.

For a moment, I just savored the comfortable feeling the charm appeared to be generating inside me. Then, I felt embarrassment. I realized I had nothing worthy to offer in return. I certainly did not want to insult the Chief by offering him an 8 by 10 glossy picture of Mortimer Pierpont and I didn’t have any more calendars. After all, it was already August, 2001. I finally took my gold encrusted pen from my upper shirt pocket and offered it to him. He just smiled and shook his head.

Please accept my gift, I insisted. Please . . .

No, no, no . . . I appreciate your kindness, he said, as he took the pen from me, looked at it a moment, and then handed it back to me. But I think you might need it. You have work to do!!

I nodded, and as the chief prepared to leave, he promised that we would get down to serious business the next time we met. As he walked toward the exit, he took a glance at my computer monitor—the one with the travelogue items—and casually added:

Oh, you are interested in Mesa Blancas Canyon . . . Have you ever been there? It’s magnificent . . . but at night it is something else entirely. I hope you go there one day! But only during the light of day.

 Chapter Two

WYAK, New York City’s 24 hour talk radio station. We join host Johnny Johnson as he interviews noted philosopher and academic Robert Townsend:

"Doctor Townsend, I believe we were talking about credit . . ."

"Yes, Johnny, it never ceases to amaze me how people are always waving that plastic around wherever I go. It doesn’t matter what the product is . . . apples, aardvarks or automobiles. The plastic is always there."

Well, Doctor Townsend, do you consider that a problem?

Yes, I think it’s a problem if people can’t pay for what they put on credit. And I think this is the reality in which we live.

"Doctor Townsend, would you say that Americans are simply too materialistic and want too much; and that they simply can never get enough . . . can never buy enough?"

Johnny, there’s a degree of truth in that but I think the explanation is much more complex. You know that for the past many years, Americans have been socialized and told by every major institution in society, with the possible exception of religion, that they were born to have what can be called the ‘California life style.’ They actually believe they’re entitled to it. It’s almost considered a human right, something that was preordained before the foundations of time. People believe that this lifestyle is normal. Unfortunately, only a small number of people in our society, such as government employees, defense personnel, financial whizzes, auto workers and so forth can actually afford it without resorting to plastic.

Doctor Townsend, would you say that most Americans are living in a dream?

"Johnny, once again I think that to say people are simply sharing a collective dream is too simple. There’s an underlying reality here. But, it’s also true that this reality or dream is unrealistic, and will certainly end. It can’t continue. The people of the world can’t continue to pay for this dream. And that’s how it works . . . the people of other countries pay, directly or indirectly, one way or the other, so we can live the dream. And when people wake up from this consumptionist dream . . . when it ends, well . . . there will be Hell to pay . . . not only the banks!!"

"Uh, Doctor Townsend, could you explain what you mean when you say that it’s the people of the world who pay, one way or . . ."

*     *     *

New York City is hot as Hell in the late months of summer . . . well, almost, anyway. Rather than battle our ways home to our Northern New Jersey apartments at the height of rush hour, Alice and I would often have something to eat nearby and wait for the traffic to thin out and the temperature to cool down a little. We sometimes went to the Mall, the underground shopping center more or less beneath the Twin Towers. It was a ritual we enjoyed doing together.

Look, Bill, Monsignor LaBueuff’s is certainly packing them in today, Alice said, a degree of disbelief and disapproval in her voice as she pointed to the high end sea food and beef restaurant across from our destination.

Yeah, I know. I can’t quite understand how so many people come up with the money, I replied.

We can’t even afford the special. Three hundred dollars is a lot of money, even for a special . . . especially for a special, I said as I pointed to the tasteful, eye catching sign by the door.

Speak for yourself, she said with a subtle smile, and then asked me more seriously, Bill, do you think it’s wrong that a restaurant charges so much for food?

Well, I said as I shrugged. It certainly seems that a lot of people have the money, at least around here.

Yes, but most don’t . . . Most people don’t even have enough for the bottled water, she responded.

