the Wanderling

"It is widely believed that spacetime must be both orientable and time-orientable. Arguments are that there is no evidence of a lack of orientability and that a nonorientable spacetime would be incompatible with the observed violations of P (parity) and T (time reversal invariance)."

The above quote, written by Mark J. Hadley, is found in The Orientability of Spacetime, reached through the first link below. What is not shown is the sentence that immediately follows the aforementioned quote that reads:

"These arguments are shown to be false."

That is to say, according to Hadley, what is false is that there is NO evidence for a LACK of orientability nor is there any evidence proving that a nonorientable spacetime would be incompatible with the observed violations of parity and time reversal invariance --- there are theories and conceptual constructs, but NO evidence. So said then, setting the scene for the rest of the contents of Hadley's paper.

However, as might be expected, since what he has to say goes against general observation and innate experience, not everyone agrees with Hadley and scientists like him or those of a similar ilk.

The first of the two links below, which includes Hadley's paper, have a favorable tendency toward support of the potential possibility of non-orientability if not an explanation of what it is. In a highly credible other view, there is an active PDF link toward the bottom of the page that will take you to a rather extensive work by the noted physicist Stephen Hawking titled The Large Scale Structure of Space Time. In that book, on page 181 Section 6, 6.1 Hawking offers a more traditional view of Orientability. However, the third link directly below will take you to Section 6, 6.1. without the necessity of accessing the full book.

The following six paradoxes, in that they are actually known to have transpired in real life on the conventional plane, are called paradoxes only because their unfolding as such flies in the face of the traditional view of the orientability of spacetime --- skewing more towards how Hadley has explained it. If Hadley is wrong, the question is how did what happen, happen? Somewhere, if Hadley type views are not acceptable as being feasible there had to have been a breakdown in the traditional orientability allowing non-traditional aspects of time to breakthrough and function on a macro level.


"There had to be in existence two of me at the same time, albeit occupying separate spaces. One of me quite possibly knowing my mother died, the other still having a mother alive."

The above sentence, based on a real life happenstance, is found in the text toward the bottom of The Spiritual Elder and the Santa Fe Chief. The seed of what is behind that happenstance and how it was able to come into play to such a point that it could, would and did actually transpire, was initially set into motion primarily through the downstream outflow of the following:

"(U)nknown to me, my mother was no longer at home, having become totally unable to care for herself, so much so my dad placed her into a full care sanatorium-like hospital in Santa Barbara, California on an around the clock basis. Before my dad had a chance to respond to the couple, the couple, knowing full well that my mother was in a sanatorium, without my father's grace, took me to India, simply sending him a note saying that in the end I had changed my mind about going. While I was gone my mother died. I missed the funeral and by the time I got back my family had disintegrated, my two brothers and myself all going separate ways, my dad disappearing into the countryside heavy into alcohol."

SRI RAMANA MAHARSHI: The Last American Darshan

Traveling with the foster couple during the declining health of my mother but before her death put me as a young boy arriving at the ashram of the venerated Indian holy man the Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi in Tiruvannamalai south India sometime in early January 1944 and staying to sometime after April of 1944. By all indications, as brought forth in the Raft Drift story as found in the sinking of the British motor vessel M.V. Tulagi I was most likely back in the states by June of 1944.

The M.V. Tulagi was attacked and sunk in the Indian Ocean by the German submarine U-532 March 27, 1944. Survivors, after 58 days adrift in the open sea, ended with only seven of the 15 crewmembers left alive that were able to make it into two lifeboats out of the original 54 crewmembers, landing on Bijoutier, a tiny island of the Alphonse Group belonging to the Outer Islands of the Seychelles. Well after the sinking, but still well within the time period of the drift, I was returning to the U.S. onboard a ship in the Indian Ocean when some onboard passengers reported seeing a lifeboat sometime toward the end of May, 1944. If it was one of the rafts from the Tulagi, and I am almost sure it would have to have been because of it's description, it would put me back in the states sometime in June, 1944.(see)

The June, 1944 date is fairly solid assumption anyway in that I was on my way to California from Pennsylvania via Chicago as a passenger on the all first class Santa Fe Chief being pulled by a powerful Baldwin built 4-8-4 Northern bearing the Santa Fe ID #3774. Outside Williams, Arizona, on the night of July 3, 1944, the train derailed in a high speed crash, killing the fireman and three passengers, while injuring 113 passengers and 13 train employees.

