In the province of Che-chiang, south of Chu-chou on the Divine Continent of Aparagodovaniya, stood a mountain 10,032 feet tall, and on it was a tip exactly 365 hands long and twenty-four cubits in circumference, so as to mimic the divine perfection of the 365 solar days and the 24 seasonal terms that the world was divided into. It was known as Lan-k’o Shan, the Rotted Axe Handle Mountain. And in the village at the foot of the great mountains dwelled a boy who was curious, and in his curiosity he would go to every adult he could find and ask them every question he could find.

And if the grass grows during the Jingzhe, when insects wake, why does it
Sleep in winter, when man still walks? Does it tire as a man or a lion tires?
Does it eat as a man eats? If man harvests the rice and the grain to feed
Himself, does the grass harvest man to feed himself and his children both?
For when man returns to the soil, does it not feed the grass as the man once-

And as the young curious boy spoke, the adults would flee at the very sound of his presence. They had wood to chop and rice to harvest, and their work was always beguiled by his idle speech and incessant questions. When the boy watched them would sometimes even follow them to their woods where they harvested lumber and to their rice paddies.

Finally, the boy did find an older man, a man who had the years of wizened service to himself and his village. The boy entered the man’ser hut and sat down.

He had mottled and leathery skin that looked as a rug from the West
And yet it had seen years of use;
a cobra who had forgotten to shed his skin
and be reborn.
His skin was old, but kept in good health;
an ancient bauble from the Celestial Court passed
down, but kept in a reliquary so as to preserve it.

The young boy asked the man many questions until the man smiled and answered them all, one by one. And then the young boy asked the old man about what the name of the mountain meant; why it was Lan-k’o Mountain (Axe-handle mountain). The man stared at the young boy for a long time before he told him.

According to the man, it was named for Wang Chih, a man from many many years ago during the ancient Tsin period. An unpious soul in the body of a brash and headstrong man made for a determined yet insatiable mindset, and it was most inappropriate for the simple life of a woodcutter that Wang Chih was born to.

One day, he exited his home in a bout of anger that forced him to yield to his family and he left for the mountain to clear his head. His mind was obfuscated with furor and he ran up the mountain, where he sought wood to chop and clear his troubled mind.

He rushed and feared neither wolves and lizards nor tigers and leopards, and he went straight to the top to look around. It was indeed a magnificent mountain.

A thousand peaks stand like rows of spears,
Like ten thousand cubits of screen widespread.
The sun’s beams lightly enclose the azure mist;
In darkening rain, the mount’s color turns cool and green.
Dry creepers entwine old trees;
Ancient fords edge secluded paths.
Rare flowers and luxuriant grass.
Tall bamboos and lofty pines.
Tall bamboos and lofty pines
For ten thousand years grow green in this blessed land.
Rare flowers and luxuriant grass
In all seasons bloom asi n the isles of the Blest.
The caslls of birds hidden are near.
The sounds of streams rushing are clear.
Deep inside deep canyons the orchids interweave.
On every ridge and crag spout lichens and mosses.
Rising and falling, the ranges show a fine dragon’s pulse.
Here in reclusion must an eminent man reside.
-”The Journey to the West, Chapter 1″

There he saw two young boys who sat on wooden stumps ten or twenty inches apart, and on a small stone they played a game of Go. Wang Chih sat and spoke with them briefly about his life; and Wang Chih spoke of his nature. He argued about the Three that were untouched; the Immortals, the Buddhas, and the Holy Sages, and their immortality. Wang Chih professed envy, great envy of the Buddhas, the Holy Sages, and the Immortals, for they stayed forever young while mortal men grew old and bowed down to Yama, the Sovereign of Death.

The two boys told Wang Chih that immortality without enlightenment was death. They offered him fruit, a small fruit that was like a plum but was shaped like the pit of a peach. He ate it and he was neither hungry nor thirsty.

Wang Chih sat and watched the game of go for some time. One of the boys turned his head, and spyed Wang Chih’s wavering form. “Wang Chih, your axe handle is rotten!” With this, Wang Chih saw that indeed the wood of his axe had rotted and was covered in dark verdant lichens.

