The Devolution of Man

By Loren Psaltis

The question "Where do we come from?" may never be answered. But "Why do we exist? that is my interest.

Humanity has become a tribe of production and consumption. But for a small percentage of enlightened thinkers through history, the likes of Albert Einstein, Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., Leonardo da Vinci, Fibonacci, Isaac Newton, Rumi, Nikolai Tesla, Socrates, Jesus, Mohammed, Siddhartha Gautama and their peers, for the greater part of human history, we have steadily devolved into a race of slavery to a system that has led us to disease, depression, debt, war and poverty for the majority of the world's population.

I have a theory, after many years of studying what ancient cultures knew, to the systems we now have devolved to create, that happiness, health, wealth, good fortune, long life, love and joy are easily achieved. Our birthright in fact. And there is a way back, accessible to all. It is time to know why we exist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781499065091

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Copyright © 2014 by Loren Psaltis. 669339

ISBN:     EBook       978-1-4990-6509-1

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.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 03/05/2015

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This book is

dedicated to Ari Psaltis, who for the past 30 years has been my life partner and my finest example of human integrity. To my mother, for her unconditional love, her tireless dedication to me and my sister, and her unfailing support of my every endeavor. To Photi Loupis, my best friend, for perfect wisdom, thousands of hours of philosophical conversation, and my tutor of zen. To Dr. Shino Bay Aguilera, my soul mate, a light worker, and the one who changed my life by showing me the meaning of consciousness. To Dr. Leonel Calderon, for his brilliance, his insights, knowledge and devoted friendship. To each one of these people, I am eternally grateful for their part in my journey.

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"There

comes a time, for every one of us, uniquely our own moment, and by way of our singular existence, that every man and every woman questions their purpose, their identity, and their destiny."

- Alex Haley

If you were to imagine heaven, what would it be? Religious texts make reference to The Garden of Eden and The Land of Milk and Honey. If I were to imagine heaven, it would be a place where there were forests of millions of trees in every shade of green, majestic mountains surrounding valleys of corn, wheat and vines, and a carpet of soft grass to prickle and tickle my feet as I walk. Fields of flowers in every shape and color, each more beautiful than the next, filling the air with fragrance. Growing in amongst the flowers, herbs of lavender, rosemary, thyme, chamomile, peppermint, and sweet basil. Plants bursting with nutrients and medication for every ailment. A never-ending supply of fresh fruits, plump and full of delicious juices, and vegetables of bright color loaded with vitamins and nourishment. An animal kingdom where magnificent elephant, lion, cheetah, panther, leopard, and tiger inspire awe with their strength and beauty, antelope and gentle deer, zebra and chimpanzee to delight, sloths and koalas, polar bears and grizzly bears, where foxes and wolves roam and play and reproduce in perfect harmony. Birds filling the skies, beautiful feathers spread as they soar overhead, from sparrows to nightingales, hawks and eagles, exotic birds of paradise with unimaginable color schemes from pastels to iridescent hues, calling and singing crystal clear, sweet and haunting. Oceans, seas, rivers, and lakes rich with marine life, sharks, whales, and dolphins exploding out of the water in breathtaking demonstration of power and grace, tropical fish with otherworldly bright colored patterns darting in between coral reefs of yet more astounding color, starfish and jellyfish, neon in sun-dappled turquoise waters. The earth beneath my feet filled with treasures, literally walking on gold, platinum, silver, copper, bronze, diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, semiprecious stones of tiger’s eye, quartz, amethyst, turquoise, onyx, and moonstone. A gentle blue sky overhead full of pure white, fluffy clouds, where a giant ball of fire rises magically every day to warm me, give me light, and provide me with energy and dips down every evening in a sunset masterpiece of radiance across the sky to bid me farewell for the day. The darkness of night revealing millions of bright, twinkling stars like diamonds on black velvet. Where rain falls, and snow falls, winds blow, and breezes caress. Where hens lay eggs, and cows give milk, and bees make honey … If I were to imagine?

