Richard Ozanne

  1959 -
  City of Birth:
St Louis

Richard 's Story

Featured Story

It Has Been A Rough Year

I am adding this additional chapter to my introduction, because after I initially wrote the introduction, it was very difficult to come back to it and try to make sense of all that I have experienced through the various stages of my life and the trials that I have endured or overcome.  I wish ...


The Birth of Charles Leonard Wiggins

The story has already been written for awhile on my blog "From the heart of Praise, Prayer and Perseverance. 0; Here is a link to that posting, Below are the pictures of the blessed event.   http://fromthehea rt-dotwigg.blogsp other-2-prayer-re ml


Browse for more stories

Richard 's Story > Categories > Short Stories

"That One Little Tiny Town (The Story of Rusdia)" 


Date Range: 03/15/2009 To 07/20/2100   Comments: 0   Views: 8,750
Attachments: No


One Little Tiny Town...


are towns little and tiny spread throughout the thickness of our

civilization, that are beyond description, which are in manner,

little burg that we can call hell for the curious or the accidental

tourist that set foot within their midst, and scream for help only

not to be heard except by angels....or those who happen to break down

in these tiny towns like specks on a map, but spreading big wings in

order to vamp glory and knock great culture to their knees.

Rusdia was a famous pianist who gained his laurels on a

Parisian and German Stage, and set to form series upon series of

concerts, each well attended that won him honors in many lands. On

tours his audience was large and greetings many. He was a mild

mannered gentleman of 50, renowned for his technical skills as well

as innovations. Fame held him for years abroad, yet for those years

there were many a lesson, and many more to come. For 40 years he had

studied, played and taught. Some called him a pianists “pianist”

others natural born although some forgot his concerts in a murmur,

saying well we've heard all of that again and again, why another

time? Some taunted him, others disturbed him, but Rusdia pulled forth

to be a legend in some places far away, yet others he seemed to be

the man with the strange gate walking down the street. Was is an

accident or natural, this gate, this strange way of walking almost

sideways to the societies and cultures he performed in. Some mimicked

him, as he strolled on stage as though Icabod Crane, a tall lanky man

with a personal definition of a sharp nose and slanted brow, hair to

his shoulders and an unforgettable smile which people assumed was

smirking, but in reality it was genuine. No, for the most part Rusdia

could not assume the podium all the time, for this he could not be as

famous as was the glitter and tabular of some legend such as the

virtuoso Franz Liszt, but moreover a personal character all of his

own. One would think he was Polish or Russian. Others thought him to

be Irish, Jewish or possibly someone born with an odd and peculiar

sense, maybe even stilted to regions of Baltic’s or possibly even

Gypsy (in a very demeaning way out of jealousy) One would hear him

play and some remarked that they would become entranced. He rattled

off keys as though they were liquid steel under his fingers, loud and

soft spoken melodies did offer more music than most, but this

invariably lead to entrapment of some who completely didn’t like

music, nor liked piano, or classical music. We know these people, an

Rusdia would always try to give them the benefit of a doubt playing a

jazz piece or something danceable at the end of a program, or take

one bow and leave the stage to the theater crew if the audience had

too many coughs or gave too little attention. He was sensitive in

that way. But he continued, always continued his journey whatever was

the case, if a good concert or too many notes were missed. This was a

legend in formation if allowed, and this was a star in keeping “if”

he was allowed to shine through.

He was Born in America and spent most of his childhood

on the east coast. Rusdia studied at our most sought after teachers

and in the prestigious schools, and universities who were calculating

to his best effort, attaining a Doctor of Musical Arts with honors as

well as a Doctorate in Secular Music. This was a practical resume in

his profession after all, and most respected in some theaters of

music. He grew  up around music, and had a love for the instruments

playing in all of its forms.  As member of an International Ministry

(and clergy of  three) performed on the organ of Chartres Cathedral

as well as many other engagements in churches, religious temples as

well as the greatest of theaters. But no, his background did not seep

into his head but remaining a very educated fellow, soft-spoken he

sunk into the crowd, talking the lingo of many who would listen and

often seeming rather commonplace among many.