The wreck left whoever I was traveling with being either too hospitalized or too injured to oversee me. Because of same my uncle, who lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and the closest relative to my location was contacted. While waiting for him to show up, which took a day or two longer than expected, he called a close-by tribal spiritual elder he knew to fill in for him until he was able to get to Williams. It is fair to say the spiritual elder sitting around inside of a train station all day long between the occasional train wasn't exactly what I would call his particular forte'. At the end of the second day, the spiritual elder seemed to have had enough and decided he needed more open space around him. Just after sundown of the second full day basically after just hanging around inside a stuffy train station or sitting on shipping boxes and crates in the shade along the wall of the loading dock, without any real discussion between us, we started walking eastward along the railroad tracks for some distance before turning south into the desert, the two of us ending up camping overnight along the Rio Felix in New Mexico.

The opening quote at the top of this section is from the source so cited. Although the paragraph is taken out of context having been extrapolated from a much longer text, it cuts to the quick quite clearly about my mother, the foster couple, me going to India, etc. It also brings to light the fact that while I was gone my mother died and I missed the funeral. It happened that way because of me having left for India late in the year 1943 and not returning to the states until June of 1944, meaning by inference according to the quote, that it was during that six month time frame that my mother died. Taken to the extreme then, by inference it would also mean that my mother was alive at least right up to my departure and possibly sometime shortly after. So too, most likely right up to my departure I was in the U.S. on U.S. soil because as I have stated elsewhere I went to Santa Barbara with both of my real parents sometime in 1943. The question is, if I was with my parents or even the foster couple how is it during the same 1943 period I was able to hole up for the night along the Rio Felix in New Mexico with the spiritual elder waiting for my uncle to show up? There had to be in existence two of me at the same time, albeit occupying separate spaces. One of me quite possibly knowing my mother died, the other still having a mother alive. Truth be told however, when I was traveling with the spiritual elder I had no clue it was not, not 1944. It was well after the fact, actually years later, through the normal course of research instilled by a deep personal interest in the subject that I discovered the incident along the Rio Felix involving the German POWs was not 1944, but instead one year earlier.

In 1964, thanks to the friendly Selective Service, or the draft as it is so affectionately known, found me as a fully ingrained member of the even more friendly United States Army. During that period of time there was a similar or like event that harkened back to the year 1944 as well, albeit some weeks or months prior to the train wreck. Re the following from the source so cited:

"Everything in my life from before entering Laos to Chiang Mai to my eventual return to Rangoon and beyond, time-wise, led up to, overlaid and bracketed my stay at the monastery as outlined in Doing Hard Time In A Zen Monastery. Within that bracketed period of time at the monastery I came in contact with (the) woman at the farm house, ending up in Tiruvannamalai circa 1944 and the Ramana ashram. It was embedded inside that same period of time in Tiruvannamalai that the three hours sitting before the Maharshi in the ashram transpired. Added together, the whole of the whole episode that unfolded, at least outside of the monastery walls it would seem, and how time is typically constituted consensually by those in the Samsara world, was enveloped in the broader sense by the calendar year 1964."(source)

Again, as with the opening of this section, the paradox of Time Paradox One:

"There had to be in existence two of me at the same time, albeit occupying separate spaces. One of me quite possibly knowing my mother died, the other still having a mother alive."(see)



The night the POWs entered the little no-frills camp that the spiritual elder and I had set up along the Rio Felix they didn't seem to present any form of a threat, only wanting a little food, a few safe minutes to rest, and information regarding where they were specifically. After giving them food from what little we had and stoking the fire back to it's former luster the drowsiness that had come across me faded at the thought of escaped German POWs being in our camp.