When he returned to town, all was different. There was no trace of his family, and his home was now gone, replaced with an entirely different home. He asked around, lost and confused, and nobody even remembered his name.

Wang Chih thought he had been tricked, and he rushed to the top of the mountain with his rotten axe in tow, with the intention of slaying the two young boys. But when he reached the most divine peak, and could not find them, their words rang through his ears once more – “immortality without enlightenment is death.” He returned to the village, leaving his rotten axe handle at the peak.

It was here that the wizened, leathery man finished telling his story to the young and inquisitorial youth. “And so the mountain, curious child, was named after the handle at its apex.” The old man gave sigh, with a wistful and teary look in his eyes. “The two boys were never seen again, for they were immortals, and the Fair Folk would rarely reveal themselves twice to the same mortal.”

“And as for Wang Chih,” said the wizened man. “I am but an old man now, what harm could I possibly do?”

I had a friend who was annoying as hell and really got on my nerves but happened to be hot. Anyway, mutual dislike matured into mutual attraction and i developed a huge crush on her. Anyway my friends were telling me to stay away because outwardly she seemed like a fucking nightmare and they knew we didnt get on. Anyway i ignored them and an awkward yet exciting argument at a works party later we got together. It was amazing. Mutual hatred turned out to be mutual awkward sexual attraction neither of us wanted to accept. But once our lips touched it all made sense.

A few blissful months later she was diagnosed with leukemia and i was distraught. The love of my life was on the precipice of oblivion with only myself as the single thread of hope.

By an incredible coincidence i had the same blood type and so my marrow was a match to hers so i was able to donate my marrow to save her life.

A few months later and we shared a bond beyond what god intended. My marrow was in her bones. I gave some of my own life to save hers. That is not a bond that can be broken easily.

However. A few weeks down the road and her body started to reject the transfusion. Over the course of 2 months she gradualy declined to the point where she could barely move.

I stayed by her side for days. I refused to leave her side while we waited for a compatible donor. I watched as her face greyed and sank. As her strength gradually ebbed. I kept telling her it would be ok. That at any moment a compatible donor would appear to help her out of her misery. She insisted that i leave her to her fate. That she couldnt bear the pain i was feeling and that staying with her would accelerate her deterioration. I ignored her. I knew she was only saying that out of love.

My heart was broken. Every breath of mine was one less for her. Valentines day came and i made an effort. I brought her her favourite meal (egg fried chicken with savoury rice) but she didnt have the strength to eat it. She had a mouthful or two but couldnt manage anything more. She kept insisting that I leave her be. That she didnt want my final memories of her face to be that of a broken woman, the face of death.

I admit that my selfishness led me to the occasional hesitation but my love was too strong. I COULD NOT leave her to face mortality alone.

On february 28th 2011 at 11:43 pm she died. Her final words to me were, “I’ll see you in a place where no shadows fall, my love”.

We were both huge Babylon 5 geeks.

I don’t regret a single moment of the 5 years, 8 months, 18 days, 4 hours and 22 minutes we were together (the exact time we first kissed). Its difficult. Incredibly difficult. Sometimes i hate myself for waking in a morning, wishing i’d died during sleep so i could be with her. Survivors guilt i’m sure.

I’m confused as i’m an atheist and don’t believe in god or an afterlife or anything yet i refuse to believe that my love is simply ‘gone’. I cant accept that someone like her could simply disappear. It feels like accepting that she is gone is like accepting that the rest of humanity means nothing to me and she was the only thing in the universe. Yet accepting that there actually is the rest of humanity feels like its somehow diminishing her importance to me.

Life goes on. Though at the moment i don’t really understand how. I’m alive and i have a job. Thats all i’m sure of right now. My life is simply routine.

I miss her.

