Dirty Work

by Bull, Rod;

  Suddenly, I was back at that house with no doors. This time there were more rooms lit up. It struck me, Why not try to use astral projection in these two rooms?

  In a flash, I was looking into a brightly lit room. It seemed like some kind of laboratory. People in protective suits were looking through microscopes. There were also animals in cages: mice, rats, monkeys, small deer. Some of the people were injecting tiny insects under the microscopes with something, then placing them on the animals.

  The room was sealed. What were they doing? Some of the workers started to leave, and eventually they all left. Not taking any chances this time, as I was not sure if I was invisible to these people, I waited for the last person to leave. Again, all I had to do was to think “be in the room” and there I was. There were many glass vials with these tiny insects in them. Like a bolt of lightning it hit me—these were the very insects I had seen in that strange land I had visited before while in astral travel. There were other glass vials labeled with the names of different viruses and containing more of these insects. The viruses had been injected into these tiny insects, and then the insects were placed on the animals in the cages.

  I must have been shouting or shaking, as I started to hear Chris’ voice trying to bring me back. His voice seemed very distant: “On the count of three you will wake up,” he was saying. “One . . . two . . . THREE!” Nothing happened. Chris started to shout, “Wake up, wake up, wake up!” Again, nothing. At that point, I realized I was out of the hypnotic state, and in my astral body—a double illusion. Could I just think myself back? Think of Chris, think of Chris’ room? Trying to will myself back, suddenly I found myself in another room, in the same house. There was a figure in the corner, face to the wall, something familiar. As it slowly turned towards me, I recognized it as the being I had seen before, but not so deformed. It was starting to look like me. Was this my illusory double? Its lips were moving, but no sound came. It started to get agitated, pointing, waving its arms. The repeating lip movements were the same. It was trying to point something out to me. Why couldn’t I hear? Were we in different dimensions? The being started to shout, pointing with each lip movement. Suddenly, its mouth grew wide, a scream piercing the invisible veil between us. At that moment, I could hear Chris screaming, “Wake the fuck up!” In an instant, I was back in my body in Chris’ room.

  “Fuck this! Enough of this bollocks!” Chris was shouting. “No more! I have been trying to get you back for hours!” It was dark outside. I must have been out for eight hours or more. Chris was frantic. “No more, no more,” he kept repeating.

  Road to Morocco

  Pierre and I met up again in Istanbul and decided to travel together to Lebanon. We got stuck on the Turkish-Syrian border. There was a little café right on the border, and the owner let us sleep on the roof. We could watch all of the comings and goings from this viewpoint.

  Early one morning, an old Bedford bus arrived. Each person was carrying some sort of bottle. They all disappeared into the hills and then returned in the evening. Some were crawling, some were staggering, some not moving at all. One man came towards me, pushing a bottle in my face. He motioned for me to drink from the bottle. I took a nip, nearly passing out; my mouth caught light then went numb. The fumes went through my sinuses, making my eyes water. This was raw moon-shine. Someone had a still in the hills. This was a very dangerous thing, as Muslims are not meant to drink.

  One of the more sober Turks was trying to sell us some carved figures, saying that they were very old. Later we found out that someone was carving these figures up in the hills. We decided to go and look for him. After a lot of climbing, we found a little hut. Looking inside, we saw an old man. He was looking at a copy of the London Illustrated News that was opened to the Sotheby’s Auction section. There were pictures of Greco-Roman sculptures, which he was copying. He would then bury them or put them into streams so that they looked worn and old. He would sell or barter these, trading for tobacco, cigarettes, lighters, penknives, and whatever else was used in this trading.

