angel: a schizophrenic's guide to the afterlife

Angel: A Schizophrenic’s Guide to the After Life.

Introduction.

You know they say, once you’ve gone, you’ve gone; there’s no going back, it’s final. But what if I say I didn’t actually die, I just changed places. What I’m trying to explain is dying in a non-conventional sense, hard to explain if you adhere to the standard definitions, but lets say one life ends where another begins. And no, I didn’t actually die, no one died, and the idea that it was I waking up to a new day was erroneous; I had ceased to be.

Chapter 1. The Pro’s and Con’s of Hitchhiking.

I was introduced to hitchhiking by an old college friend. The idea that one could travel great distances for next to nothing, in the company of complete strangers was both harrowing and liberating. The notion that someone would pick up a couple of hitchhikers, without fear, and drop them off somewhere further down the line was what travelling was all about. In exchange for a ride the hitchhiker would provide companionship, someone to talk to, much need if you have to travel long distances. The best rides are always wagon drivers. They live on the road and are accustomed to picking up travellers, language is never a problem, they know the language of the road and never deviate, sometimes silence is the best form of communication. They know that your probably tired, probably not slept in a proper bed for days, maybe weeks, and that a ride is the best, if not the only chance to get your head down; most wagons have a bunk and your always welcome to it.
Let me take this, as on opportunity to introduce myself, to get acquainted, my name is Angelo, Angel for short. I was born Angelo Gibrael Li, my parents are of Asian origin, I reside in London. I was educated in Manchester, where my parents own a shop selling Asian cuisine, I moved to London during university and subsequently, it became my home. Being the youngest of four brothers, I am considered lucky; they all work for a living whilst my father supports me. I have one sister, she is also employed, and my mother is deceased.
Now that you know a little about me, we can begin this guide to the after life. The journey we are about to undertake will cover the events leading up to, and after my demise. Much of what happened never actually took place, in the sense that what occurred was hallucination more than imagination, and that these events confirm my passing away. I have to say this is a step beyond conventional wisdom, more a leap into chaotic genius, (and if you’ll bear with me,) compassion and understanding. Any takers? Bold as one can be, this is all conjecture, no proof necessary, only thing missing are your refutations…

Chapter 2. Brotherhood of the Drum: The Shaman’s Tale.

Angelo sits quietly on fallen leaves, the wind swirls in the trees up above. Deep in meditation, silence broken only by the sounds of the forest, sunlight breaking though the canopy. Slow burning embers glow black then red, the heat of which warms the skin of a damairu, the shaman’s drum, dormant and waiting for the shaman to return.
Darkness falls on a clear nights sky, the moon replaces the sun, Angelo rises and relights the fire. The shaman appears. He sits by the fire, his face illuminated by flickering flames of orange and yellow, a smile on his face. From around his neck the shaman produces a chillum, an Indian smoking pipe. He crumbles the charas into the pipe, initiating the ritual of hashish smoking. Billows of smoke tunnel out of the shaman’s nose producing a white cloud, he then passes the chillum to Angelo. Staring directly into the shaman’s eyes Angelo inhales deeply, the thick smoke fills his lungs and immediately the effects take hold; he raises the pipe, touching his forehead and returns it to the shaman.
“Now you are ready, Angelo, take my drum. Like my master before me I pass this on to you so that you may follow in our footsteps and bring to an end your apprenticeship. But first you must take these.” The shaman hands the morning glory seeds to Angelo, ”Chew on these, they are the fruits of the gods and must be eaten before we begin.” The small black seeds, no bigger than a garden pea had a bitter taste, and the texture of wood; the psychotropic seeds induce hallucinations, which under the guidance of the shaman enable one to enter the spirit world. “Now you may take the damairu.”
The shaman begins his dance. Angelo beats out a hypnotic rhythm whilst the shaman chants and dances around the fire. After what seems like a lifetime Angelo falls into a trance, he no longer recognises the shaman, his face distorted in the partial light of the fire, he can hear moans coming from the damairu. Looking for his hands he sees two snakes moving in unison, they sway side-by-side, as if charmed by the moans of the drum. In the distance he hears the sound of ten thousand drums, beating rhythmically to the dance of the snakes, he is not afraid. The shaman continues to dance and chant, his face lit up revealing the heads of animals. First a fox, then a wolf. Each time, the flicker of flames produces a new head. Eagle, falcon, and owl. Angelo recognises each of them as one would acknowledge a close friend or relative, he greets them one by one, instinctively knowing them by their name.