In the train station the night before an elderly man sat down next to me handing me a comic book he said had a true story in it, saying his son had participated in the actual events so depicted in the story. The following, from the source so cited, picks up as the elderly man sat next to me that night in the train station:

He came over and sat next to me and asked if my dad was in the war. I told him no that he worked in the shipyards. Asking if I liked comic books he opened his suitcase and pulled out one called Blue Bolt. All the while he was thumbing through the pages like he was looking for something he was telling me he had a son in the war and that his son was a pilot. After he reached a certain spot he folded open the pages and pointed to a story about a group of American pilots that shot down 77 German planes in one outing. Then, carefully reading the story page by page and pointing to the different pictures he told me that his son was one of the pilots. My uncle told me with that I took the book from the man's hands completely fascinated, so much so I read the story over and over without stopping or setting it down. The man, seeing how much I appreciated the comic and the story, said I could have it. After that my uncle said I continued to read it again and again all the way back to California and months afterwards."


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What I haven't stated elsewhere is that in my new found enthusiasm regarding the story of the P-40 Warhawks or Tomahawks as the case may be, that in one outing shot down 77 German planes in the so-called Goose Shoot, is that I still had the comic book with me the next night when the POWs came into camp. With additional light from a restoked fire I got out the comic and began reading the story, all the while pointing out page after page of the graphic drawings of the event. Needless to say, even though they eventually were caught up in what I was showing them in that they had not received any substantial amount of news from anywhere let alone the battlefront, they just were not up to giving any truth or validity to the story, especially so coming from a kid and a comic book. As I got older I deciphered the attitude they displayed that night stemmed basically from a still strong or lingering belief in the infallibility of German superiority.

However, if you look at the timing of it all --- and truly unknown to me at the time until it dawned on me one day totally out of the blue years later --- the POWs did in a sense have "right" on their side, i.e., not giving any truth or validity to the story, especially so coming from a kid and a comic book, to wit the following:

  • The POW escape is recorded as having transpired on January 14, 1943.

  • The Goose Shoot happened in the skies over Tunisia, North Africa three months later on Sunday, April 18, 1943.

  • The story I showed the POWs of the Goose Shoot was in BLUE BOLT, Issue Number 6, which wasn't even published until January, 1944, one full year after the POW escape --- even though I had the comic book with me at the time of their escape.



"Once through the main portal the time associated within the walls of the monastery and the land beyond flowed like the surface of a Mobius Strip, non-orientable."

"What is not known with any amount of certainty is when passing through the portal from the outside into the monastery, is the measurable distance from the outside to the inside more than the thickness of the doors' front to back, or once in the monastery is the inside and all of the surrounding countryside beyond the thickness of the monastery doors actually somewhere else?"

Shambhala, Time, and the Langoliers

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"The question arises, did showing up at the ashram in the past affect or change the future, and if so, how?"

The above two paradoxes, like the first two presented previously, are also from a real life happenstance. The second two are bound together in a second singular event as so cited in The Code Maker, The Zen Maker, of which largely circulates around a Zen master and the mysterious hermitage said to exist somewhere beyond time in a remote area of the Himalayas known under a variety of names such as Gyanganj, Shambhala or Shangri-La. As I personally viewed the last two paradoxes they fell under the aegis of what is known in Sanskrit as the super normal perceptual states of Siddhis. The first two paradoxes, although I see it as well as Siddhi-based, possibly finds their strengths, albeit from the same initiating source, from roots emanating within or beyond the edges of the greater sphere of indigenous tribal spiritualism.

"The Zen master's intent, as I have extrapolated it in hindsight, was for me to bypass any potentially powerful Mara induced impediments by coming in on the side of time in front of them, that is before they happened. Thus in a sense, after which returning into the present forward, maintaining in place any 'mental barriers that had been reduced to nothingness' before the impediments were set into motion. As events seemed to unfold in my life such does not seem to be the case, that is, the Zen master missed his mark."