  Pierre and I decided to split up and meet again in Beirut. Between each border, there was a no-man’s land of 15 to 20 kilometers. It was difficult to get a lift between the borders so I decided to walk at night, as it was too hot to walk during the day. While I was walking, a pack of dogs appeared. Each time I looked around they were closer to me. I picked up some rocks and threw one at the lead dog. This was not a smart move as it just made them very angry. They got so close that they could spring at any moment, so I picked up more rocks, standing facing them. If they made a move, I made a move. This went on for what seemed like hours. All the time I was terrified. These dogs were big and wild-looking. I just did not know what to do. I was also getting tired. The dogs seemed ready to leap at any moment. Then suddenly I heard a whistling and someone calling. It was getting light, and over the hill came a young girl. The dogs ran over to her, jumping up and licking her face. She was looking after her sheep and these were her dogs. I felt relieved but also embarrassed that a young girl could call off the dogs like that. At one moment it seemed that the dogs would rip me apart—next, they were licking the girl’s face. Funny, things can change so fast.

  I got to the Syrian border. Two cars had passed all day. It was getting late. A car pulled up. They motioned me to get in. They asked me where I was going. “Lebanon,” I replied. Then they told me that they were the police and for my own safety I should stay in the police station that night. I was not sure whether they were arresting me or just being nice. Anyway, I decided to stay because it was late and there were no cars.

  Europeans, particularly English, were not welcome in Syria. People had been disappearing and also being stoned, so it was a good idea to stay at the station. The next day, I was lucky to get a ride straight through to Beirut.

  Of course, Pierre was already there. We were in Beirut for about a week, unable to get a visa through Israel, as there was a war on. Pierre was getting edgy about his girlfriend Stella and decided to return to England. I decided to try to get through to North Africa.

  As usual, I had little money, so I would sleep on the beach at night, until one morning, feeling something sharp sticking me and hearing voices, I opened my eyes. To my horror, there were soldiers around me with fixed bayonets.

  “Fuck off!” I shouted.

  They certainly understood that and took me to the army barracks and looked through my papers. They asked me what I was doing there. I told them I didn’t know there was a war on. Apparently, it was against the law to sleep on the beach, mainly because it was very dangerous. They let me go with a warning, “Get out of Lebanon fast!”

  Pierre had given me some speed before he left, which I used in the evening to keep me awake all night. I would order a coffee and sip it all night long. The speed worked in a weird way for me. I could not stop writing. Usually I hate writing, and reading it later, it made little sense.

  It was a lot harder to get out of Beirut than I thought. Someone I met said he could get me work on a boat to Alexandria. After about three weeks, I was still there and had managed to buy a ticket to Alexandria. Walking down to the docks, I met the man who was trying to get me work on the boat and told him that I had purchased the ticket. He told me to go with him back to their shipping office. He showed them my ticket, saying something to them in Arabic. They gave me my money back, plus a new ticket. It amazed me when things like that happened. Suddenly the world was good again.

  In fact, I had met this man before, around the harbor in Beirut. We had had many conversations about the Bible. I’m not sure if he was Christian or Muslim—he certainly knew a lot about both. He told me about some of the mistranslations in the Bible, and this started me thinking about what Gurdjieff had said. How much of any of these past Masters’ lives were recorded accurately, and what kind of bias was put on the stories?

  This man seemed very practical in his approach to religious and esoteric ideas, reminding me of the approach of the Sufi poet Rumi, whose shrine I
had visited in Isfahan while the muezzins were calling. The Koran was being sung, a cross between crying and wailing. The eerie sound echoed around the domes of the mosques. This calling was hypnotic but empty, pulsing out into the cobalt blue space, almost as if nobody was there. Vibrant emptiness.

  The Middle East, with its vast expanses of rock and desert under brilliant blue skies, gave the feeling of a primordial state, pristine but ready to burst open. Mysteries were ready to be unlocked, but how? Gurdjieff was hinting at how, but you needed to dig deep. Could a chump do this?

  My newfound friend was trying hard to help me, talking to sea captains and boat pilots, trying to get me a passage to Egypt. The Arabic saying, “The guest is God,” was certainly true for me. This kind of thing happened to me many times in the different Arab countries I traveled through.

