Sunday, May 25, 2014

A Major 7th Eulogy


Jaye Beldo

I never attended the funeral of my brother Jim as I found out second hand that he had passed on in 2010. An unknown woman, apparently a friend, spread his ashes somewhere on a lake in Northern Minnesota.

All I have are sparse memories to go on to complete the picture.  One photo I recall revealed a time in his life when he played in Doo Wop bands back in the 50's, wearing the requisite shiny suit and tie. He didn't look to happy posing for the pics.

He once told me that he handed a fellow named Robert Zimmerman an electric guitar in Dinkytown in Minneapolis and that the soon to be famous bard told him that it was the first time he ever played one.
A net search of my brother's name has turned up You Tube videos posted by a fellow musician. He never told me about any of these recording gigs:

The most vivid recollections of my brother are his coming home from time to time after touring with various bands-mostly in the Chicago land area back in the 70's. I'd beg him to show me lounge licks and he would pull his guitar out of a battered case and demonstrate them with great reluctance.  "Cocktail chords." He'd call them with a tinge of bitterness, mostly Major 7ths and the like.  His guitar playing was brilliant in that he could listen to a song and then perform  it instantly in nearly any style. He'd always mock what he was playing too, especially Country Western which he hated. He would perform 'I Walk the Line' in such a manner and would alienate quite a few listeners this way. Truly an inspiration for my own satirical songs.

Lady Luck wasn't on Jimmy's side very often.  I recall the two of us on the Balmoral golf course  in west central Minnesota over thirty years ago one summer day. He attempted an approach shot on one hole, but the golf ball sailed through a tree. A bird then fell from a branch and near the pin, D.O.A. The ball somehow rolled onto the green afterward, adding even more irony to the situation. My brother dropped his golf club on the fairway and covered his face. I felt so helpless as it pretty much summed up his hard life. I can't remember if he made a birdie or not on that hole.

The closest I ever felt to Jim was when the two of us were in a rowboat fishing and a pair of Loons approached us, both diving under the boat and coming up on the other side, then circling us several times before paddling off. They were so close we could see their brilliant ruby eyes. 

 Such is my tragically sparse and very belated eulogy on this Memorial day weekend. I love you so much dear brother and hope you're playing in a bandstand in heaven where Major 7ths are forever banned. Johnny Cash too.

(C)2014-Jaye Beldo

Monday, May 5, 2014

California Portraitures: Woodstock


Jaye Beldo

Exiting the Dollar Store, I tried to pass by a man sitting on the ground with some jewelry for sale. A cane lay by his side.

"A donation will get you one of these." He said, gesturing towards his display. "Trying to raise money for a motel tonight. Otherwise me and my wife will have to sleep outside."

Sitting on the sidewalk  with him, I listened to his story:

"I've had four strokes. I don't even exist. They took my Social Security number away from me when I was in Ohio. They send my checks back to me when I try to pay my taxes. The strokes were a good thing though. They have wiped out nearly all of my memory. The beatings mostly."

I told him about this blog and how I've been writing about the en masse loss of compassion and empathy. He had tears in his eyes.

"I know. I have the light of truth in me and they don't like it."

The light really was in his eyes. I dug a meager ten spot out of my pocket and gave it to him. I just couldn't fork out more. People walked by us and wouldn't even respond when he asked them to look at his handicraft. Some of the pieces were pretty intricate and involved.

 "I lost over a million dollars. Produced a girl  punk band and they were going to appear on T.V. When it fell through, I was charged for the advertising slots that were supposed to air. Mafia guy threatened to break my bones. I walked into his office with a check and he already had the contract drafted to cut me loose. I could have split to the Bahamas instead."

I told him how I lost everything back in Minnesota and how a wealthy woman told me to get my hair cut and work at a McDonald's after I drove 1600 miles out to Idaho to write a book about her hot springs resort.

Another man approached and we got into a discussion about who is on the lowest rung of the ladder. He said musicians were, but I disagreed and said that writers have been occupying that coveted nadir the longest. Woodstock said that artists were the lowest and looked at his unsold jewelry.