I had an audition at a movie studio. I showed up at one of the entrances to sign in. There were numerous people in the small room I was in. A lady walked toward the exit door to leave. She went out of the door. As she left, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her take a few stutter steps. I turned toward her, she stuttered a little more, and then she fell face first into the concrete sidewalk without sticking her arms out to brace herself from the fall or anything. A pool of blood started forming on the concrete underneath her face. I looked around, and no one else had noticed that she fell. I notified the guards that were there. They looked at her bleeding on the ground, motionless, and said they weren’t allowed to help her for “liability reasons”. I said “WHAT!?” I went down toward her and turned her over. Her face was broken and a mask of blood from the impact of the fall upon the concrete. I looked at her, and remember thinking to God “Okay, God, if this is the moment you’re going to pick to give me aids or some disease cuz I’m going to try to help this woman, then fuck you. You’re an asshole.” and I immediately started giving her mouth-to-mouth CPR – her blood all over her mouth and nose and everything.

I used to be a lifeguard, and had CPR training, but the intensity of the moment caused me to forget that, when giving someone CPR, you have to COVER THEIR NOSTRILS. I opened her mouth, took a deep breath, and blew as hard as I could. Because I wasn’t covering her nose, however, the air I breathed into her mouth forced every bit of blood and mucus to gush out of her nose and into my face and mouth. I spit out her blood from my mouth, covered her nostrils this time, and continued giving her mouth to mouth. I alternated mouth to mouth with chest compressions until an ambulance arrived and they took over.

I called around and found out what hospital they had taken her to and showed up to see if I could talk to her see how she was doing.

I was told she did not make it. She died.

I decided to leave my name and number in case any family called or came by for her so that they could at least possibly have some closure knowing what happened, and know that someone had tried to help her when she was in trouble.

I received a call from her family, and was invited to her memorial service. I was honored to have been invited, and decided to attend.

It was a a silent movie venue – which was really very neat. While there, various people went up and spoke about the lady and who she was – which I thought and felt was very fascinating to hear about the personality of this person whom I had never known.

After everyone had gone up and talked, the person overseeing the ceremony took a deep breath and said “Now, ladies and gentlemen, this is the moment that will be the most difficult for all of us here.”

. . . and he went on to begin introducing “the last person to see her alive . . . a stranger who saw another human being in need, and jumped to help . . . “

Before I knew it, and totally unbeknownst to me, I was actually called up to the front of the stage to speak in front of everyone who was there – all the friends and family of the woman – and . . . and just . . . speak . . . talk about . . . something . . .

I, of course, was at an immediate loss since I had no idea who the woman was.

She was older, but the photo on the pamphlet was of a very, very pretty lady – a beautiful face.

I started speaking about how ironic it is . . . that we live in such a huge, metropolitan city, with one of the biggest populations in the U.S. (I live in Los Angeles), yet . . . for all the many people that are here . . . there is a LOT of anonymity . . . and people DON’T go out of their way to help one another . . . a huge paradox . . . So many people, yet we’re all alone.

I didn’t know the lady . . . but I felt connected to her . . .

and as I started speaking about her . . . it was very, very strange, because up until that point, the ceremony had actually been quite joyous and happy (everyone that went up and spoke about her mentioned how she was such a joyous person, so we should all celebrate this occasion and NOT be down about anything) . . .

as I started speaking about this woman I had never before known, it was very weird because . . . I started feeling this incredible welling up of very real emotion coming up through me that, try as I did, I simply could not keep down . . .

and I started bawling in front of this entire group of strangers about a woman I had never met in my life before that time.

And the entire group . . . ended up starting to cry . . .

I felt kind’ve . . . guilty I guess for kind’ve turning the entire ceremony from one of overall jubilation . . . to one of crying and heaviness (I tend to do that to most rooms I walk into it feels) . . . but . . . well . . .

I cannot say I wish I wouldn’t have had that experience.

It helped me see (even more than I already do) that, for all the b.s. and horror and selfishness in our lives, on this planet . . . we are creatures with a lot of love . . . inside us . . .

It seems difficult to show it and express it sometimes . . . but it’s there.

I saved my best friend’s and my own life with a joke.

We were living in a tiny cabin in SE Alaska. A local dog with tags reading “Joey Hughes” had been hanging around our place a lot so when we heard some animaly noises right around the door my friend called out softly “Joey Hughes?” A brown bear yearling peeked its head inside our ten by ten cabin and proceeded to take an exploratory step inside.