  From Alexandria, it took me about three weeks to get to Morocco. Arriving in Tangiers, I found a place to stay where I met an American who told me I could get some pot. That evening, he came back with two kilos, which I paid around fifty dollars for. It was a big pile. How was I going to get this back to England?

  I decided to take the stuffing out of my sleeping bag and replace it with the pot that I’d put into plastic bags. The problem was stalks would stick through the plastic and the canvas of the bag, giving off a powerful smell. Plus the resin was staining the bag. This whole thing made me very nervous.

  I decided to leave right away and took the ferry to Spain. Spanish customs just waved me through. My heart was in my mouth. Ready to do a bunk at any moment, I decided to take the bus to Barcelona. About five miles down the road, there was a roadblock. As a precaution, I put my sleeping bag at the back of the bus and sat up at the front. The police checked IDs and looked through some baggage. I was ready to jump out of the bus with just my duffel. They did not get to the back of the bus. They seemed satisfied and left. Again, my heart was pounding. I was lucky I had low blood pressure or else I would have had heart failure. This happened every time we went through customs.

  I stopped in Paris to visit my friend Chris Grey. He was staying at the Beat Hotel in Paris at 9, rue Git-le-Coeur. Actually, Chris was a good friend of Pierre’s. I had only met him a few times but was very impressed with his will power, learning to read Kant and Hegel in German using just a dictionary. This was beyond me. Very quickly I cracked open some hash I had from Tangiers, and off we went, striding the universe.

  Suddenly Beethoven’s Fifth came wafting down from above, as if blasted through by express trains. It was a rude awakening.

  “What the hell’s that?”

  “Oh, that’s Bill Burroughs cutting up tapes—you’ll get used to it.” I didn’t get it, but then there was a lot I didn’t get.

  Pushing in London

  My days in Paris were hazy, punctuated with rude wake-up calls from above—William Burroughs cutting up his tapes. Naked Lunch had just been published. He had written this in such a way that he could shuffle up the pages and it would still make sense, but to whom? I couldn’t make much sense of it. But with dope, you either understood everything (or thought you did) or nothing.

  Soon it was time to leave. Chris thought Pierre was with Stella in London and said I should try her place first. I was not too sure of this. Stella was a real beauty, having an Indian father and a Cornish mother. She had a fantastic body and a very sharp mind. I was more than intimidated. I was shy, plus every time I saw her, my heart would start pounding, and I would get all peculiar. She could wind men around her little finger. She was way, way out of my league. Of course, I was in love.

  Arriving in London, I went straight to her place. Heart pounding, I rang the bell and there she was, beautiful as ever. “Is Pierre here?” I stammered. She said she hadn’t seen him for weeks. Her words drifted by me. Why don’t you come in, she was saying. My heart skipped a few beats and in I stumbled, dumping my duffel bag, sitting gingerly on her bed. I started to tell her about the dope, and she just looked at me with a kind of smile. I rabbited on, out of control. She kept smiling.

  The moment I entered her place, I was done for, mesmerized. I kept on about North Africa, Tangiers, and drugs. Still out of control, I mentioned I had around three kilos of dope in my sleeping bag and was supposed to meet up with Pierre and Andre in Southampton to sell the drugs to the American aircraft carrier parked there. She just kept smiling, looking at me with her big brown eyes. I knew I was in trouble.

  Later that day, a New Zealand friend of hers called by. He was big into the art scene and also a big doper. Stella was probing him for information on the drug scene. She was careful not to say anything about the stuff I had, but rather that she could get a sample the next day. After the New Zealander left, she said I could probably get a better price in London for the stuff and that it would not hurt to give him a sample. What the hell. I unstitched one of the panels of my sleeping bag, took out about a quarter of the pot, and made up a little package. I left out a little to make a joint, and rolled it up, then off to the races.

  Pot sometimes had a strange effect on me, making me very disagreeable, although usually I would just mellow, watching flies buzzing around, getting stoned on the smoke. This time my eyes were riveted on Stella.