About an hour later, still no sales although someone gave my new friend some scissor hash. It was getting a bit cold and I had to leave. When driving away, I went over many of his spiritual observations he shared and thought he was quite right on. Such as his admonition not to climb up into the mountains in Big Sur as many whites have never returned from there. He said only native peoples could sufficiently navigate the terrain, spiritually and otherwise.

Then it hit me. The dream I had in 2010 when I was about to head out to the coast to meet with a would be writer who hired me to edit his book. He invited me to his 380 acre spread on the ocean in Big Sur and was going to let me stay there to work on his manuscript. In the dream I was riding up a chairlift from the ocean to his place and when I got there it was filled with mentally retarded, elderly and very ill people requiring much care. A native American man looked at me as I was about to get off the chairlift and said, "You take care of yourself." With such urgency and import that I woke up crying, something that has never happened in all of my dream life.

With dollar signs in my eyes, I ignored the warning and headed across the plains and down into Moab, Utah where I stayed for awhile, proofing the guy's mediocre writing. The day before leaving for Big Sur, I had another premonitory dream: The 'author' and I were wading across a stream filled with beer cans. He slipped and fell down this concrete embankment and smashed his head clear open on some rocks. Waking up, I signed on only to find an e-mail from him which stated that he had to cancel because his 'partner' was going to be there and I couldn't come out to the coast. Nothing like telling me that before leaving from Minnesota.

I was out about 20K with that one and refused to refund the money he had already sent me. But Woodstock confirmed something and it has given me some peace of mind, that if I had gone out there, I very well may have gotten lost myself, in the mountains of the author's own delusions or perhaps my own. With no sufficient bearings, it could have been an inevitable terminus indeed without some indigenous help. Re-reading my dream, I vowed never to ignore such warnings again.

Unable to sleep, wondering if my new friend and his wife were left out in the cold, images of other down and out, broken hearted people I've met in California paraded through my mind: The elderly man in Crescent City that had to take care of his four grandchildren, an artist I met in Trinidad who was left out on the street in a wheelchair by his girlfriend, the woman outside a Wal Mart near Joshua Tree asking for money for her 24 year old daughter who had non-Hodgkin lymphoma , the meth addict breast feeding her baby outside a post office in Willits, their only commonality being that they were both toothless.

Waking up the next morning in my motel room, an image from the dream, lingered. I was on the chairlift at the summit of the Big Sur retreat. The Native American man was silent and looked at me expectantly, along with all of the downtrodden denizens of that particular lift station.

Unable to disembark, all of my friends waited for me to decide. The piece of polished quartz Woodstock gave me lay on the bedside table. Putting it in my palm, I tried using it to scry  my own heart and somehow prepare for what lay ahead.

(C)2014-Jaye Beldo

Jaye Beldo is the author of A Stab in the Light,
 a New Age Murder Mystery available @:

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Tide Pool Labyrinths


Jaye Beldo

A rather haggard looking woman, much too thin, stood at the edge of my campsite and  asked me for some quarters. Her clothes were clean and ironed nicely. She gave me a handful of dimes in return.

"I heard your music this morning."

I had been playing scales in the Layover tuning that seemed to match those of the mountains when I heard them sing one day.

Not knowing what to say, I shared my early morning experience with her and how I tried working my way to a pod of Sea Lions hauled up on some rocks further out. Entranced by the Chitons, Sculpin, Turban Snails and Hermit Crabs, I couldn't help get sucked into a world quite alien to someone landlocked  in the mountains for far too long. Sea Anemones, tentacled mandalas fluorescent green in hue, waved as I passed by. My brethren, the crabs, retreated from me upon site.  But I couldn't retreat from the woman before me.  She did a circle and looked towards her site, then back at me. Nothing I said seemed to register a response.

"I need to take a shower. It's a dollar for five minutes." She said with a hint of sadness and looked at the coins I gave her in her palm.

"Are you on vacation?" I asked, plunking the scales again.

I looked up from my guitar but she was gone, having receded back into the pelagic flora bordering the  trails.