Even though the events of the four paradoxes easily replicate time travel in the broadest sense I never placed what I was writing, at least as I saw it initially, into a time travel frame of reference. Others saw it differently. For them, discounting Siddhis and moving the events into a time travel schemata seemed to make what I have presented somewhat more understandable. In an effort on my part to make all of it more understandable I wrote the page Analogies In Time and Space linked below in Footnote [1] as well as listing suggested reading and additional material falling into the same or similar realm:[1]




The thing is, even though I was drawing from history that hadn't even happened yet, they were in the process of putting into place what would happen that would eventually lead to that history, so they thought, knowing what they did from there own time, there was no way I could know what I knew if I wasn't one of them.

The above paradox is part and partial of the previous five being deeply intertwined, but mostly so the last two in that it is directly related to my need to find a way to return to the monastery after finding myself suddenly out of nowhere at the ashram of the Bagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi. Getting back to the monastery was the only way I could figure I could get back to my regular time.

When I was attending the U.S. Army Southeast Signal Corps School in Fort Gordon, Georgia, working on, refining, and increasing my Morse code technique and ability, we were continually told stories that no matter how sophisticated and advanced any radio communication equipment might be, when conditions for transmission get bad to worse, only Morse code gets through. A story one of my instructors continued to emphasize had to do with the clandestine communications networks set up by the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) in China during World War II, completely bypassing or duplicating established Army, Navy or commercial facilities. A U.S. military mission called the Dixie Mission went into Yenan north central China in July 1944 with the OSS in charge of communications. They immediately established radio communication with Chungking, a thousand miles to the south --- initially being able to do so only in Morse code. It was only later they received sophisticated, lightweight, radio transmitter-receivers developed by OSS that utilized voice.

Drawing from that information I learned from the Signal Corps School, after leaving the ashram in Tiruvannamalai and going to the U.S. Consulate in Madras, I told the military attache' that I was a member of a new OSS communications base being established at Chihkiang between Kunming and Chungking, all hush-hush. I told them I came to the consulate because of what happened after getting off a ship in Bombay and boarding a train to Calcutta with a ton of other G.I.s, none who I really knew except for a few I met on the ship. In the middle of the night a bunch of drunken soldiers got in a huge fight over a poker game, I got caught up in it and in the process thrown off or shoved through the window while the train was moving, not waking up until the next day with the train long gone as well as all my identification and duffel bag. I was turned over to more covert types within the consulate and they contacted OSS. OSS, apparently buying my being thrown off the train story, said with all the information I have I must be one of theirs and to send me on through, only provide me with a cover, which they did. It took awhile, but a few weeks later I was a CNAC mechanic on my way to Calcutta to catch a C-47 to Dinjan. Not quite the Himalayas, but closer to the monastery than I was.


When I met Kaufman in Calcutta he was ten years younger than he was when I met him at my merchant marine friend's home in Redondo Beach.

Not long after I started high school than I began working part time running errands for a man I call my Merchant Marine Friend. In May of 1942, ten years before I started working for him, he was on a Liberty ship that was in the process of positioning itself to join a convoy somewhere off the southeast coast of Florida when it was struck by two torpedoes from a U-boat. In order to save himself he had no choice but to jump overboard, landing in an area with oil and naphtha burning along the surface of the water, the fire burning his skin and the heat scorching his lungs as he plunged through and returned for air.

He was found alive strapped to a large piece of debris months later and hundreds of miles away from the site of the attack. One day during recovery, while being given a sponge bath in the hospital, he noticed a gold necklace around his neck. He never had a gold necklace in his life and when he asked the nurse about it she said as far as she knew he came in with it as it was found among the few personal effects he had with him. Some of the staff thought since he was so scarred by the burns that he might like a little beauty in his life so someone put it around his neck. He told me he had no clue where it came from or how it came into his possession, but for sure he didn't have it on before he was torpedoed. He said everybody always admired it and it appeared to be very ancient.