Chapter 3. Kerry vs Kerry, Bush vs Bin Laden.

Now wou;d be a good time to talk about who’s going to win Novembers US Elections, dumb as Americans, or smart-ass veterans. Who knows and soon enough, who cares? Republicans or Democrats, that’s who’s. I’m told China wants Bush, but Europe prefers Bin Laden. I’m not sure, after what happened last time I refuse to pick a future. I’ll just take the fifth, if that’s still ok. What was it about last time; I think I drank too much wine and smoked too many cigars. All I know is that I prefer red apples to green. And what is it that we are voting for this time, something created out of the wake of the last election, when George W. Bush, son of George Bush, won in the most controversial election in US history, initiating the future we inhabit today.
What exactly was it that Bush allegedly started with his narrow victory? The wrath of Bin Laden, and the road to jihad, or holy war. Oh yes, Bush and Bin Laden have a mutual existence, the Bush dynasty and the Bin Laden family are like old friends, Bin Laden himself was once mujahdeen and on the US side in the war against the soviets in the 1980’s, and helped to fund the campaign. Bush, on the other hand, he would begin where his father left off, that of conquering middle-east oil for American consumption, 911 acted as a catalyst for the Bush administration, it enabled him to initiate his policies on the Islamic world, essentially accepting the gauntlet laid bare by Bin Laden.
So what happened? In a nutshell, Bin Laden disappeared into the Torra Borra Mountains, Afghanistan, and Bush began his campaign of controlling middle-eastern oil by bombing Baghdad. On paper invading to liberating Iraq from that nasty piece of work, Sadam Hussein, looked like a plan with a future; liberate a people oppressed by thirty-odd years of hell, gain access to the second largest oil supply in the world, eliminate Israel’s only military threat in the area, and place your entire army in someone else’s path and scream BRING IT ON!!! This plan would fool Americans, but not I. He didn’t count on the power of Bin Laden, and Al-Qaeda, or The Base. I’m sure Al-Qaeda had existed before 911, it was hinted at by the press, and positively shouted out on the roof tops by the CIA and the intelligence community, but to fall on deaf ears, saddening. Bush was listening to a different tune, that of a wartime president who had the golden opportunity to enable a global campaign of regime change… the result of which will destabilise the world’s economy, and destroy any chance of security we have left in this world. But he didn’t know that, bless. The death and destruction has only just begun, and yes, you will see shock and awe. What a fool, such an ego, he can only defend his own people, where the suffering is many.

Chapter 4. Al-Qaeda: Gibrael’s story (Part 1).