There is something wrong, I think, I said in agreement after a moment’s contemplation. Maybe, even if people do have the money, something is still wrong; something’s out of balance. But . . . I don’t think I’m in any position to put it to a test. I’ve never been able to view things from the other side, so . . . that’s one we’ll just to leave a ‘maybe.’

I think the old saying about some people having more dollars than ‘cents’ is true, she said as she frowned and pointed toward our destination. But that still doesn’t make it right or okay.

Yeah, I said with a grunt and a nod as we neared 7-11.

Well, 7-11 is still here, thank God. Let’s get our hotdogs and try to find a bench!! And don’t worry about the chili . . . I brought some from home . . . my special recipe, she said, looking pleased with herself.

The line at 7-11 was fairly long, not surprisingly, and after 15 or 20 minutes or so, we got our hotdogs and retired to a nearby bench to enjoy them, along with her homemade chili. As we sat and ate them, we waved to Jerry and his dinner guest, possibly Sheik Omar, as they entered Monsignor LaBueuff’s. Jerry just gave us a ‘Gee, I don’t really want to do this’ look and waved back. I made a joke about Jerry loving the Madagascar lobster and then I pointed to a small mark next to the bench.

Look at that, Alice. Do you know what that is? I asked.

Uh . . . it looks like a chalk mark, Bill. So what? she responded. So, what do you think it is?

Well, Alice. This mark just didn’t appear from out of the blue, you know, I teased. Someone made it. It seems that someone is studying the layout down here . . . Surveying this place. I bet if we walk to that clothing boutique up there . . . Uh, the expensive one, the one we can’t afford to go into, we’ll find another one.

After we finished our hotdogs and cokes we walked slowly—Alice was in her high heels—up to the boutique and, sure enough, we found another mark. Then, I pointed to the toilet up the corridor.

Now wait a minute, Alice said. How do you know about all this stuff? Anyway, it doesn’t mean anything. I mean, the City or the Authority or the Feds or anyone could have put these marks here. These marks don’t prove anything at all. What do you think they mean?

I mean, anyone can come down here . . . anyone. I sure would like to have a look at the camera tapes, I said as I pointed toward a security camera. It could be real interesting.

Well, there’s no chance of that, Alice said. So just forget it . . . So, how do you know about marks and this stuff, anyway?

Alice, I was in the military . . . even if I can’t really remember much about it . . . I think, I said slowly. And I think someone’s watching and making notes. The question is . . . who, and why?

Bill, do you really think someone’s watching? Alice asked skeptically. Why would anyone other than shoppers or storeowners . . . or tax collectors be interested in this place?

Alice, didn’t someone try to blow this place up a few years ago? I asked.

Yeah, in 1993, she responded. Just a bunch of amateurs who didn’t know their asses from . . . .

Don’t you think it’s possible someone might try again? I mean, a lot of people consider this place to be the symbol of everything bad in the world! I said.

As to that, Alice replied, I might agree, but I’m not going to lose any sleep over what a few crazies out there could do only in their wildest dreams. Don’t worry about it . . . Don’t worry about the wrong stuff. There’s better stuff to worry about if you want to worry . . . she said.

Like what? I asked, trying to joke with her.

Like your lousy numbers! she shot back. You don’t want to be the first financial account representative on the Moon, do you? So, what do you do in your cube all day, anyway?

Okay, okay, I said as I waved my hands in surrender. We walked toward our transportation. Enough time had passed. Now, we could go home without feeling like we were in a buffalo stampede.

I’m sorry, I heard a smallish voice say as we walked along. I didn’t mean it, okay? I hope you have a nice night.

That’s okay, Alice. No problem, I said with a smile. And it wasn’t a problem, either. The Moon, I thought, might provide a nice change of scenery.

*     *     *

Tonight, I was giving a fairly typical Your Future and Your Financial Security presentation in a Northern New Jersey high school, not too far from my apartment. I tried to blend the canned presentation materials all representatives were encouraged to use along with my own additions, and humorous stories and anecdotes. A hundred or so interested people, mainly teachers and municipal government employees, listened. I was drawing near the end, which was fine with me. There were a lot of things about my job I didn’t like, but this was probably the part that I liked the least, although, I guess, I liked meeting some of the people. The tattoos I carried on my upper body and arms always ached and itched—no matter how good or bad my actual presentation was—until I finished.