During the years I worked for the merchant marine a man by the name of Bob Kaufman came by to see him several times. Kaufman had been in the merchant marines as well, and it was through that connection they knew each other. Kaufman was also an up and coming poet in what would soon come to be known as the Beat Generation, eventually his creativity being heralded in the movement right alongside with that of Allen Ginsberg.

On one of the days Kaufman was visiting he noticed the necklace. After asking him about it, then asking if it was OK to look at it, the merchant marine, in that his hands were not nimble enough had him remove it. Kaufman examined every minute detail. When he was done he put the necklace back on the merchant marine and told him he was sure he had seen the exact same necklace once before. The merchant marine, so stunned it took what little air he had anyway away, gasping while searching for more air to respond, told Kaufman that was impossible because as far as he knew it was one of a kind, there was no other like it on our side of time. Kaufman told him some ten years before, during the early part of 1944, with the war still raging, he had sailed out of Philadelphia on board a Liberty ship headed toward India, ending up in Calcutta. He was stuck in Calcutta for about a month before being shipped out, sometime he thought, around the middle of May, 1944, albeit on a completely different ship than he came in on, called the S.S. Harold L. Winslow.

Kaufman said he had arrived in Calcutta on the S.S. James E. Eads, but missed shipping out because of a toothache. However, even before the toothache and the Eads leaving he said a man around 25 years old claiming he was an American soldier, although dressed in civilian clothes, came to the ship looking him. The man that claimed to be a soldier told him he knew that he, Kaufman, would be arriving in Calcutta onboard the Ead. Kaufman also said the soldier told him that the two of them had a mutual friend, another merchant marine, which just happened to be the same merchant marine he was visiting. Since Kaufman missed his ship and was stuck in Calcutta for who knew how long, he and the soldier, who he said, was waiting for a CNAC flight out over the "hump" to China, got together several times. It was during one of those times Kaufman first noticed the necklace and during one of those times he asked to see it, examining it very closely. He said, even though many years has passed since he had been in Calcutta and seen the necklace, it was so unique that there was no doubt that the one he saw that the soldier had and the one that he, the merchant marine was wearing, were exactly the same.

In Calcutta, as mentioned above in Paradox Six, I was pretty much free to do whatever I wanted. I knew a friend of my merchant marine friend by the name of Bob Kaufman was due to arrive in on a Liberty ship on May 13, 1944. Since I had met him as well I decided to go down to the docks, locate his ship, and look him up. Which I did.

When I first met Kaufman it was at my merchant marine friend's home in Redondo Beach while I was in high school and Kaufman had only just left the merchant marines some time before. In Calcutta I was in the military and a ten year older G.I. while Kaufman was a ten years younger merchant sailor. I remember well the day he was at the merchant marine's house. I had only just started high school by a few months and working for the merchant marine when Kaufman showed up for maybe the second time and truly took notice of the the necklace my friend always wore. Kaufman went over it the same way he went over it the day I was wearing it in Calcutta. It was easy to see as carefully as he marveled at the necklace in the second case that from both cases he determined it to be the same necklace, although from his perspective it couldn't possibly be.



A few years out of high school and traveling in Mexico with a high school friend of mine we had made our way south through almost the whole county when we decided to turn east toward the Yucatan to see the ancient Maya temple ruin complex of Chichen Itza. In the process of our travels we went to Oxkintok, one of, at least in those days and may even be so today, most unheard of and seldom visited Mayan ruins. Having done so, unbeknownst to either of us we crossed over the then unknown and yet to be discovered asteroid-caused 65 million year old 112 mile diameter outer rim of the Chicxulub crater, given credit now for the total extinction and demise of the dinosaurs.

