The Process is an account of life changing, breath taking, hair raising, spine tingling psychic experiences, metamorphosing into orgasmic enlightenment.
Excerpt:
I am Jeremiah, This was my beginning this time around. Prior to the age of five I remember nothing. At this tender age I made an attempt on the life of a child of comparable age.
I had no recollection of what I had done till years later. At age fifteen I was lying in the blue-green grass of a city park, a few blocks from my home, staring off into the summer sky watching my personally directed
fantasies run across the inner screen of my mind’s eye. I settled back,enjoying what I was seeing. When suddenly like a rush, came the realization : “ I’ve lost control of the story !! “
My mechanical mind seemed to be creating it, avoiding assistance from my will. At first this frightened me. I thought : “ Can my mind run away any place it wants to with me inside it ? – like a child trapped inside an all night movie ? . . . . . . . . .
NO ! There must be a reason for this. I calmed down and watched more closely. “ Somewhere I’ve seen this before. “ Then I understood. The mind wasn’t running away with me. There was a very simple explanation.
While daydreaming I had triggered a sense-memory-reaction to a previous experience. I was now viewing an instant replay of that experience.
In that replay. I had just walked out of the house. As I turned to my right and stepped off the stairs, I saw a new kid on the block. I was delighted.
I walked up to him and said : “ Hi ! My name is Jerry. “
He had a red and yellow pail in his hand. It was the kind that kids used to play in sandboxes with. At that time there were two kinds of pails.
The tin ones, and the well made iron ones. He had one of the iron ones, with a large sturdy iron shovel in it. The boy looked directly at me while seemingly making some kind of decision in his mind. It showed on his face as a
look of decisive arrogance.
I watched him take the shovel out of his pail with his left hand, and raise it high above his head. He looked like a Nazi saluting the sun at high noon. He then brought it down, straight armed to strike directly between my eyes and across my forehead with the flat end of the shovel.
I stood there staring through the white splashes of spark-like nebula which burst before my eyes as the shovel made its contact.