Now of course this all happened in about 5 seconds. I understood the situation but my danger brain had not yet kicked in when I whispered (quite unnecessarily), “That’s not Joey Hughes.”

Sometimes the best wit reveals obvious truths.

The half hysterical giggle this statement elicited from my buddy startled the bear and it halted its approach, then backed out. If the whole bear had entered the only way out would have been a three point turn or through our frail human bodies. I think you know which option the bear would have chosen.

You could say it was the giggle, not my ill (perfectly) timed joke that stopped the bear but you’d be wrong.

Twenty years ago I decided to go to China to continue my traditional martial arts training. I lived in a smaller city in a rural province and hooked up with a group of Xingyi practioners in their mid 50’s – 80’s who had reps for their abilities.

My teacher brought me over to his teacher’s house one day and we hit it off well and later he invited to come visit him. When I got there he got pretty excited telling me he wanted to teach me, that my teacher didn’t know crap, that he could defeat him instantly and I should study with him. I said I would like to study Xingyi with him. His response was “Xingyi — Bah — I want to teach you real fighting.” That surprised me that the top Xingyi dog in town didn’t equate Xingyi with real fighting.

Unfortunately his wife, who was the head coach for the provincal Wushu program and later invited me to study Tai Chi with her, got word to me she didn’t want me to come over because her husband had a bad heart and got too excited when he was showing me things.

But before he died from a heart attack shortly after, I got together with his father-in–law from Shanghai who was something else. Eighty three yrs. old, ramrod straight and still fighting. We pushed hands and did some Xingyi together. Interesting body development, skinny but hard as a rock. He showed me how when you are in your standing posture you pull in your spine so your back muscles protect it. I don’t think hitting him across his back with a board would have affected him at all.

Funny though, he also asked me why I was wasting my time with this stuff. I mentioned self defense and his response was, “Nonsense, you are an American, you can buy a gun for self defense that is much better than this and use your time to make more money and have a better life.” I asked him why he studied, he said he was uneducated and poor and needed a way to make a living. He trained for years and got a job as a bodyguard for a tax collector.

… Having lived through the Cultural Revolution, when accomplished martial artists like him were stripped, beaten and dragged through the streets naked, he probably knows 1st hand how much more effective a gun would have been than Xingyi when it really matters.

In high school, our AP Economics teacher was also one of the sponsors of our Senior Class (to collect dues, advise event planning, etc.). One morning, she started her class with “the importance of being responsible” and proceeded to tell the story of a senior girl who claimed to have paid her senior dues (that were due that day), but could not show a receipt, and therefore would not be attending the prom happening that week. The teacher verbally lambasted this girl’s character, calling her a liar and telling us that her tears were not going to change the situation. All of this while never admitting any fault for record-keeping (which was shoddy at best) or ever once giving her any benefit of the doubt.

When it was ultimately revealed who the girl was through our questioning, and we found out that she marched next to me in drumline (who i talked to everyday, who worked to take care of her family and didn’t have a lot of money as it was), I went ballistic. “She’s one of the most responsible people in our class! There’s NO way possible that she didn’t pay her dues.” Down the hall, I could feel this friend’s tears, knowing that she had just saved enough to buy her dress the previous weekend and had finalized her plans. Our classroom rallied behind me, pleading with our teacher to give her a break or some time to pay it back, even if it was her fault. But the teacher was relentless. “Sorry, rules are rules, Mr. R___. I can’t just let anyone who claimed to pay their dues waltz into prom, now can I?”

I got angry as the argument went on for a few minutes, and our teacher became jovial in her steadfastness. And just when I was about to say something that would jeopardize my own graduation, I realized that weeks before, I had put my checkbook in my bookbag to pay for my own dues! I dug into my bookbag and found it, and quickly wrote out a check for the dues (it wasn’t much and i had been working a lot to save for my car). While the rest of the class carried on with the argument, I stood up, walked down the aisle to the teacher’s desk, and the teacher became noticably angry. “Mr. R___, you need to get back to your seat, or I will write you up for insubordination!”