On the first night inside the boundary of the impact's dry land portions outer ring onto what would be the crater floor, I had for some reason, become so uneasy and uncomfortable I wasn't able to sleep. We were planning to go to the Maya ruins of Dzibilchaltun, famous now for the Temple of the Seven Dolls and it's importance to the equinox, none of which either my buddy or I knew about at the time, the next day. Thinking I would be up most of the night I unpacked my telescope and set it up primarily to look at the Andromeda galaxy, spending most of my time trying to stay with the spiral's relative movement caused by the Earth's rotation without jiggling the scope so much I couldn't see it. Concentrating all my efforts on doing so, especially after installing a Barlow lens that doubled the scope's power, I completely lost track of time and place. Suddenly a chilling breeze or what was not quite a full wind caused from afar came up out of nowhere snapping me back to reality. Standing up to straighten my back and get the crick out of my neck as well as relax my eyes for a second, just as suddenly right in front of me and just as much out of nowhere as though she had been swept in by the sudden burst of wind, was an old woman. Short in stature with straight, pulled-back, nearly pure white hair and appearing to be of Maya extraction, she carried a gunnysack-like shoulder bag slung across her chest and back and under her arm filled with sticks as though she had been out collecting kindling wood or something. We just stood there looking at each other for what seemed the longest time.

Although what happened next between me, an unworldly just 20 year old boy-man not long out of high school and a little old Maya woman wielding unknown spiritual powers, ended in startling results --- only to repeat themselves again, albeit even harsher in my adult years. See:

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Over and over in my works I write about Captain Midnight, primarily because of the Captain Midnight Code-O-Graphs and the weaved thread of how one of the decoders impacted a large portion of my life from childhood through to adulthood. However, there was another childhood hero that had an impact on my life as well, and, unlike Captain Midnight, he was in a sense a time traveler. I'm speaking of, of course, Buck Rogers.

Buck Rogers was not a person of the 25th century, but from our times. He was, like Captain Midnight, a pilot in World War One. After the war, sometime around age 29 or so he got trapped in a mine permeated with a gas that "defied chemical analysis" which put him into a deep state of suspended animation. Five hundred years later the mine shaft reopened and he awoke to find himself alive and well into the 25th century.









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As to the subject of donations, for those of you who may be interested in doing so as it applies to the gratefulness of my works, I invariably suggest any funds be directed toward THE WOUNDED WARRIOR PROJECT and/or THE AMERICAN RED CROSS.

Footnote [1]

"That is to say, if the past and the future exist in the physical way that the present does, we have no way of knowing it, because we only experience the present. And yet, if the past and future don't exist, then what exactly are we measuring when we measure time?"









There is some rather substantial information regarding the life raft itself the woman of the couple I was fostered to reported seeing that I have, except in another footnote somewhere, really not delved into previously at any length.

While it is true the woman of the couple was far from clear regarding any survivors alive or dead or none at all in the letter she wrote to my dad, she did mention the raft itself --- slightly. Because of what she mentioned didn't really add up relative to anything I knew or was familiar with at the time I pretty much passed on it. The thing is, her description of what she said she saw and what I sluffed off, turned out to be closer to reality than not. She said what other passengers were claiming to be a life raft, to her, from the distance she saw it, it looked more like a bunch of barrels stuffed together in huge wooden orange crate than anything else. When I read the letter and tried to picture what she was talking about, the first thing that popped into my mind was a couple of model wooden trains I put together and painted from two kits when I was a kid.

One model was a train called the Dewitt Clinton and the other was the William Galloway, both early steam locomotives and both, to carry water, had little wooden barrels stacked into gondola cars behind the coal car. The rafts on the Tulagi, as pictured below and of which I only learned of many years after reading the woman's letter, were open 6 x 8 x 3 feet with forty-four gallon drums as flotation devices housed in open wooden frame. The rafts could be operated from either side and 10 persons could easily fit into each raft. If you compare the two graphics below you might get an idea why the wooden models from my childhood popped into my head.