And tonight was even worse than usual. The Chief’s amulet was burning a hole in my chest. It seemed to be saying, shut up. I found myself losing my trend of though as I shifted back and forth to the Arizona and New Mexico travel materials I had been reviewing online . . . But I persisted. I had this piece of kitsch down pretty good. I could do it in my sleep.

Well ladies and gentlemen, I concluded. We live in the land of opportunity, and opportunity’s never been greater than it is today. I can help you achieve the security and financial wellbeing you seek. I can show you how to retire by the age of 50 . . . or sooner!! I can show you how to get houses virtually free, get second mortgages on them, and then reinvest the income into mortgage backed securities . . . all the while you make extra money renting your houses out!!!!! And you’ll be helping create employment for your fellow citizens, helping other people have nice places to live and helping to make you country really strong and great . . . .

And with these immortal words, I was finished. I felt like I had done a good job. I didn’t see problems with what I had said or promised. To the best of my knowledge, I hadn’t promised anyone anything unreasonable. I asked for questions. The first was from an older lady sitting in front of the audience.

Mr. Barry, may I ask if you have actually used your own strategy to get rich? my listener asked.

I was prepared and had a pat answer for her . . .

Well, Ma’am, as you know, I’m from Eastern Kentucky. We live in log cabins there and so I’ve been looking for a good log cabin to buy in New York . . . but I can’t find any!!!! So, no, I haven’t bought any property, yet. But, I do invest my money in other ways, and I can share those with you if you’d like me to.

The audience roared with laughter. My audience always appreciated this humorous aside, and I felt a sense of satisfaction in hearing everyone laugh. Things went smoothly until an average sized man, apparently of Middle Eastern descent—he was wearing a white cap and had a long, black, bushy beard—stood up and asked or stated:

Mr. Barry, are you aware that your firm supports dictatorships and totalitarian governments throughout the world? That these governments could not exist if it weren’t for firms like yours? Are you aware firms like yours are being used by your government to provide false prosperity to its citizens because its economy is really just a big nothing? Are you aware that firms like yours are leading us to financial Armageddon? And that this will result in the real Armageddon? The real thing?

This type of question or statement was unsettling not only because it diverted me from my purpose, but also because it troubled me ethically and morally, at least sometimes. I really didn’t understand the big picture. I had no idea how the activities of firms like mine, and the government, affected the rest of the world. I accepted what I was told by my managers and by society itself, mainly that everyone benefited, but I was beginning to have doubts. Fortunately, these situations didn’t happen very often as people such as this man just didn’t bother to attend these presentations. I simply did the best I could to respond to him in a truthful, sincere and polite way.

Uh . . . Well, no Sir, I said. I don’t know anything about these things. I just know that I am helping people gain financial security and to perhaps become homeowners. I’m helping people prepare for their retirement years. And I’m helping to create employment for other Americans and make a stronger economy.

The audience applauded my comments and I felt better.

The last question was more to my liking. A young lady, overcome with the enthusiasm of the moment, informed me that she wanted to invest everything she had in our plan. She asked for details. While I was very concerned about my numbers and commissions, this kind of response to my presentation also unsettled me. I didn’t understand the little picture either. I had fallen into this job largely by chance and I really didn’t understand what I was selling, except inasmuch as the managers explained things to me. I assumed all was correct and proper because our firm was regulated by the United States Government and by the State of New York.

As time was passing, however, I was becoming less and less confident that things were as they seemed. I certainly didn’t want this woman, or anyone else, to invest large sums of money, or money they simply could not afford to lose, in the narrow range of financial products I was encouraged and pushed to sell. I tried to steer all but the most adventurous into what appeared the most credit worthy items—government securities and triple and double A rated bonds—but I was becoming skeptical even of these.

Good lady, I promise you that I’ll help you create a balanced portfolio that will survive the ups and downs that life may bring, and help you make some good income as well, I told her, speaking truthfully and sincerely.