I never met someone so devoted to a musical instrument, as gibrael. It was a birthday gift from a good friend and was part of a collection put together by gibrael over a few years. There were drums from India, Morocco, Ghana, to name but a few; there were about seven drums in the collection, not a large number but Gibrael did play all seven. It seemed like the perfect past time for Gibrael, he could fill in time learning percussion and hoped someday to be good enough to jam with people. Some of his friends were musicians, some just hammered out the same tunes over and over; its good to jam, he would play along to almost anything but virtue was in the eye of the solo, soon every rhythm he played was played like a solo, this would satisfy his needs and encourage him to play solo for hours. Some might say this was his gift, if not his downfall. Gibrael believed that every drum possessed a spirit, this drum was a steel caged djembe, from Mali, its spirit was the reflection he would see when he mounted the drum. He believed it to be a force of good, a benevolent spirit that would guide gibrael on his path to enlightenment, and a spirit that would protect him in his hour of need, whenever the need may arise.
Gibrael started hearing voices around the time he finished university, whether this was a result of stress, brought on by his finals, he didn’t know, all he knew was that he could make out a voice, a male voice, much older than he, a voice of compassion and moderation, like a benevolent angel whispering in his ear. Medical opinion would diagnose this as psychosis. Hearing voices, seeing things, somehow the voices would replace something missing in ones life, like a mother, or a close friend, that’s how gibrael saw it, a higher state of consciousness which allowed him to feel complete, whole, where before there was only absence; he had lost his mother to cancer three years ago. I suppose it hits us all at one stage, loss, to carry on takes courage and compassion. His father had returned to Hong Kong leaving a void where there was once a family, he had little contact with his brothers and was essentially alone.
So for one year gibrael learned to play his drum. He would wake up at noon and warm the skin of the djembe in the afternoon sun, by evening he could be heard beating out hypnotic rhythms, performing mammoth drum rolls and soloing for hours. The rhythms would carry on well into the night, accompanied by the twittering of a thousand sparrows, the drumming would stop abruptly, but the sparrows would continue. Every night he would fall a sleep to the cacophony of birdsongs, he believed the sparrows were his audience and as long as he had an audience, he would play.
I suppose it is fate that would reunite gibrael with his father. The flight to Hong Kong was familiar to him, Emirates flight EK 83 landed in Kowloon late evening, and his father was there to meet him. After a modest meal, his father drove him to his new home, in the mountains. Gibrael missed his drums but felt that this was an opportunity to start afresh, to begin a life that had a future, more in tune with his father’s way of thinking. There would be no more drumming but the spirits would still be there, and gibrael would seek guidance from that knowledge. The voices had followed him too, and would provide assistance in this foreign land.
Gibrael had not had a haircut for over a year, so when his father insisted that it was too long, gibrael conceded to having it cut. This was the first time since graduation that he had entered a barber’s shop, to gibrael having long hair was a statement of expression, freedom and commitment, in it lay his dedication to a life of spiritual enlightenment, not material, nor conventional, but that would all change under the command of his father, and the blade for the barber. He dressed in what could only be described as rags, odd items of clothing with no particular fashion sense and no particular style, he looked like a beggar with his long locks and ragged clothing, all this had to go, his father would convert him to the mainstream and initiated a regime of cleansing, which he hoped would liberate his son from whatever demons were haunting him. They now looked like father and son, they even acted out as such, but as they say, each to their own; you can teach a dog new tricks, but a leopard will always retains his spots.

Chapter 4. (Part 2)

Mr. Mac: gibrael, where’s your father?
Gibrael: Oh, just playing mah jong I think.
Mrs. Mac: no, he’s looking for you. Stick around.
Gibrael: okay.
Mr. Mac: aren’t you looking for work?
Gibrael: yeah, I’m looking for an office job, somewhere in Central.
Mrs. Mac: what sort of work?
Gibrael: just office work.
Mrs. Mac: do you want to stay for lunch? Your father will be here soon, stay.
Gibrael: I’m gonna get going.
Mr. Mac: where’re you going, stay and have lunch, your father will be here soon.
Gibrael: no, I’ve got to go to Central. I’m meeting someone.
Mr. Mac: OK, just go.
Mrs. Mac: you’re coming for tea at our house; your father has invited you, Friday.
Gibrael: that’s okay, what time?
Mr. Mac: what time? What d’ya mean what time, just be ready. Okay, bye.
Gibrael: bye.

The number 1 mini-bus weaves though traffic at speed. Clear Water Bay Road is a fast two-lane highway, over mountainous terrain, rushing commuters to the underground station at Choi Hung. A constant stream of green and white can be seen loading passengers for the twenty-minute ride from Sai Kung to Choi Hung. Mass transit, or mass migration, as I would put it, has revolutionised Hong Kong, and has enabled people from the mainland to commute to the island in double quick time. Each day, thousands of hongkongers travel to the island to work in the high-rise offices know as Central District. Gibrael was used to the journey from country park to city; he’d repeat it daily, travelling from the New Territories to the Island. The journey could be achieved in many ways, a bus ride to Sha Tin, followed by KCR to Kowloon Tong, then MTR to Admiralty, would be a more direct route, but gibrael enjoyed the Sai Kung to Choi Hung route, because it allowed him to visit the Mac’s at their furniture shop in Sai Kung, theirs would be the first port of call whenever he went to Central. Sometimes his father would be there, and gibrael would catch up on the local news.
The island skyline is one of the most photographed in the world, picture postcards can be bought in almost any newsagents or gift shop, it’s tourist value attracts thousands each year, the Bank of China, Citibank Tower, the Lippo Centre, the HK and Shanghi Bank, the Bank of America, to name but a few. Here the heads of corporate capitalism look down upon the thriving masses of communist Chinese, the convergence of cultures is what makes Hong Kong the international melting pot of the East, and the gateway to the Motherland, and its booming economy. In the shopping malls and city streets, money speaks, one of Hong Kong’s favourite past times is window-shopping, and there is an endless supply of super rich hongkongers to buy and try the latest fashions, all dressed up by mainland Chinese, being paid thirty dollars for their hours work. Education permits one to join Hong Kong’s working elite and many have been educated abroad for such reasons, with starting salaries of HK$8000 per month this hardly seems worthy, but gibrael knew that this was only an introductionary wage, and that high flyers would soon be promoted to a more suitable wage. He had set his sights on the top, failure was not an option.
But gibrael did fail, and failed miserably. One job after another, he would walk out of, only to find himself on the streets once more. He became disillusioned with Central, and the social elite. Although he never doubted for a moment that he belonged there, he failed to fit in. Like his ill-fitting suit, he wasn’t able to blend with the masses. Waking up at dawn, but never quite awake, he would commute to the Island, falling in and out of consciousness, he would be tired before arrival. It seemed like an impossible task just to stay awake, the day would drag on and little work was done, he was neither a high flyer, nor party to the social elite, something was holding him back, preventing him from taking part. Gibrael had fallen, fallen from his opportunity on the thirty-third floor of Citibank Tower, sent back down to the hustle of street life and traffic management, disappointed in his failure to belong, he walked the city streets as if for the last time.