He was a spiritual person, and had ordination by a

Bishop of a Mennonite clergy as a youth. Rusdia lived by the Golden

Rule, but to many with their eyes sunk in an critical, there was no

rule that blessed Christianity, nor proverb, nor fingering or

aesthetic to this music that he played. Those people we know if we

have seen this profession in either its light or dark moments. But to

Rusdia, there was always a sense of redemption from 'what he could

not do”, a commonplace reality that would be his if he did not

practice or did not have had measured sense of patience with the

other crew around him. Rusdia could have been an Ambassador, or

Clergy. He could have been president of a bank with his honesty,

integrity and sense of exactness which lead some people to believe he

was too vague altogether, spending most of his life in the practice

room not talking that small talk to those people walking by.

His memory as a youth were adherence to God on Sundays

and Communion with others.  Combined with a good work ethic, this was

surely a sense of a great performance yet to be made magic!

Being a musician this helped him in his religious growth

and studies, especially in Secular Music. It was always those notes

that came forth as pure that were allowed, and those menacing tones

were somehow set back into the ether to be re-corrected at that time

or during thousands upon thousand of hours practice for every

performance.  Memories served him well with adherence to the golden

rule, general goodness towards people and a  very strong but

personals orientation toward Spirituality. His mother being Quaker

brought him to the meetings as a youth, and his father, a gentleman

and  scholar was very high up in a local church, taking the podium

many times during his life. As as an overseas consulate, Rusdia was

given the best of the best as a youth in education, having traveled

the world before his parents passing now years ago. During the past

he was married two times, once to a Russian woman and then in Brazil.

Rusdia, because of his career decided children couldn’t be part of

the package for the time being. He remained open to new relationships

but was specificly critical and did not involve himself easily either

in events that were promised, or contracted in whimsical events,

friendly spurious episodes which he knew could be empty.  (he was

well aware of the Field, especially during his time) With friendly

caution he addressed his friendships as well, knowing the trouble one

could be managed in  political spheres,especially in the arts now,

where the Whos Who who literally bought their way to forefront, not

by talent, but by a windy sinuous road up to the American Ideology of

Pop Culture. Rusdia was a virtuoso. His name being known, or not

being know was not the escape hatch for his personal voyage, personal

excellence was. He  did not stop with the small tithing of a mere

degree, his achievement went on to travel far and wide, clearing

several million miles on one such tour that ended in his homeland.

For the time being he was happy to be back but looking forward to new

goals and ambitious about some projects laid before him. Rusdia was a

very keen fellow, easy going and like any persevering soul dedicated

to his craft, but with full knowledge that the metaphor of

'disappearing sands' did exist in his homeland for many in his field.

It had been a long time since he had returned. Things

seemed different and Rusdia was different having traveled and

performed. Being a success in his field however, he was aware did not

always travel far. Places in Europe knew him but it had been a long

time since an engagement in America due to many issues, and in

particular, the closing of many arts and cultural centers and events

during a particularly hard economic time which he was not very aware

of upon his arrival.

He had gone by plane to New York, and Shanghai by Boat.

He circled around and did this again and again. Nearly 50 lands, and

then 100 were covered by Rusdia an his travels, concerts and

concentration. Each station, and each concert seen as a memory for

the next one to unfold.

It was one fine day that Rusdia landed  in San Francisco

and set off by car to Houston, and then Miami. His concert

engagements were on hold for a while, and he was indeed in need for

brief rest bit, that would become the edge upon which one could sleep

with fate on his journey turning another way completely.

He figured it would take a couple of weeks crossing'