I said loudly, “Here, this should cover it.”

The room got silent–like when-you-drop-your-lunch-tray-in-the-middle-of-the-cafeteria silent. I stood firm, though my voice began to quake. “And I am not leaving until you accept this check and I receive my receipt. This girl deserves to go to prom like everyone else, and I will NOT stand idly by and watch this happen to one of my friends.” (not my most poetic moment).

She looked at me. And back at the check. And then with fury, she took out her receipt book and wrote my receipt while saying snidely, “Well, I applaud you for your heroism, but she won’t always have someone to bail her out when the time comes.”

“She will as long as she is my friend.” And with that, I took a receipt for my victory back to my desk.

I wanted to tell her where she could stick it, but I had already done enough. I saw the girl moments later when class let out, and was greeted with a huge hug and tears rolling down her cheek. Apparently, word traveled quickly. I never asked for the money back. She had gone through enough.

A year later, the teacher was suspended because she was trading extra points for beanie babies (something she was doing for a while). She ended up teaching somewhere else but ultimately died a few years ago because of a botched gastric bypass surgery.

TL;DR: I stood up to a teacher so that a good friend could go to prom.

A story from the late aikido teacher Terry Dobson.

The train clanked and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty—a few housewives with their kids, some old folks going shopping. I gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows.

At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the afternoon quiet was shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. The man staggered into our car. He wore laborer’s clothing, and he was big, drunk, and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby. The blow sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle that the baby was unharmed.

Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of the car. The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old woman but missed as she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up.

I was young then, some twenty years ago, and in pretty good shape. I’d been putting in a solid eight hours of aikido training nearly every day for the past three years. I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. Trouble was, my martial skill was untested in actual combat. As students of aikido, we were not allowed to fight.

“Aikido,” my teacher had said again and again, “is the art of reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the universe. If you try to dominate people, you are already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it.”

I listened to his words, I tried hard. I even went so far as to cross the street to avoid the chimpira, the pinball punks who lounged around the train stations. My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and holy. In my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty.

This is it! I said to myself as I got to my feet. People are in danger. If I don’t do something fast, somebody will probably get hurt.

Seeing me stand up, the drunk recognized a chance to focus his rage. “Aha!” he roared. “A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese manners!”

I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a slow look of disgust and dismissal. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to make the first move. I wanted him mad, so l pursed my lips and blew him an insolent kiss. “All right!” he hollered. “You’re gonna get a lesson.” He gathered himself for a rush at me.

A split second before he could move, someone shouted “Hey!” It was earsplitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it – as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for something and he had suddenly stumbled upon it. “Hey!”

I wheeled to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little old Japanese. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his kimono. He took no notice of me but beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share.

“C’mere,” the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk. “C’mere and talk with me.” He waved his hand lightly.

The big man followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of the old gentleman and roared above the clacking wheels, “Why the hell should I talk to you?” The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter, I’d drop him in his socks.

The old man continued to beam at the laborer. “What’cha been drinkin’?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest. “I been drinkin’ sake,” the laborer bellowed back, “and it’s none of your business!” Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” the old man said, “absolutely wonderful! You see, I love sake too. Every night, me and my wife (she’s 76, you know), we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden, and we sit on an old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted that tree, and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree has done better than I expected though, especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. It is gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening – even when it rains!” He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling.

As he struggled to follow the old man’s conversation the drunk’s face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. “Yeah,” he said, “I love persimmons too…” His voice trailed off.

“Yes,” said the old man, smiling. “And I’m sure you have a wonderful wife.”

“No,” replied the laborer. “My wife died.” Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. “I don’t got no wife, I don’t got no home, I don’t got no job. I’m so ashamed of myself.” Tears rolled down his cheeks; a spasm of despair rippled through his body.

Now it was my turn. Standing there in my well- scrubbed youthful innocence, my “make this world safe for democracy” righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier than he was.

Then the train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically. “My, my,” he said. “That is a difficult predicament, indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it.”

I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the seat, his head in the old man’s lap. The old man was softly stroking the filthy, matted hair.