  She was standing in front of the mirror, combing her long red hair. Each stroke was more mesmerizing, more seductive, than the last. Suddenly we found each other in bed. It was like diving into a deep, still pool. Would I drown? It didn’t seem to matter: gone, gone, gone beyond! Endless sex, oblivion. Could this be the Nirvana the Indians talk about? Tantric sex, the Kama Sutra? Could this be the way? Brilliant! The only problem was energy.

  As usual, I wasn’t working, so I could sleep all day. Stella had some kind of job, modeling or something. She started complaining that she kept falling asleep on the shoots, yet she suggested that I was the one who should see a doctor. Actually, fate intervened. It was time to go down to Southampton to meet Pierre and Andre. The time spent with Stella was fantastic. She kept telling me I was looking for somebody, someone from a past life. Maybe she was right—I just don’t know.

  Life keeps giving you clues, but how do you read them? What do you make of it? Is it just a mishmash of events, a willy-nilly coming and going? A friend who nearly died several times said she saw a flow, everything interacting in a dance, everything in balance. Would this be something I could experience, without having to nearly die?

  Andre and Pierre were still working at George Durack’s place, but the U.S. carrier had left. Now what? Suddenly we had a lot of friends, mainly lying around smoking the pot. Of course with no money coming in and the dope going down fast, I decided to go back to London to try to sell some so I could do more sculpture, which I was still trying to do.

  One of my friends in London was a drummer. He knew a lot of bands at that time. He lived with Peter Brown, who wrote songs for Cream. One day he told me Ray Charles was in town and needed some dope. I gave him a sample. He re-turned saying it wasn’t strong enough for those guys, who used much stronger drugs.

  On my way to meet someone in Soho, I was stopped by the police. They told me they had search warrants for anyone carrying duffel bags. I had the option of being searched on the spot or going back to the police station. What the hell! I just dumped my bag on the pavement, taking out the sleeping bag, which rolled out about half way. In the bottom of the bag was three ounces of pot. I was looking at all ways of escape, ready to do a bunk, but the police were everywhere. The officers started looking through everything. Soap, toothpaste, books, then one of them put his arm down the sleeping bag. He could not reach the bottom so he started to feel the bag. It had not rolled out completely so he was unable to feel the part of the bottom of the bag. I was on the verge of bolting. Through my buzzing brain I heard the officer saying, “If I were you, son, I wouldn’t walk around at night carrying a duffel bag.” At this point, I was just walking on air. I got to the French pub on Dean Street, ordered a large whiskey, and gulped it down. Stella stared at me. “You look like you�
��ve seen a ghost,” she said, and I told her what had happened.

  She then started to tell me a story of how the police had found someone with a little pot on them and had beaten him up, trying to find out where he had gotten it. The man died from the beating. That was it for me. No more dealing. Out of all of this, I only sold a few ounces. My friends and I smoked the rest. So much for my business venture to promote my art. The whole thing was a big mistake. You make a lot of enemies and friends while the dope’s around. Then when the dope suddenly runs out, no more friends.

  I continued doing sculpture, but the pieces were getting a little weird. One time Stella was visiting and I had to go out to get some beer. Coming back, I saw her in the street.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m not staying in your room with that thing! It moves.”

  Another time, I was looking after a friend’s injured buzzard. It would just sit on its perch, quite still. I had a piece of stone on the table next to it. One day the gasman came to read the meter. Apparently, he came into the room, saw the buzzard and the stone, and thought it was a stuffed bird that I was using as a model for my carving. When he moved towards the meter the buzzard gave out an eerie screech, spreading its wing. The gasman fled out of the room, fell down the stairs shouting, “There’s an eagle in that room! I’m not going in there again!”

  I had to find some other way of making money. One of my pot-smoking friends had a plumber friend who needed help, mainly digging ditches or removing shit from blocked pipes, and somehow I got involved in building and plumbing. One day we were testing soil pipes for leaks, asking everyone in the building not to use their toilets for a few hours. One of the tenants had not gotten this message. Pulling the test plug from the pipe, we were greeted with a wave of shit again.