And if I had it, would I pour concrete and black tar over the grasses and plants? Would I cut down the trees and replace them with bricks and mortar, excavate the treasures to own and control? Invade, fight, and kill others to amass more? Would I destroy the habitat of the animals and pollute the waters of the fish? Would I fill the skies with poisonous gases and make the rain into acid that the fruits lose their flavor and the vegetables their nutrients and turn the sun, a friendly source of energy, light and, warmth, into the enemy to burn and scorch the earth?

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I did not know I had been shot. Perhaps the adrenaline prevented the transmission of the message from my brain to my right leg, and so I leapt out of the car and chased my assailant down the street. It was a Saturday morning in downtown Johannesburg. The main street where I was stopped at a stoplight in the midst of morning traffic was bustling with shoppers making their way amongst the cars. The gunman smashed the passenger window with his weapon, and as I turned, I saw the gun in his hand. I snatched up my automatic CZ83 which was, as always, nestled between my legs, handle facing up and barrel facing outward, thirteen bullets, twelve in the magazine, one in the chamber, safety off. I reacted instinctively and fired first, wounding him in the shoulder. He fired back as he recoiled away from the car. I jumped out of the vehicle and gave chase. I lost him in the crowd. The ensuing chaos, the bystanders, arrival of the police and ambulance created a memorable scene which would have worked well in any action movie. I had sustained a flesh wound, the amount of bleeding far more impressive than the actual injury.

Over the next few years, I would be looking into the barrel of a gun or being shot at on four more occasions during three carjackings and a home invasion. My husband would also suffer a serious gunshot wound during an armed robbery at our business. For most people this would induce some form of PTS, and I was advised on every occasion to seek trauma counselling. I declined, believing I had it all under control. I was surprised then to discover that one after the other, I became progressively more anxious. I never did take up the advice of counseling and dealt with the issues in my own way. I went through the anger, the fear, the frustration, and vulnerability that comes from looking into a person’s eyes who has a gun in your face, has no idea who you are, does not care, and for whom your life has no value. It is amazing to me now that I have nothing but sincere and pure gratitude to every single one of those people who threatened my life. I owe them the most incalculable debt of thanks, for without them I know I would not have been able to take this incredible journey of discovery.

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I thought I was happy, blissful actually, in love with the most extraordinary man in the world. We had the mansion, the sports cars, the glamorous vacations in five-star hotels in every great city: The Plaza in New York, Caesars Palace in Vegas, The Beverly Hills Hotel, The Grande Bretagne in Athens, Claridge’s in London, The Ritz in Paris, and The Danieli in Venice. We visited Gucci and Versace, Prada and Louis Vuitton and took away many packages from each. We were young, in our twenties, to have all this, probably the best time! Having come from humble beginnings, both my husband and I were having the experience of our lives. The success had come from hard work and building a great company. Looking back with the 20/20 clarity of hindsight, I truly was happy.

Knowing what I know now, it is the definition of happiness that has changed. What I have come to feel authentically, with all that I have learned, is that happiness from external sources while totally gratifying and satisfying, is not and can never be fulfilling. There is always another goal, more money, a newer car, the latest trendiest vacation hot spot, the new must-have-it bag. The list is endless. And when do you have it all? Never. Not the richest on the rich list. You cannot have every new thing, you cannot travel to every new place, and you cannot own all the yachts, all the jewels, all the great homes, all the sports cars, every latest accessory of every season, and every new piece of technology. And as soon as you own the top-of-the-line or the state-of-the-art latest model of anything, they bring out a new version very often before you have paid off the last one. You cannot be beautiful forever. Vanity is soul destroying; there will always be someone younger, more gorgeous. Every supermodel gets replaced. Miss World hands her crown to the next. Every world record gets broken, and every gold medal gets awarded to a new generation.