Chapter 4. (Part 3)

The black kite circles the city skyline and Angelo watches with intrigue, he has landed in this place we call Central. A thousand and one eyes ignore the man in the black jacket playing the harmonica; Angelo watches the crowd for a little while then takes off. He makes off for downtown Sogo, a multi-storey shopping complex, exiting at Causeway Bay. It’s early evening and the streets are quiet, the Old Barn is two minutes away, Angelo makes for the watering hole and orders a beer. Gibrael used to drink in the Old Barn, his friends used to take him there for drinking games that went on well into the night. He takes a seat and watches the door. The alcohol finds it’s way into the blood stream and Angelo sits back and smiles. There is little activity in the barn; four little misses playing drinking games at five in the evening. They take it in turns to throw dice; eventually one lets out a muted laugh and downs the glass, full of ice cool beer, she then lets out a roar off laughter so infectious, it sets the table ablaze with chatter and the dice are thrown once more. Apart from the table of girls there is little life in the barn, Angelo finishes his beer and makes for the street, now teeming with life.
Standing on the corner Angelo spots a face in the crowd of people, his blond hair distinguishes him from the mass of black, “off course he’s an angel!” Angelo remarks. He makes his way to Times Square and the giant TV screen. Between adverts there are pop music videos, the atmosphere is like that of a concert, thousands of shoppers making their way to and from the escalators, Angelo takes the ride to the first floor. Peering down on the mass of shoppers, he notices that some of them have wings, yes! white feathers all folded like the pictures you would see in places of Christian worship, “this is crazy!” exclaimed Angelo. Was he hallucinating under the influence of one bottle of beer? I don’t think so. His reflection in a shop window reveals to him a similar fate, yes, he too had evolved wings! But there was a striking difference, which pins him to his reflection, his feathers were black, not white. What was the meaning of this? What had happened? This revelation had occurred out of the blue, but sure enough he could see angels, more than that, he had become one himself.
Taking his first steps, the whole world changed. A sudden shock sent though his whole body left him paralysed, he couldn’t move, or at least movement was restricted, like his whole body had turned to wood. His vision was also impaired, like when you view something through binoculars, but you reverse them so everything becomes smaller, further away, and as if looking though some kind of tunnel. And his viewpoint had change, he seemed to have grown, or at least now he was looking over the tops of people’s heads, no longer at eye level. He suddenly felt fear, nothing bar LSD could induce such a state, had he been spiked? Then he remembered the beer he had drunk in the Old Barn, there was nothing to indicate that he had been spiked, either way he had to move, get into it, whatever the it was. He made his way back to Sogo; thick with pedestrians and cars, he floated gently though the crowds of people to his favourite spot, somewhere he could gather his thoughts, and observe. Restoring his vision he could see faces like never before, every expression told a different story, misery, conflict, anger; thoughts came rushing though his head, and believe it or not, and by this stage anything became believable, he could make out conversations between passers-by, when before there was silence, yes, the voices had returned but now there was physical presence to voices heard; and Angelo listened.
Returning home, confused but focused, he met his father as if for the first time in years. His expression was one of friendship, welcoming Angelo home after his day out in Central. “mmm, go to sleep!” they were his only words. As he walked up stairs Angelo saw for the first time his father’s true presence, yes, he too had wings, feathers of white, complemented with black specks.