After packing up my gear, I took a shower myself. When I came out and she was in the parking lot wearing white rimmed sunglasses, sun hat and a sharp looking vest. She turned toward the bathrooms, walked over and opened one of the doors, paused, then turned back towards me. I got into the car, backed out and waved good bye. She backed into the bathroom. I put the dimes she gave me in the drink coaster and drove through the shaded tangle of ocean gnarled conifers. Unfamiliar birdsong pierced the din of  uncertainty, confusion and I kept my window down in hopes it would all dissipate. In the rear view mirror, I could see her looking at me from the door. She didn't wave.

How could I help someone trapped in a Tide Pool labyrinth like me? I wondered, unable to hear the radiative death knell in the roar of the Pacific undertow, a ghost echo answer that lingered in my ears for quite some time, as I drove down Highway One looking for higher shores.

(C)2014-Jaye Beldo

Jaye Beldo is the author of A Stab in the Light,
 a New Age Murder Mystery available @:


Sunday, April 27, 2014

A Huckster's Enlightenment


Jaye Beldo

The other day I attempted to confide my sorrow to Grant  in regards to a person close to me who faces a life threatening illness and the doctors's grim prognosis of her condition. My work associate paused as he drove and searched his brain a bit:

"Well, I'm sure the transition team is already around her. Great White Brotherhood. Energy vortexes abound. There'll be a bit of sorrow for the few that are around her."

The homeless waif in the back seat that he scored (see :  ), looked at him like one of those Big Eye paintings by Margaret Keane. No doubt he conned her into shacking up with him with such metaphysical tripe. I didn't respond and got out of the truck. He came around and walked by my side, not realizing that I was trying to get away from him. He set me up with a sideways glance:

"Enjoy your zen." He said, with a smarmy, flim flam grin only an oily, Texas reprobate could muster with such convincement. I was no doubt to interpret the expression as something resembling sincere compassion. Such was his enlightened dismissal of my woe. I felt like urinating on his A Course in Miracles and Your Immortal Reality books laying on the dirty couch next to his wine glasses and spliff roaches, but refrained from doing so, as it is impossible to insult a buffoon, especially one attempting to operate on a cosmic scale.

I pray daily against people like this. Psalm 109 to be exact.

(C)2014-Jaye Beldo

Jaye Beldo is the author of A Stab in the Light,
 a New Age Murder Mystery available @:

Sunday, April 20, 2014

The Christ Conspiracy


Jaye Beldo

Note: In all my time as a book reviewer there is really only one review that I regret allowing to be published and that is The Christ Conspiracy review posted on the Konformist.Com. Pressured by the author herself, one Acharya S. (real name Murdoch), I caved in and watered the original review down - putting this oddly palliative goddess spin on it that I concocted ad hoc from what I now believe to be a rather dubious realm: a dimension of ill repute. However, my conscience has gnawed at me continually on this matter and I attempted to post a segment of the original review on Amazon.Com. Not surprisingly Ms. S. ordered it taken down shortly afterwards and Amazon, sad to say, caved into her demands. It puzzles me that if Acharya is so sure of her theory of the non-existence of Christ why she would be threatened by my review at all. I've come across the 'Christ never existed' bit before in David Icke's The Biggest Secret , Mark Amaru Pinkham's The Myth of Christ: The Redemption of the Peacock Angel and more recently in Brian Desborough's They Cast no Shadows. I'm surprised that it hasn't dawned on these authors that perhaps the Piso family who allegedly concocted the Jesus myth for the masses were so vibrationally freaked out by the presence of the Christ and his threat to the imperium (via his unconditional love) that they spun a story making him appear to be unbelievable. No reading between the Roman spin lines for these revisionists however. I recommend James Patrick Holding’s Tektonics site for further elucidation on this matter:

Acharya S. needs to move past her penchant for Avatar bashing and do something more proactive with her talents.