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I remember very well how bad it felt to not have money, hearing my parents argue over how we were going to pay for necessary things. My father was an alcoholic, in and out of jobs depending on the state of his intermittent sobriety. It was a cycle of being drunk and semi-capable of holding down a job, then the spiral down to losing the job, entering rehab, coming out of rehab, and getting work again; too many times to count. Then the cancer of the throat, multiple suicide attempts, and nervous breakdowns led to a very inconsistent income. My mother, and I am still not sure how she did it, never missed a day of work somehow managing to pay our rent and put a meal on the table. I remember well going to the kitchen cupboards many times, particularly toward the end of the month to find nothing but dry goods. The times in our household which were considered abundant was when we had been to the supermarket and filled up a cart with groceries. We had many happy times too, and these also seemed to correlate with the ability for my parents to afford luxuries. Throwing a birthday party for my sister or me, cakes and candy, and a gathering of friends and family. A vacation to the seaside. The last vacation I remember taking as a family was when I was around five years old. Things gradually fell apart over the years.

I remember vividly when I first became aware that money was important. I was five years old when I had my first job. My mother worked at a gas station as a receptionist for a lawnmower company, which had a showroom in shared premises with the gas station. My sister, older than me by five years, and I would accompany my mother to work after school on a Friday afternoon. As cars pulled into the gas station to fill up their tanks, we would wash their windshields for tips. I was too small to reach the center of the windshield, so I would have an empty soft drink crate turned upside down to stand on. I will never forget my best customer. He drove a big, black Buick, and this being the seventies, it was a huge bonnet to reach across. Even standing on my crate, I couldn’t reach. So I simply climbed onto the bonnet in order to do the job. This man, seemingly impressed with my dedication, gave me a five-rand tip! It was a fortune! As a regular tip was around 50c, this was the equivalent of washing ten windshields! I felt rich! I waited every Friday afternoon till that man showed up, and no matter what I was doing, when I saw his car appear in the distance, I raced with my crate to greet him. At the end of the afternoon, my sister and I would empty our coins out and count our takings for the day. It was a glorious feeling. We would exchange our coins for cash notes feeling very satisfied with ourselves.

My sister began working a regular job after school when she was about fourteen years old at the neighborhood movie theater selling soft drinks and popcorn. I got a regular after-school job when I was twelve at a record store in a mall. I would pack records, help customers, and did a spot of radio-announcing for the mall radio station, which ran from a booth inside the record store. There was a mixing desk to play music and a microphone with which to announce over the public address system the various specials running in different stores.

On Saturdays I would work at a handbag store which sold expensive leather bags and purses. I believe my enduring love and subsequent obsession with designer purses was born there. During this time, I also won a dancing competition which led to one of the judges inviting me to join a professional dance group. We performed exhibition shows and did company promotions. Not only did this supplement my income, but at the tender age of thirteen, I experienced my first nightclub visit. We went as a group to do a show in one of the newest clubs in Johannesburg. Our show was scheduled for around 11 p.m. on a Friday night.

That Friday afternoon we went to rehearse at the venue.

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The club was called Xanadu. Climbing the red-carpeted stairs leading up to the club, I was excited and aware that this was something people my age just didn’t do. The club was empty aside from staff cleaning and preparing for the night. I took in the plush furnishings and glass and chrome tables. There was a particular smell of stale cigarette smoke and spilled alcohol which I have come to know is synonymous with bars and clubs empty of patrons. There was a giant dance floor, an exact replica of the dance floor in the movie Saturday Night Fever, complete with huge overhead disco ball. The DJ started up the music, the floor lit up, the disco ball spun, and the light show flashed streaks of color across the room. I felt an excitement beyond anything I had experienced before. And no thirteen-year-old ever should! Later that night, we returned for our show. In full hair and makeup, dressed club, we arrived to see a line of people waiting to get in. The huge bouncer at the entrance of the club beckoned to us, and with everyone watching, he lifted the red rope and ushered us in saying, VIP, VIP. Step aside, please. It was awesome! I felt so important. The show was amazing. I don’t think I have ever performed that well, before or since!

After the show we were taken to the VIP section. I was offered champagne. People were wanting to talk to us and tell us how amazing we were. Guys were hitting on me. In my full makeup and show hair, dressed in a silver all-in-one jumpsuit and stiletto heels, I looked at least eighteen. There I was, thirteen years old, drinking champagne in a nightclub with a strict age limit policy of twenty-one and over, being treated like a star. I felt mature, powerful, and special. And I was being paid to be there! It fills me with sadness now as I look back and think of that child. But the seed was planted. Sex appeal, money, and performance equaled power, choice, and freedom. The money I received in an envelope full of crisp notes never failed to excite me.