I wanted the best for her and anyone who I did business with and that was the truth. I would never knowingly deceive someone into buying something I considered risky, dangerous or foolish. I made an appointment to see the young lady latter in the week, along with a few others.

My presentation seemed to have been a success. I had found some folks interested in investing. I should have felt pleased, and part of me was pleased, but my tattoos had given me a fit. I knew something was not right. I thought about the questions the Middle Eastern man had asked me . . . or what he had told me. I had to consider that there was a possibility that he might be correct, or at least partially correct. But it was all really too complicated for me. If he was right . . . Well, the consequences were just more than I could mentally fathom. Yet, I could not escape the bad, crippling feeling that I might be leading others into a bad way I sincerely did not want to lead them or see them go in. I considered that perhaps I should return to other forms of employment I had done in my life. After all, I was a pretty good automobile and motorcycle mechanic, too.

‘When it’s time, it’ll be time, so, we’ll see . . . ’ I thought.

*     *     *

Another difficult day had come to an end . . . finally. I lay in my small bed in my small, 3rd story bedroom studying some office memos while I listened to the late night news on my old TV. I had wanted to catch up on the latest developments in the rapidly unfolding Enron scandal—Enron was a Texas-based company that sold and bartered energy and commodities, and was also extensively involved in unethical and criminal activities—but instead found myself listening to The NCN cable news channel public service special about the travails of beautiful, young, white women in Arab prisons, and the efforts of their heroic mothers to free them. It had lost its allure, if it ever had any to begin with, and I yawned as I listened to in-house advertisements promising viewers more hard hitting specials to help us get the news we ‘really want to know.’ I got out of bed, walked over to the TV, and turned it off, thinking maybe I should get the remote control fixed. Then, I considered that maybe I should just throw it out the window! I opened the large bedroom window to its maximum, risking the wrath of the late summer mosquitoes—but, of course, I didn’t actually do it as I sometimes watched baseball and old movies.

Then, I looked at the charm the Chief had given me. I had worn it during daylight hours but I had a thing about wearing jewelry at night, so I would put it on my dresser on a piece of blue velvet. There, I could admire its beauty. And there, it had rested while I slept. But tonight, I picked it up and slipped it over my head and down onto my neck. This night, I would wear it while I slept, just like the Chief had suggested I do. ‘Why not?’ I said to myself.

As I reclined in bed enjoying the relatively cool, late night, summer air, dodging an occasional mosquito, and waiting for sleep to come, I reviewed the events of the previous day. I gently caressed my crystal. Perhaps, I liked it too much. I did not remotely consider if it would in any way affect my sleep. I simply appreciated its beauty, its pleasing touch and the sense of wellbeing it gave me. And, as time passed, I did feel the same sense of wellbeing that I felt in waking hours when I had worn the crystal. Eventually, as I felt sleep approaching, I heard a soft, steady clicking sound. Whether I was already asleep, well, I had no idea—and have no idea—but I simply listened as the clicking merged or turned into a buzzing noise. This was definitely strange, but I was not alarmed and I was not afraid. Somehow, everything seemed just right.

I might have already been asleep. I just felt myself following the sounds, which seemed to be working like some sort of directional signal. I felt them lead me into and through a fine yellowish or golden mist that became increasing heavy and thick. It seemed to cling to me, and eventually, seemed to become a part of me . . . And I seemed to become part of the mist as, at least temporarily, shape and form seemed to become totally irrelevant and simply unreal. Finally, after what seemed to have been a long time, the mist cleared and I found myself in a most extraordinary place . . . a place both I and the tattoos upon my arms, shoulders and upper chest remembered very well. It was a place called Peaceful Valley.

