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Three Eyed Men

The listener comes first.  The player comes second.  In order to play a note, one must be able to hear the note.  The same goes for achieving harmony with another person when communicating.  The speaker must transmit the intent of the substance of the contents.  The hearer must receive the intention and really get the sense of the spiritual vibrations.  One must distinguish between good and bad vibrations.  Discernment of spiritual vibrations may take only an instant or it may take a lifetime.  Communication is a form of primitive aggression.  It may occur in either a physical or spiritual form, sometimes separately, sometimes simultaneously.  Physical aggression may result from preconditioned behavior like a soldier in battle who does not question the commands or it may be stimulated by the enraged nature of the beast or it may be motivated by the spirit of love.  It is important to know the difference.  With enhanced sensitivity, the hearer can react with the correct physical response to a spiritual stimulus and there will be an harmonious result creating a state of spiritual contentment and physical balance.  The best music is performed by those who share kindred spirits with those who have a similar sensitivity to higher levels of conscious awareness.

Playing night after night in generic roadhouses in city after nameless city for people whose only intent is to get a break from their mundane routines requires a strong commitment to the discipline and a continual self-analysis.  Most people never develop listening skills.  They are just looking for a good time.

"Where is KC?"  Rawley asked.  "Oh, he crashed out on the couch downstairs," Dan G answered nodding in the other direction toward the hallway.  "Speaking of dingy, I saw Dingy Larry at the club last night.  He was looking to score.  He bought some smack and he and KC hit it up again this morning." he continued.  Rawley made his way downstairs and found Dingy Larry sitting at the kitchen table with a spoon in his hand holding it over a candle.  "Cooking up another batch of junk?" Rawley asked, "You know that you are killing yourself, don't you?"  There was nothing he could do to stop them because they were hooked.  KC was crashed out and Dan G was pre-occupied with his bass guitar so Rawley decided to leave the Funky Mansion and go to the Western Skys Motel where Domi was staying.  When he arrived, he walked up to Domi's room door and noticed that the curtains were drawn.  He knocked but no one answered at first so he let himself into the darkened room reaching for the light switch on the wall.  As he flipped the switch he caught a multitude of cock roaches snacking on a half eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich that had been left on the counter top near the kitchenette.  They quickly scampered away with a nauseating rustling sound in all directions making Rawley want to puke.  He stepped back outside into the evening air to take a deep breath and stood there for a while under the violet-blue crackling neon "No Vacancy" sign.  

"Man, it's too damn hot here in Houston in the summer." Rawley thought to himself, "I can just bear a few more months of this suffocating weather.  It will be great to get to the hill country in west Texas and get away from this Gulf Coast humidity."  He mused about how Domi called this big town a twentieth century Jerusalem.  It was a port city and the streets were full of people of every kind of race and nationality.  All creeds of humanity were densely packed like sardines in a tin can though no one seemed to have a sense of inconvenience due to the lack of space in Space City.  Not finding Domi, Rawley set out for a walk before heading to Old Galveston Road back to the Funky Mansion.  He kept a leisurely but steady pace and stopped only to remove a small pebble from his shoe and roll a number.  As he made his way through the refineries he passed through white, black, Hispanic,, and Asian neighborhoods, kicking his way through the steamy fog layer on the pavement while the rain began to drizzle onto the concrete sidewalk.  Rawley continued on his way pausing occasionally to avoid pedestrians on legs carrying overweight frames topped with faceless heads.  Even if he had seen a face, none were familiar.  It was eery how similar in appearance they were in their anonymity.  Wrinkled and creased faces with lines permanently chiseled into them.  The beast must have left his mark in the scar tissue on the place on the forehead between their eyes where the third eye had been otomized.  Worried expressions indelibly engraved due to the nibbling annoyances which tried their patience concerning situations over which they had no control and about which they could do nothing.  Anonymous faces assuming judgmental expressions who had premeditatedly determined that their expressions were far more pleasing to look upon than Rawley's, a fantasy of the walking dead.  He glanced down into the gutter where someone had tossed a blood-soaked carpet remnant.  It looked as if somebody had been severely beaten on the damp freshly discarded musty rug. The smell of the old wooden Victorian houses made the air sticky.


You hang your head like the living dead

You do not have a clue

You let other people pull your strings

You walk like puppets do

You're full of empty promises

You are nothing but a fake

Your words are counterfeit

Kissing up and compromising

Making plans and analyzing

Jumping into other people's shit

As Rawley neared the Der Wienerschnitzel, Escalante, the roadie, pulled up beside him in Domi's station wagon.   Rawley piled into Domi's red rusty Studebaker as Domi, who was in the passenger seat reached for the radio and turned up the volume to hear Aretha Franklin wail about the shortcomings of being a link in someone's chain of fools.  Escalante handled the driving chores heading down Memorial Parkway as they toked a doobie.  Rawley and Loretta were riding in the back when Domi shouted over the blaring music on the radio, "It really shows what kind of people we are."  "What do you mean by that?" Rawley asked.  "Well, you see, there are three kinds of people in this world, one-eyed, two-eyed, and three-eyed." he answered.  Rawley shook his head in affirmation but did not have a clue what Domi meant by that.  Rawley continued to nod to spur Domi along.  "The one-eyed men spend a lifetime imitating appropriate actions in order to conform with socially acceptable behavior and become self-appointed monitors to assure conformity.  They lay in wait to catch someone doing something unacceptable in order to report them to the two-eyed men, the enforcers."  Domi explained.  "Oh, yeah...I see man.  You mean like cops and government agents.  The karma police..right?" Rawley asked.  "Yeah, taking names and kicking ass." Domi responded. "They have guide books with instructions telling them how to deal with people who don't conform.  One-eyed men have a rule for every situation.  Every action is either right or wrong, depending on the rule book, know what I mean?"  Domi concluded.  "Yeah, I see, like an absolute dichotomy where you can only exist in one of two states, right or wrong."  Rawley said.  Domi paused and Rawley nodded as he took another toke, his expression inquisitive so Domi continued. 

"But two-eyed men are different. They are the manipulators.  They are the manipulation experts, the spin doctors who will take any side of an issue depending on whether or not it will be of benefit to them, personally.  They will change sides from one opinion to another filling the new mold like melted wax.  There is no ethical basis for their reasoning.  They are skilled at persuasively and charismaticly establishing themselves into positions of authority where their authority goes unchallenged.  They become kings, presidents, dictators, generals, and leaders who fill the power fields and maintain control indefinitely over the one-eyed enforcers." Domi said.  "Yeah, but what about the three-eyed people,  who are they?"  Rawley asked.  "The free thinkers?"  Domi returned, "They are us.  Free thinkers have been around since the beginning of time.  Free thinkers keep a low profile so as not to be detected by the enforcers.  Historically the intelligencia represents a threat to the culture that is  established on tradition because they are naturally more progressive.  It is either keep a low profile or get crucified." he continued.  "Free thinkers are historically categorized with labels such as beatniks, hippies, bohemians, or leftists. It has always been that way." Domi said smiling, his left eyebrow raised in an arch.  "Artists who are passionately obsessed with expressing themselves without reservation or hesitation must be cautious.  It's what Petro always says, 'It is not safe to be too comfortable'!  We will always be free spirits, right?"  Rawley nodded.