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Over the next few years, I managed to always have some independently earned money. During this time, I also moved out of the family home and stayed with my dance partner’s family or cousins’ depending on how bad things were at home. Domestic violence was a theme in our household with my father regularly becoming physical with me, my mom, or sister. The police were called numerous times by one of us girls or neighbors when our screams alerted them. There were black eyes and bleeding lips, running for safety and spending the night with family or friends until it was safe to return home. My dad would be arrested and taken away to spend the night in a jail cell until he sobered up so much so that we were well known to the police officers of our two local police stations.

Having become accustomed to having some source of income as a child, I opted to drop out of high school at age sixteen to work full time. I remember everyone telling me how this would be the biggest mistake of my life and that I would never succeed in the world without an education. I had gone from being a straight A student in primary school, bless my mother, she has kept all of those report cards, to hardly attending school by my last year, where I had an average D grade. We have those report cards too, reflecting thirty-eight days or forty-three days of absenteeism in one-quarter term.

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I started scouring the newspaper employment ads the moment I left school. Within three weeks, I had my first job. And it was a dream job! I am eternally grateful to an amazing woman who gave me my first chance in life, Ailsa Driver, the sales manager for Aramis men’s grooming line, who interviewed me. The job was as a sales consultant behind the Aramis counter. I arrived at the interview, sixteen years old, in what I thought was a professional outfit of white blouse and black pencil skirt, black stiletto heels, and black stockings. Hair and makeup perfectly done. I remember sitting in the reception, nervous, and my hands sweating so much I held a squashed-up tissue in each. Filling in the form, I was mortified that the sweat from my hands had blurred the ink on some parts. And there were many blanks on the form where information about education and experience was required. As I was called in, I put the wet tissues into my bag and carrying my soggy application form entered into my first real job interview. Ailsa was my ideal image of a professional woman. Beautiful, elegantly groomed, and poised. She went through the form and asked some questions which I felt I answered competently enough. She then said to me, I think you are lovely, and I am sure you could sell any product. However, I cannot employ you with the level of education and lack of experience you have. You are also too young for this position. I said to her I understood, but that I really needed the job. I then said, If you employ me for three months with no salary, I promise you I will be the best sales consultant you have ever had. Then if you decide you want me, give me the job. I can literally still feel her pause as she studied me for what seemed like forever. She then said, With that attitude, how could I not employ you? I think I floated out of that building. And so began my life of making it in the real world.

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I was told repeatedly, It’s tough out there, You’re on your own, Life’s a struggle, It’s survival of the fittest, Go, get ’em, Be tough, Be competitive, and Win. It sounded very intimidating. A lonely world where you have to beat this enemy of life to survive and win.

As a small child, I dreamed of coming to America. I would read Archie comics, and I wanted to be Betty. I wanted to live in a neighborhood like Riverdale, drink sodas at Pop Tate’s, and eat cheeseburgers with a pal like Jughead. I wanted to be where the Kennedys lived and Elvis was King. Where people fly to the moon, and everything is possible. I painted an American flag on my schoolbag. I wanted to go to New York, the city that never sleeps, and Hollywood, where I could walk on stars on the sidewalks, Las Vegas, where the Rat Pack performed and Caesars Palace, which was built in the desert. The more I was exposed to American culture growing up, the more I fell in love with it. It is a love that has remained to this day. I got to see every city on my wish list, got married at Graceland Wedding Chapel in Vegas, and now spend as many months of the year in the United States as I can.

My abiding and unconditional love for America is breaking my heart as I watch the American dream becoming more like a nightmare. I watch proud, patriotic, hardworking Americans losing their homes and increasingly unable to afford healthcare. I see young men in uniform at the airport every time I arrive, leaving their home to travel across the world to war. Or returning home, having experienced God knows what, to a country that they fight for but which fails to