As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench. What I had wanted to do with muscle had been accomplished with kind words. I had just seen aikido tried in combat, and the essence of it was love. I would have to practice the art with an entirely different spirit. It would be a long time before I could speak about the resolution of conflict.

I served a Mormon mission in Tijuana, Mexico. We were switching partners that day, so I put my old partner on a bus to Tecate and waited for my new one to arrive on a hill by our house next to the freeway. I planned things so I’d be by myself for like 30 minutes.

Anyways, there was a huge wreck on the freeway and my new partner was 2 hours late. I was sitting there minding my Mormon business, my legs dangling over a ledge that overlooked a 30 foot drop onto the side of the freeway, when this cholo guy came and sat down by me. “Uh, oh. This guy is going to be trouble.”

He offered me a cigarette.

“No gracias.”

We sat there in silence for a few minutes.

Then out of no where, the guy pulls a freaking ice pick out of his pocket and brings it towards my gut. I grabbed his wrist before he was able to poke me with it.

“Dame tu wallete!” he cried. (Give me your wallet!)

I grabbed his other wrist and squeezed both of his wrist as hard as I could. I looked him right in the eye and growled:

“Sabes quien soy yo?” (Do you know who I am?)

“No. Quien eres tu?” (No, who are you!)

“Soy un representante de Jesucristo.” (I’m a representative of Jesus Christ.)

The little cholo bitch starts bawling his eyes out as soon as I said that. Seriously. He started crying. He dropped the ice pick, put his hands in his face and cried.

“Lo siento, hermano!” (I’m sorry brother!)

He started telling me all his problems, how he needed money for the bus to get to Tecate. I laughed and said he could have just asked instead of trying to stab me with an ice pick. I gave him some money along with a card to get a Book of Mormon. (Hey, I had to take advantage of the opportunity.)

We shook hands and parted ways.

I saw the Richard Gere movie The Mothman Prophecies when it came out in 2002, a movie based on John Keel’s 1975 book.

This was written in 1971, before Keel’s book was published. I felt a chill run down my spine when I realized this excerpt makes mention of the same events, including the Mothman (by a different name) and the collapse of the Silver Bridge in Point Pleasant.

In the Spiritualist vocabulary … familiar spirits are called “guides.” James Andrew knew his guides by name, and came to know as much about their background and personalities as he knew of his neighbors’. One was Elenipsico, who was murdered (along with his uncle, the great chief Cornstalk, and another great Shawnee chief) by treacherous whites at Point Pleasant, West Virginia, while on a peace mission.

When James Andrew began working in Point Pleasant, Elenipsico earnestly entreated him not to live there, so he bought a home in Henderson, across the Kanawha River. The Indian told him that after the murders, the Shawnee medicine men held a great solemn pow-wow, and placed a curse on Point Pleasant, not to be lifted for three hundred years—one century of misfortune and calamity for each life taken.

Indeed, the place has seen tragedies. Though its location should have made it a great city at least as large as Pittsburgh or Cincinnati, it is to this day a small, unfortunate place where industries come to grief through fire, explosion, flood, or human error. Only a few years ago, its main bridge collapsed and drowned scores of persons in the Ohio river. Elenipsico’s word seems to keep holding true: the curse still has over a century to last, but when it lifts at the time stated, beginning in the year 2091, Point Pleasant, West Virginia, will mushroom into the principal city on the Ohio River. Before that, however, possibly in the bicentennial year of the murders, the river will destroy as it did in the Ohio flood legend of the Shawnees, covering the valley from hillside to hillside; and the floodwalls will be like barriers of sand that children build to hold back the sea. There have been many floods along the Ohio, but no white man has experienced any like the great flood the Shawnee legend speaks of, nor can he imagine the one of the Shawnee prophecy. People along the river tell of sighting the great Spirit-Birds. It is almost time for another catastrophe. Woe to poor Point Pleasant!

I was sleeping and having a nightmare. My girlfriend gets up to blow her nose and the noise startles me awake. In reflex I sat up and punched her straight in the face while shouting “I’m not going down that easy!” I had no idea it was her.

She was literally stunned. I felt terrible.