There had to be in existence two of me at the same time, albeit occupying separate spaces. One of me quite possibly knowing my mother died, the other still having a mother alive, to wit:

As my mother's illness became more and more serious it became increasingly more difficult for my father to care for her as well as care for three young boys, so much so he decided to investigate the possibility of a full time care facility for her. One of the facilities was an around the clock full care sanatorium-like hospital in Santa Barbara, California. Although a good portion of the year 1943 is not totally clear down to the most minute detail I remember the Santa Barbara excursion well because the day my dad went to see the sanatorium not only did he take my mother along, but me as well --- with no brothers! So said, the trip had to have occurred before the end of the year 1943 because by Christmas of that year I was in India. The following, is found at the source so cited:

"My mother died when I was quite young. However, even before her death, because of her illness my father continued to have to work more and more hours to pay for mounting medical expenses. Through it all he found it extremely difficult to care for my two brothers and myself and work the hours he did. At first he dealt with it with regular day-to-day babysitting, then overnight and weekends with my grandparents and neighbors. Along the way a couple that just happened to be visiting our next door neighbors for Thanksgiving dinner, and of which we were invited to, offered to help by taking one of us kids fulltime. A few days later I was selected and basically fostered out, moving away from my brothers and family even before my mother passed away."


Hence, it is clear that at least up until Thanksgiving 1943 my mother, father, two brothers and myself were all alive and well living together under one roof in Redondo Beach, California, my whole family intact and in place, happily sharing a Thanksgiving meal with neighbors. Seven months later, on my way back from India, I was waiting for my uncle in a train station in Williams, Arizona, following the wreck of a train I was a passenger on. Having survived the wreck, in due time I was returned to California and temporarily placed under the guardianship of my grandmother, re the following from the source so cited:

"There I was, a young boy barely even closing down on six or seven years of age, not long returned from India, without a mother, having missed both her final days and her funeral as well."


IF, as it seems, my family was alive and well and intact up until Thanksgiving 1943 living in our family home in Redondo Beach, it would be then a straight line given that ten months earlier, in January of that year, my mother would be alive as part of that same family. It would also hold true then that I, as part of that integrated family unit, would be fully aware of her being an active part of that family. The train wreck occurred July 3, 1944 after which I was placed with my grandmother, albeit without, as I write, a mother, having missed both her final days and her funeral as well.

It was because of the train wreck I met the Native American spiritual elder in the first place and having done so only for the first time because of the wreck. No wreck, no meeting, no spiritual elder. It was also because of the spiritual elder that I was camping along the Rio Felix and met the three German prisoners of war. In January 1943 I was with my mother in Redondo Beach, she being very much alive by all that I have presented. I was with the POWs along the Rio Felix in New Mexico because while heading home from India, trekking across the desert with the spiritual elder I ended up along the river, the prisoners having escaped January 14, 1943. On the way home from India on the train I missed both my mother's final days and her funeral as well, meaning at the time she was no longer alive, even though while along the Rio Felix, taken there by the spiritual elder and having missed both her final days and her funeral as well, in January 1943, she was still alive.

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One morning before sunrise, after having learned a number of the ins-and-outs of the monastery, I went on a solo trip down the somewhat perilous darkened mountain path to a nearby village for reasons I don't recall. Returning to the monastery, after the long trek back found me only just crouched down in the fields some distance outside the walls doing my business before entering and in the process of doing so I felt the shadows of three men fall across my face. Apparently they had been snooping around the village for a day or two when, after they got up or were woke up, they heard the white monk was in town. They hastened along the trail in my wake in an effort to catch me before I entered the monastery and be beyond their reach.

Over the shoulders of two, with one in the hands of the other, were automatic weapons made of cold steel-gray machined metal with big long curved clips filled with bullets, all three men being the total antithesis to all I had been engaged in for so many months. Then, in what could be called nothing less than being kidnapped against my will at gunpoint by the three heavily armed military irregulars --- taken I guess fulfilling their somewhat iffy duty as hunters of the white monk --- and except for a bag I had with me was I allowed to have or get anything, I was lashed hands and feet to a two man over-the-shoulder pole and carried dangling lengthwise between my tied wrists and ankles toward the escarpment, then, once down, transported back to known civilization.