Chapter 5. Kerry vs Kerry, Bush vs Bin Laden. (Revisited)

In the words of John Kerry, “Help is on the way!” yes, the challenger to Bush has a vision of a global alliance against a common enemy, that of international terrorism, he will focus his efforts on catching Bin Laden and his Al-Qaeda operatives. He criticizes Bush, saying that he rushed us into a war without a plan to win the peace; he adds that it was the wrong war, at the wrong time, with the wrong enemy, Bin Laden is the real threat and Bush let him slip. He would not have done that. I’m beginning to side with Kerry, in the televised debates he comes across as an intelligent man, with a message of hope, where before there was only ignorance, maybe he is the man for the job, providing homeland security on a global scale; we know Bush is only interested in his own future. Whoever is behind the Bush campaign is using the war on terror to fuel hatred and fear in the minds of Americans, that way he can continue the illegal act of regime change in the Middle-East, on top of that he can undertake independent action without the consent of the United Nations, undermining its authority; the Secretary General of the UN, Kofi Annan, now calls the war on Iraq as illegal, and a mistake, the consequence of which creates a world without security. Where does that leave Britain? Well they say Bush is the shoe, and Blair, the laces; America is terrorism, terrorism is America.
Can Kerry deliver, that is the question on everyone’s minds. Bush argues that Kerry voted for the war, only to flip-flop under political pressure, commander and chief cannot lead if he changes his mind, he must be steadfast, but given the questionable intelligence they had to work with, surely a re-think is in order; the path Bush has taken us on is dangerous, politically he is acting like a lion with a thorn in his paw, if someone doesn’t remove the thorn, he will become progressively more angry, and will attack nations who are only trying to help. It’s no longer a question of whether or not you are for the war, more a case of who is accountable for the actions taken, Bush? I don’t think so. America, wake up to your fate, and vote Democrat!

Chapter 6. All the Presidents Men.

“… And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t put Angelo back together again.” Thinking back to pre-911 days, could anyone have envisaged the future we inhabit today, with its global war on terror? Unlike conventional criminals, terrorists who martyr themselves are no use after the event, therefore we have introduced a system of detention, for terror suspects, essentially to catch them before they are able to commit their crime. Thousands have been detained without trial. This state of paranoia induces a world of accusation aimed primarily at the Islamic world, where most of the 911 terrorists have been said to have originated. High on their hate list are Saudi’s, Pakistani’s, and Egyptian’s, nationals whose governments are seen as American allies, but have produced a strand of religious fundamentalism high on disrupting this alliance. A consensus of condemnation has failed to stop the terror.
What is it that is at the heart of the terrorist problem? What is it that makes peaceful men, women and children take up arms, and kill themselves in the name of religion? The simple answer is suffering. If you have seen your brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, die at the hand of an occupying power, you will fight for your own survival; that makes sense. Like the Palestinians who have seen their homes bulldozed away by Israeli military; pictures of Palestinian children throwing stones at Israeli tanks is an indelible image, the David and Goliath syndrome has us all cheering for the underdog, but this is an act which breeds the next generation of martyrs, suicide bombers and terrorists, who will not stop until the Israelis are forced back into the sea.
But 911 is a different dog altogether. The mastermind behind 911 grew out of the ashes of the cold war, when America, Saudi Arabia and Pakistan funded the mujahdeen, or holy warriors, in Afghanistan, stopping the Soviet advance into the Middle East. Jihad, or struggle, was the cause of the mujahdeen, preventing foreigners from occupying holy soil. Volunteers from all over the Islamic world supported the jihad, it was seen as a great victory for Islam, against the then Infidel. Jihad is the duty of all Muslims as written in the Koran. The first Iraq war saw the occupation of Saudi Arabia by American troops, this went against the wishes of the Islamic world, however, the House of Saud, with its complex alliance with the west, invited these foreigners into the holy land to defend the Kuwaiti people against the aggressor, Sadam Hussein. But to the disgust of Bin Laden, who now turned his expertise against America itself, issuing a fatwa from his hide-away in Afghanistan, which stated his intentions towards America and Israel. Bin Laden is the bastardised love child of American domination; now wreaking vengeance on the father whom he believes has forsaken him, and his cause. Al-Qaeda is the administration which unites all the lost children of Islam, under Bin Laden’s philosophy of terror, that of holy war against the Great Satan, the Infidel.