between San Francisco and Houston. This was reasonable enough time he

thought. I will travel slow and not work about time, as he made the

decision to buy a large van from an associate in San Francisco for

the journey to Houston and onward. There was no particular rush, and

the next concert was lightly scheduled in three  months with a

contract ready to be signed upon his arrival. This concert was still

in the “jelling” state as he had observed that the pay for this

concert, a mere $2,000 would hardly pay for his travel and hotel on a

one play gig with a minor symphony. That was a new piece, that

Shostakovitch Concerto #1for Piano. It was difficult to learn and

even more difficult to sound out as “real”. This would take many

months to learn and play he thought, too much time than $2,000

dollars could or ever would pay for! His management was arguing the

point that their first offer was $100 dollars, and the manager bent

over backwards to get a thousand for the concert. “Those

cheapskates!” marked Rusdia. How many days, months and years does

it take to learn a piece, especially the Shostakovitch Concerto! “How

much would that be in a per hour cost?” he thought, “about 23

cents per hour and not a penny more!” Rusdia knew, as he knew other

time elements. He could play on stage with the music and fumble his

way through, or play this piece the way is should be played for

memory. The latter was not favored. Management began yelling at him

on the phone, “Take the dates, its good for your career!” Rusdia

laughed and laughed as he knew he played with the Berlin Philharmonic

without squeaky violins to accompany. Small town symphonies can be

very lousy he thought, just enough to kill a concert or make one one

love another soloist. Management squealed and squawked to get

together a tour at 100 dollars per concert this way across. Rusdia

squirmed knowing Management would pick up at least $800.oo of the

remaining as their fee. So it was with other concerts too. If Rusdia

played for $2000, somewhere there would be a loophole owing half of

that to the concert agency as a stick-em-uppedia. Of course this was

not always the case, but he almost denied himself giving concerts in

the first place because of the lavish fees and tricks set into the

trade by notch-men on the bed of the performers stage. Rusdia was

happy when things were straight up, to the point and honest. He

didn’t like the feather tongued salesmen, or bleating, bleeding

cultural want-not who wanted to bleed Rusdias pockets dry, and sell

him these feathers at the same time. He often was so disappointed at

things he had seen in his field, but on the other hand Rudsia had

counted more than 2 million Euros in his pocket during his career,

all with honesty, integrity and artistry. (Recently though there was

a bit of a down-turn in an investment of a great series of DVD's

featuring him as well as  videos which left Rusdia largely waiting in

the wings, and it ended up a sour note in an impeccable career,

drained largely by recording studios, lawyers and an old

girlfriend-how the two went together we will never know, only

supposing that she had her fingers in the pot, and sticky ones they

were at that!)

In Europe 400 Euros was good, because that is what he

saw, flat there right in his hand minus extractions etc, arguing

cases which might be giving “tips” downstream for a good reviewer

or some other shenanigans which tripped up the psyche and laid guilt

on the entire career as being viable. Good reviews were crucial—those

that were right smack to the point by knowledgeable  people were

perfect. However it was more than once where the football reviewer

took the place of the music reviewer and bounced out all kinds of

hell and misinformation as well as innuendos, personal opinions which

subject the idea that there is no such thing as music and much to do

about words.

Rusdia after 34 calls at 4 dollars a piece threw down

his cell-phone smacking it against the wall. “Forget about it

altogether!” He said to the agent who was pandering him to be in a

commercial down in Los Angeles for soap and mans perfume, this for

“free” publicity, which as any performer knows is never free, due

to the nature of all such concerns. With a final swat of that damned

cell-phone against the wall Rusdia fired his Manager, putting him

directly on notice for his major Agent in Berlin Germany. “No! No!

And NO!” he smacked! That phone went into 34 pieces at the

cost of the phone this time.

At this time there were no large worries asides from the

grappling of a concert which would snare him into a bottomless pit, a

couple of thousand dollars and a Debit Visa with another  good

thousand dollar balance should keep him he though. It was a cultural

place the artist was headed towards, surely goodness would follow. As

with any career, a person must be frugal, optimizing and making the

best of what one has. It was obviously a short-term trip, a venture

that shouldn’t cost grand sums, but it was a trip nevertheless, on

a road across the country that were now decades from his former

knowledge of how things are today, instead of how things were in the

1980's. Rusdia was always frugal.

Rusdia bought a trailer to pack away his belongings that

were shipped in with him.