The Christ Conspiracy
Acharya S.
Book Review by Jaye Beldo

"I take great glee in telling the truth." Acharya S. author of 'The Christ Conspiracy: The Greatest Story ever Sold' told me. In her controversial tome, she claims that Jesus Christ never existed, that the God Man/Man God was simply a bit of stagecraft caprice, a mere fabrication of the Roman Aristocracy to keep the unwashed masses down as well as out for the count of their long lasting reign. She surely provides an impressive smorgasbord of erudite evidence supporting her claim to the truth. A scan of the book's bibliography which includes such amazing oddities as Anacalypsis by Godfrey Higgins as well as the works of GRS Mead and Sir James Frazer will prove that. But aside from her obviously fecund and thorough scholarship to back up her forensic claim, what exactly is the truth she is so sure of conveying to us?

I suggest, to counter her stake in an ultimate Christ Hoax where the Lamb of God's wool has been pulled over our eyes for the last 2K years, is that if Jesus was indeed a mere fabrication, we should then give profound thanks to the fabricators and not despise them as cavalier perpetrators of a great lie. No, we should not thank them for the institutionalized horrors that 'Christ-Insanity' has generated over the centuries, such as the Catholic Church and its inhumane inquisitions, but rather for the wily hatchers's profoundly brilliant if not deliciously nefarious imaginations. I don't think Acharya realizes what it would take to create such a story in the first place. I doubt that you or I could ever conjure up such a tale, even on our best tall tale day out on the back porch with a pint of whiskey, a two by four and a whittling knife. It would take one hell of a sophisticated imagination to pull the Christ story out of the air of heaven, let alone to disseminate the information in a convincing way and make it seem so dramatically real. If it really was that they indeed pulled off the Jesus con, then Kyrie Kudos to those crooks!

 Acharya S.: Avatar Basher

One need only to appreciate the art, music, poetry and literature that the Christ Mythos has generated over the centuries ranging from Bach's 'Jesu: The Joy of Man's Desiring' to El Greco's 'Assumption of the Virgin' to the vibrant Byzantine Mosaics to the breathless grandeur of 12th C. French Cathedrals. One need only to meditate for a few quiet moments on Leonardo's St. Ann and his tormentors or even Holbein's stark cartoon The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb. How about considering the little shop of horrors found in the visions of Colette of Corbie, the 15 C. Fransican reformer, where Christ appeared to her as a dish of 'carved-up flesh like that of a child.' (see this described in the work 'The Female body and Religious Practice in the Later Middle Ages' by Caroline Walker Bynum in ZONE Fragments for a History of the Human body Part One) God, without the Christ, we wouldn't have Frank Zappa's song, St. Alfonso's Pancake Breakfast! Without the Christ cozenage, we would have virtually none of these masterpieces of art,vision and parody. History, as well as our hearts, would be pretty barren places without them.

No mere conspirators bent on world control could inspire artists, poets, troubadours, bards and musicians for so many centuries if there wasn't something so catalytically spiritual in the Christ Mythos itself. Perhaps this is the pearl of irony that has been hidden away for so long and thanks to Acharya's efforts has now come out. I suggest that a little bit of light, something spiritually genuine, purely inspired, came out of these Imperial damage control dispatches Archaya convincingly describes and miraculously insinuated itself into the official storyline like the descent of the Dove into the lord at the Baptism of Jesus himself.

No cabal could compel people aspiring to love and freedom to align themselves to the Christ archetype in so many astonishingly strange and esoteric ways and risk facing persecution by the official church. No Tyrant spin doctors could have created such things as charity, forgiveness, the ability to ward off evil, the desire to help others if the light hadn't escaped through the chink in their propaganda armor to not only expose them but to benignly betray them as being highly vulnerable to their own game. I sense that these apocalyptic engineers will someday resurrect if not liberate themselves if we let them simply by acknowledging the favors they have unintentionally given us. I already see the ascent of the PR thugs at Hill and Knowlton and other lie agencies into the love and light of eternity.

