Samson Stars in Broad Daylight

1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-1-4835-6546-0
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 356 Seiten

When, at age 39, the author is diagnosed with a life-threatening illness for which there is no cure or treatment, he joins his best friend, Claire, on a vision quest to New Mexico, where, at The Light Institute - a pioneer in past-life regression therapy - he relives a harrowing past-life in a Nazi concentration camp that illuminates the dark fate joining that lifetime with his current one, sowing the seeds for a broader personal inquiry into the spiritual meaning of suffering. That age-old dilemma sends him to modern-day Germany, into the arms of a great Indian avatar, known as 'Mother Meera.' She gives him the courage to forge ahead in his search for a cure, motivating him to undertake an experimental, highly-sought-after therapy in Italy. In due course, he is compelled to let go of everything he thought he knew and surrender to the terrifying path his life has put him on. Although he is shattered on every imaginable level, the transformation he undergoes opens the author to an ecstatic vision of wholeness that quite literally changes his life.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Samson, Robert

Leseproben

CHAPTER 2 I rolled over, squinting to see the face of the alarm clock: 8:20 AM… Better get my ass out of bed if I’m going into the city. I could see my breath it was so fucking cold! I pulled the sheet up over my head and focused on what I would wear to The River Café, something warm enough for a trip to the city. I had a dull headache. Climbing off the plywood platform, I grabbed a terrycloth robe and cranked-up the heater full-blast, shuffling over to the rust-stained toilet. The muted morning light revealed the full extent of last night’s carnage: shards of glass, twisted chunks of hydrocal ripped from their metal armatures, jagged slices of fiberglass, perforated styrofoam and splinters of plywood…everywhere! I spotted the mahogany mask face-up on the wooden stool where I left it. Tiptoeing through the minefield in my bare feet, I snatched the sole survivor of seven years of work and carried it over to the long wall of windows. Fog obscured the city, last night’s blizzard having sputtered to a flurry. I could barely make out the outlines of parked cars above the drifting snow…I stared at the features of the partially-abstracted face, waiting for it to stir me… I don’t have time for this now, carefully leaning it against the brick wall under the windowsill. I walked over to the closet and pulled down a turquoise linen shirt and a pair of herringbone trousers. I found a cashmere pullover in the filing cabinet alongside some flannel boxers. Stepping into my scuffed-up motorcycle boots, I threw my shaving kit and workout clothes into my backpack, grabbing my bomber jacket…slamming the door behind me, double-locking it from the outside. The snow was knee-high to the door, forcing me to carve a path all the way to the station. By the time I got there my boots were soaked clear through the leather soles. The train was empty, it being Saturday and the city still crippled from the storm. All the way over I kept flashing on the red-headed woman… Exiting at Chelsea Station, I decided to treat myself to breakfast at my old-favorite haunt. The Empire Diner, on the corner of Tenth Avenue and Twenty-Third Street, was a Deco jewel box of black glass and polished chrome that the staff incessantly “Windexed” to a toxic gleaming shine. Open twenty-four-seven, it was “last call” after the leather bars on the waterfront kicked everyone out. I capped-off many an unsuccessful night at “The Eagle” with early morning pancakes at The Diner. I sat by the large plate glass windows, gazing out at the sea of whiteness. The snow had frozen, transforming everything into a glistening confection of meringues and cornices…Out of nowhere, the red-headed woman intruded on my reverie… Was there time to start over? I watched a man in a red woolen cap carrying a kid on his shoulders, laughing exuberantly… How long had it been since I felt happy for no reason…recalling the countless hours spent alone in my studio, welding iron and carving wood; sculpting clay and molding rubber; casting fiberglass until I could literally taste it. Sure I loved it, but where had it gotten me..? Maybe it deserved to be tossed in the dumpster. I looked down at my hands…Did it all begin and end with this body or was there more to me? Did anything survive the disintegration? I imagined telling my mother, immediately overcome with