The trailer was long and built for his

piano, orchestral and piano scores, books on music and other

necessities that were valuable to his meaning as an artist who at

this point could not deny himself that he was famous, but did check

and make sure every once in a while.  While on tour he was given a

large container of Museum scores and memorabilia, as a memento by the

Brahms Foundation of Leipzig. He packed away his very rare Piano

scores 500 in number in secured containers some next to him in the

courtesy of his personal company. (These were the left overs of

Brahms personal estate, including manuscripts a rare violin which was

of curs played by Brahms himself, 49 pieces of handwritten

unpublished texts, 200 recordings of the master himself and his

followers playing his music-largely unheard) His recordings were

stattled in safety in all areas,secured by straps, suitcases all

aligned and the rest of the picture, one could figure, Rusdia was

moving a museum across America for safety in America. For the most

part, the bulk of this was his fame in context- Those large vaults

were recodings, more videos, was here among the letters and photos

(always good to carry with him...a practical thought in a pinch when

the energy says “produce” the “proof” that you are

Rusdia-since we must admit that culture has been driven to other

extremes especially in the US where ones contact with a classical

performer may or may not be an unheard of event) His tank full of gas

he started out from his friends house, “good journey” was a fond

farewell as Rusdia set on his way across the great expanse of land

between San Francisco and Texas.

Rusdia was not a wealthy young man. He had always been

very practical to what existed before him, and was courteous to the

“Laureate” that was bestowed upon him, as well as being generous

in all practical as well as social matters. Some may say either

degree or Laureate in this case would mean next to nothing, but in

this specific example, the honors that Rusdia had had runneth over

from magazine to history book.

On this trip, particular occasion he could take a rest

break on the road somewhere along the line. No stress or worries were

seen in the future as a flat road is not a source of worries, and the

road ahead seemed flat enough, and logical enough to prove a

conviction. The long journeys around the world and these times had

played a particular amount of stress on him. Recently he had the

shenanigans of productions, and more shenanigans with the odds and

ends of now ex-girlfriends who took matters in to their own hands.

There were managers who told him he must “bend over” in the

current situation, and agents trying to pry at him for this. Rusdia

was tired of the nonsense and looked forward to a straight ahead “way

of the road” gaining experience and being from an established

background. He patted himself on the back for being so successful

so-far, and treated himself fairly for he was now approaching

middle-age and should have the gifts from his work starting to return

to him. Moreover he considered that he wanted to teach and leave a

legacy of students rather than concertize, and thus was given the

option upon arrival to teach at a major university who could thrive

with his talents there. Yes, surely goodness and mercy had given

Rusdia two firm legs to stand on, and a legacy that was just waiting

to be made.  He was happy for the break and the long road that lay

before him.

He took the road gently form California to Arizona

without too much concern, traveling from San Francisco to Bakersfield

one day, up the great pass the next to the middle of the desert.  It

was two days trip across the Mojave Desert. Along the way he would

stop eat lunch and return to the road making a full day of travel

before bunking in to sleep. He had traveled this road before, and

remembered it well. It did not seem strange to him except for some of

the small towns along the highway that seemed shelled out, vacant and

desiccated. Rusdia had heard of some hard times, but this didn’t

seem part of the equation. He wandered into Lake Havasu City and up

to Laughlin to meander around crowds, watch the people but not

partake to the gambling (which he was opposed to due to his

religion-and moreover an artist who gambles it is said “has half

his life taken”).  From there he crossed to Flagstaff Arizona and

took a couple of days to see the scenery which he had remembered from

the past. (Many years before, he had studied with a wonderful

Pianist, since passed, who had lived in Arizona, and they used to

travel up to Flagstaff and Northern Arizona for fishing and hiking)

Many memories were here, and for this likeness it was very simple to

say this is where he wanted to take his restbit- ahead lay an angry

desert through Holbrook, Grants and other towns to an uninteresting

city of Albuquerque (where he remembered they didn’t have a

reception for his concert and payed half the airfare from New York,

but that was some years ago, the past being forgiven)

In many ways it was a bit like coming home. For once

Rusdia could relax. The atmosphere was casual, so casual that he

packed away his better clothes and dressed in jeans and tee shirt for

the days explorations. There was Flagstaff, and Prescott a few

fishing holes here well remembered. He bought himself a tent and some

basic camping equipment and set some time aside for one of his

favorite sports, the night sky and the bountiful majesty of the

mountains. In France there were no clear sky’s, or large forests

where one could get lost in, or choose to practice in if the case and

clear feeling was to do this. From the terrific schedules of

attendance at various events. Houston when it all got set up, would

be surely the case. But that was later.