Perhaps Acharya will someday set aside her totalizing polemic against the Christ myth and consider the esoteric dimensions of his mystery. I suggest she experience the works of Rudolph Steiner or even Drunvalo Melchizedek for a momentary change of perspective. I suggest she meditate on the Christ consciousness grid of the earth as spelled out in Bob Frisell's book, Something in this Book is True as a possible means to ward off the negative NWO matrix. Maybe a consideration of optimist Barbara Marx Hubbard's work 'Revelations' is in store as a part of her future scholarly endeavors. I only suggest these works because I worry that Ms. S. will inevitably join the likes of Frederick Crews who has devoted his life to crucifying poor ol' Sigmund Freud or that she'll join the 'School of Resentment' as Harold Bloom names the legions of loveless deconstructionists and revisionist hacks that plague our Politically Correct Universities. I trust that Acharya is more intelligent, more sensitive than that.

(c) 2008-Jaye Beldo

postscript: I wrote this review prior to knowing that Drunvalo has a CIA handler and that Hubbard actually promotes genocide (see Treason by Gurudas for more info on this.)

Friday, April 18, 2014

Ocean in a Bucket


Jaye Beldo

She circled the jumbo magic marker around and around the brass bowl she palmed and finally got the thing to ring as we labored up the mountain road in the work truck. She wore peacock feather earrings, fringe leather boots and smoked a clove cigarette. My co-worker beamed with pride as he drove. I did my best to make sure that my furtiveness was covert.

While we were down by the river, she examined a bit of geologic artistry in the form of some granite marbled rock. Her dog took advantage of the distraction and got into the water. The current swept her away but she was able to bail on a rock outcropping, then leapt to shore. The young woman scolded the pooch when it returned and threw her embroidered jacket over its head. She then rolled a joint and offered some to me but I declined. The dog remained in the silken, penal darkness and would not move.

As the bowl rang, I was left wondering where Grant met her. Probably under some bridge on the 101 he most likely scouts on a regular basis for such prizes. He claimed it was a vegan coffee shop but I doubted it.

When we got up top she came over and sat with me, then confessed that she was tired of chasing illusions. I strummed some Aeolian chords on my travel guitar and bit my tongue. When asked where she was coming from, her reply was, "I was camping." A euphemism for being homeless in these parts, no doubt.

"Cool." I replied, modulating my response with a barely audible riff of incidental music, in the key of A minor.

The next morning, I couldn't figure out the orange colored, plastic Home Depot bucket right outside my trailer . It even had a lid on it. Grant came out of the garage when he saw me using it for a coffee table while soaking in the sun.

"Finally, some ocean water for you."

It was truly out of place in my estimation, like his botched Just-For-Men job that left his hair and beard a shade short of absolute black. It was patently odd, like the time Grant went down to base camp from the job site and returned about a half hour later with A Course in Miracles book. He sat in the pick up while it idled, read a few paragraphs and stared out the window while I continued mixing concrete for the post holes. Had to bite my tongue on that one as well.

"It's a miracle." I said and returned to scrawling something dark in my journal, wondering why he thought I needed it. The chick was hanging on Grant's yoga ropes, dangling over a small trampoline behind him, unsure of what move to do. I was tempted to put my feet up on the bucket while I watched her perform but out of respect for the ocean, refrained from doing so.

I did some raking after they left and discovered slivers of a mica like substance where Grant had parked his car. It was dark, purplish blue and a bit translucent. Tourmaline? Zultanite? I couldn't tell as I had pitched my stone books years ago along with all the stones. I plucked some out of the pea gravel and examined it in the sun. It was different than the Kyanite his previous catch had placed on my kitchen table before she left and looked like it had been run over. Gathering up a handful of the slivers, I deposited some on a shattered slice of agate about an inch thick that was laying next to a metal cookie container filled with stinking compost. Then, I put some on the rusted trampoline parts that lay in plastic bins half filled with water. Grant told me it would activate my cellular body-jumping up and down on the thing. Maybe the gem offering I made would speed up the process of it getting assembled, along with the bicycle, the inversion machine that would stretch a persons spine an inch or two if you used it long enough and the wheat grass juicer as well.

I tossed what remained of slivers into the enormous pile of ash left after days of burning brush. After saying a little prayer, I wondered what else Grant would bring up the mountain in order to fulfill his manhood flaunting needs in the days to come and whether or not I'd be getting another delivery of ocean water as a form of recompense.

(C)2014-Jaye Beldo