such visceral dread I started sweating…Impossible! Complicated as our relationship was, there was no way in hell I could dump this on her; certain losses just couldn’t be born. Twenty years ago my father died of lung cancer eight months shy of her fiftieth birthday. Six years later her second husband died a month after they retired to Florida. My younger brother died of MS barely a year ago. I was all she had left; the only thing standing between her and a bottomless pit. A waitress with spiky, blue-black hair came by to take my order, tempting me with the house special breakfast: breaded pork chop with biscuits and gravy, eggs and grits. I decided I’d better leave room for lunch, ordering a toasted bagel with bacon and eggs over easy. The strong black coffee left a bitter taste in my mouth. I asked for more cream; she put it down with a well-rehearsed indifference. I ate ravenously…After my third mug of coffee I waved for the check. A blast of wind sealed the heavy plate glass door shut, taking three tries to push the damn thing open. There were hardly any cars on the street and the sidewalks remained unshoveled, so I trudged down the middle of 23rd Street all the way to the “Y,” directly across from the legendary Chelsea Hotel. The locker room smelled of mildew and “Pinesol.” I changed into my workout clothes and took the elevator up to the weight room: a large open space with high ceilings and clerestory windows. Registering the familiar clang of iron as I walked in, I spotted Kevin over at the bench press. Ah, Kevin…If marble could reincarnate Kevin was undoubtedly “David,” so uncanny was the resemblance: same noble brow and chiseled nose, same pouty lips and helmet of curls. We dated for a year, but I broke it off a month ago. Hailing from Abbeville, South Carolina, Kevin had done everything in his power to scrape the mud off his boots and lose the Southern drawl, but the redneck in him kept rising to the surface. In the end he wasn’t “David” after all, but a sweet southern hick, disinclined to pondering anything deeper than which Polo tie to wear to work. I lost interest. While the breakup had been amicable, he kept his distance whenever he saw me. “Need a spot?” I joked, sneaking up behind him. “Actually I do,” he replied nonchalantly. “How are you?” I asked with genuine interest, positioning my hands on the iron bar. “One, two, three…” Kevin pumped the barbell as I counted. “Seven, eight…push it! c’mon man, give me two more, push it up!” I mock-commanded, helping him on the last rep. He paused to catch his breath. “Real good…Crazy at work, as usual…And you?” “Okay…you know, life of the struggling artist.” “How’s that going?” he asked, feigning interest. “Not so good at the moment,” I admitted, noticing a cute Puerto Rican walking through the door. “Seeing anyone?” “Too busy,” he said…“Do you wanna do one?” “Sure,” I said, switching places with him. I did ten reps without any help from Kevin. “So, what’s happening tonight? Anything going on?” I asked, feeling the burn in my pec muscles. “You don’t know?” I shrugged. “Closing party at ‘The Saint,’” he snapped, as if it were a coronation. “Wow! End of an era, huh?” Kevin didn’t respond, picking up my subtle tone of mockery. After an awkward lull he mumbled, “Gotta keep going,” channeling his annoyance into the following set, pumping out ten more with no assistance from me. “Good set,” I grinned, looking at his face upside down. Even from that angle its perfect symmetry commanded attention. “When are you gonna stop punishing me?” I asked abruptly. Kevin just laid there silently, drops of sweat beading on his forehead. He got up and faced me, eye to eye. “Never,” he smiled cattily “Do you want me to spot you, ‘cause otherwise I’m out of here?” “Only if you really want to,” I replied flirtatiously. Truth was, there was something imminently likeable about Kevin, even if he wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box. In that moment I really wanted his friendship…maybe “with benefits.” Kevin rolled his eyes. I took my place on the bench and pumped out ten more, Kevin barely helping on the last one. Pausing to catch my breath, I smelled my armpits. “You are such an asshole,” he quipped. “You always dug it,” I grinned, feeling slightly embarrassed. “You’re the one who ended it,” he shot back. I followed him to the rack of dumbbells, placing my hand on the back of his neck. “So, who’s at ‘The Saint?’” “Boy, you really are out of the loop,” he mocked. “Only Grace Jones,” pulling out from under my hand. “Are you fucking with me?” I asked, fully focused. “No…Bet you wish you could come, don’t you?”...