Chapter 7. Bringing it all back home.

I met my father for the first time in over three years today, the first time I was able to pay for the expedition. The last time we met, I remember a little argument over nothing, and I expelled him from my room, the only room with a TV. We don’t argue much, I can’t remember ever having a real argument with my father in all the years I have existed, yes he’s told me off umpteen times, but an argument has never materialised. There is an age gap of forty years, he really seems old, old like never before, quite scary I suppose, he doesn’t have much left, hard to believe about your father, but true, nevertheless. I’ve changed, that’s for sure, and so has he, the only thing which remains is the way he laughs when I make a mistake, or show my ignorance, makes him feel smarter I suppose, meaning he wouldn’t make the same mistake. I often believe he does things deliberately to trick me, show me out as a fool; I’m his youngest child, ignorance is my curse; why are all his brothers and sister much more successful than he? That must be the question on his mind. I suppose my reply would be, “ I could have done me worst.” I’m old enough to handle my failings as a person; it’s of no concern if to me if I’m seen as a failure or a success, life goes on.

Chapter 8. Go see a doctor, you’re ill.

It’s really no big deal, going to see a doctor. These guys are professionals, they generally know what they’re doing, they’ve been trained for such proper occasions. These guys don’t freak when you say that … all the things you said, to the doctor, psychiatrist, psychologist, social worker; probably all lies but hay! You’re only there to impress. A six monthly appointment’s really no big deal. Any more, you need help. Medication’s pretty okay too; two tables every night and I sleep like an angel, but forget and the dreaded spies come back. We never talk about what went on my head, we just talk about how I’m doin, a quick chat, that’s all it is. And it makes little difference if he’s a new doctor, or the one you’ve had since childhood, it’s his care and concern that counts.
Doctor asks me where it hurts, I tell him, “in my soul.” He tells me I’ll be on medication for five years! Jesus, I’ll be old in five years! My expression gives it away; I’m not satisfied with five years! I thought maybe two, then let’s try without. He has stated five years, and sentence has been passed. I’m no longer certifiable but I’m not gonna see much of daylight either. 20mg sounds a lot, but I suppose it’s doing a lot of work. I dream, but only just.

Chapter 9. Not knowing how it ended, I hope I got it right.

It’s about your future, she insists. I’m beginning to agree, however, I never really think about my future; the emphasis is always with the present. She loved you, and she’s just showing her concern, she knows your type. Yes, but these delusions are so real, not even love comes close. Do you still feel? Yes, I’ve experienced indescribable pain, locked in with emotions so twisted, I don’t wish to recall; I’d concede that I’ve been ill. Do you see a future without illness? Yes, of course, but it’s the path that I take which counts, am I really in control of my fate, I’d ask myself; who’s making me better, if better is what I’m becoming. Are you happy? That’s my real concern. How can I answer that, I barely know what emotions I’m feeling when I feel them. It all jus’ kinda melts into one, there’s no choice anymore, happy, sad, angry, contented; I guess I’m saying I don’t feel, but there’s feeling there, it just doesn’t seem to go far enough, or at least I’m no longer saying one way or the other; I feel but it doesn’t effect me, I’m happy either way. You were always different, that’s a compliment, and that’s why I loved you. Thanks, I know you’ll understand.

Chapter 10. Ten thousand miles without a cloud.

I’ve lived a good life, that I can admit. I’ve enjoyed myself and have experienced life to its limit. I can say I am wiser, and that people have contributed to this wisdom, to them I am indebted; my friends, I thank you. I have laughed and cried, loved and lost, all the things, which make life fulfilling, and yes, I have dreamed, dreamed of being the one, the messiah of the ghetto, and of the streets.


Suggested Reading:

The World According to Garp. By Joseph Heller.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. By Robert M. Pirsig.
Jonathan Livingston Seagull. By Richard Bach.

The Satanic Verses. By Salman Rushtie.
The Teachings of Don Juan. By Carlos Castaneda.
The Tibetan Book of the Dead. Bardos Tholdol. By Guru Rinpoche.
Chaos Theory. By James Gleick

The New Jackels. By Simon Reeves




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