Deep in the remote mountains of Western China, this was a place where I had resided for ten years when, technically, I had been a prisoner of war. To me, however, it had not been a prison. Even though now I could not remember much about it during my waking hours, I could feel—and thereby know—this place as a place of sustenance, growth, friendship, and enlightenment. It was a place where I had been born again . . . even if I couldn’t remember. I walked over trails and breathed deeply of the fresh, clean air. I followed a stream to a hill and, from this hill; I looked down upon the Monastery of the Valley. The beings or etchings attached to my body seemed to rejoice as together we beheld this wonderful place. I wasn’t, however, to actually enter this blessed place now, nor would I ever again. That was the rule. In an instant, I found myself at another location, on a plateau high up in the mountains from the Valley.

I stood next to a large, deep and mysterious lake. It was night and a million stars lit the sky. I looked around the lake and saw tall trees and strange rock formations along the shoreline. I observed mountain peaks in the distance, and nearer were large hills which sloped down to the lake. The ground around the lake, and the surrounding trees, were covered with snow, but I was not cold.

Although I had no awareness of myself as a distinct being, I—or something that resembled me—was in the water, and there was a feeling of pleasant warmth. I saw occasional deer along the lake. They seemed to take no account of me. I also saw a large, white cat or tiger of some kind. Whereas, others might have been afraid, I felt no sense of danger. We simply looked at each other. I actually thought it reached its paw into the water to splash me in fun.

For what seemed like several hours, I played in the water, enjoying its gentle warmth. I reveled in the feel of the cool, winter air caressing me . . . this sure as Hell was a welcome change from New York City in summer!! I felt wonder as I watched the heavens shift. I smiled as I imagined the deer were smiling at me. I enjoyed the company of the large, white cat. It also seemed to be smiling at me. And then, as dawn approached, I got out of the lake—why, I don’t know—and begin moving down a nearby path. And then, I felt the rays of morning sunshine. Then, as warm rays of sunshine cascaded through the window of my small apartment, hitting me in the face, I woke up. All I could say to myself was WOW!

This night of sleep had been a great experience. I looked at the clock and considered going back to sleep but resisted the impulse. I forced myself to get up and prepare for the unpleasant trip from the suburbs into work.

As I prepared for my stimulating trip into New York City, I tried to reconstruct my dream. I thought and I thought, ‘I recognize that place, I know it. I’ve been there before . . . but when? And where is this place?’ I did not know and could not remember . . . I quickly found myself loosing the specific content of my dream. My recollections were quickly fading or already gone. I retained feelings and residues of feeling, but nothing more. My dream simply became a pleasant feeling. And, I had no answers.

But I knew that being wherever it was I had been, even if only in a dream, sure beat working in the Twin Towers. I caressed the charm the Chief had given me. And, I was already looking forward to my next session, or time in dreaming, when I hoped I could continue these pleasant experiences.

Dreams are dreams are dreams . . . except, maybe, when they aren’t.

*     *     *

Tonight, I went to bed a little late, tired from a long day and from another of the seemingly endless presentations required of me. I looked forward to the peace and tranquility I had found in my last few nights of sleep, and to the power and feeling of wellness I seemed to have been accumulating since I had met the Chief . . . and since I had begun wearing the charm he gave me when I slept.

Tonight, however, was different, although things began in the same way. I felt sleep approach me, as though it was some kind of entity or being. I heard—and felt—the soft clicking and the buzzing sounds I was becoming accustomed to. I felt the coolness in the air that heralded the mist and fog. When the fog lifted, however, I was not in the location I had been in during my previous dreams . . . or in any place that I recognized. I was in a different place altogether.

I felt a burning sensation in my eyes and then realized I was in a very large, extremely well lit, and ornate room . . . complete with a high ceiling and sets of finely crafted double doors, heavy drapes and carpeting, dark wood paneling, and exquisitely sensitive chandeliers. A rather large man, clean shaven, dressed in dark, pinstriped trousers and a black frockcoat, stood on a raised platform and spoke with intensity and passion to the assembled group of 100 or so people . . . people who also appeared quite well dressed and groomed, although not exactly in tune with current New York fashions. I listened from a vantage point in back of the room.

"It’s not easy for me to admit I was wrong, but if the President of the United States can’t admit to making mistakes, then who can? I have been misled. I have been mistaken. Things aren’t right in our country or the world. Our democratic, human values are threatened. The world is in danger. Evil forces are at work trying to