Rusdia checked his schedule, all was ok. He took his car

out along several roads, camped and then was heading back to

Flagstaff to resume his rather long venture to Texas. All of a sudden

the red light went on and his car died. Checking the oil and fluids

he waited, got the machine started again a continued on pulling into

a filling station for advice. It was the battery. He got that

replaced and ventured on. It was near sunset and there were red rocks

ahead. Rusdia remembered in particular the town of Sedona and headed

that direction with almost a calling. Again, almost all of a sudden

the red light came on, the car sputtered and died. He tried to summon

some help from passers by but no one seemed to pay attention. The car

started again and slowly he drove into the town, looking for a

service station seriously upon his arrival. One was just closing and

the attendant glanced at him and told him to bring it in first thing

in the morning. He got a small rather comfortable hotel room across

the street for the evening and the first moment of the next morning

was right there for repairs. “A cracked head gasket...” Rusdya

was informed, the cost about 985 dollars, quite a total, for the car

was worth not much more. He thought, was sure of his decision, and

had the car repaired adding an extra two days on to his trip. Rusdia

became a bit nervous and soon after the car was repaired filled the

tank to continue his journey to Texas without too much hesitation.

About two miles down the road his motor gave out again as he blew a

piston! Another diagnosis far worst than the first, his car was

finished, at least until they could order another engine.

On this note, practicality of events, Rusdia was in

trouble and tried to make some phone calls to friends telling them of

his dilemma. As most other musicians, most of his friends were glad

to help if they could but only could send some funds at a later date

and scarcely enough to pull though on expensive articles such as “new

engines”. He became rather perplexed and worried at this matter as

most of his funds were now gone due in part to motor problems and a

few nights at a hotel which he budgeted right to the line.

The town was named Sedona. This town had a bell to ring

somewhere, maybe in the etheric. Yes it was many years ago in the

1980's that he had traveled just this same road with his friend whom

he had gone camping with. For many years he had thought back to the

lovely rocks and the small Village of Oak Creek. Sedona, as he

remembered did not exist until fairly recently. Certainly it had

grown up from what he had remembered earlier. At one time it was a

gas station, a restaurant and land for sale at a premium price

(that’s all it was, and not very much more at all!)  Rusdia had

hoped it had grown into something of a metropolis, After all it

seemed somewhat destined. On a brief stop he looked into some

material from the last rest stop which he picked up. He notices some

news articles and other published material that gave him an idea that

this was a cultural center of world renown now, the “Best in

America”. Rusdia had the best vision of people that could ever be

sought, he was forthright and expected people to tell the story as it

was. We might call Rusdia a little bit naive in the greater respect

to seeing people as they are. Moreover he just thought there was a

positive opportunity to get the vessel in which he was traveling

fixed and on its way in one swoop as a night at Carnegie Hall which

he remembered fondly his own debut. The articles were persuasive and

seemingly intentional, sporting a series of events that glistened as

a virtual Hollywood in the middle of the desert as well as a number

of Symphonic societies that seemed to be mentioned between the lines.

Quite easily swayed because of the predicament at hand, this seemed a

destination although he had never heard of this place mentioned

supposing it was one of those 'well-kept secrets' of the cultural

world. Memories had some glitches though, Rushia had a memorable

experience that unfortunately was poorly sold on one tour long ago

out west. It was a two night gig between a big city and one small

town where three people appeared for the performance and the backer

decided because the audience was too small, the flight and hotel were

too much to pay for. But incidences like this were rare in his

career. Most concerts were filled to capacity at least in Paris,

Rome, Barcelona and Czech Republic, his last concert being only a

month or so ago. A certain naivety was kept that thing would go well

and the trip would be further without incident once the  'problem'

was over, and not made overwhelming.

So things seemed, and the naïve luxury of an artists

mind-set didn’t seem to go against this.  So it  seemed:  Sedona

would be rather easy to make enough money in a very short time to get

the new motor and continue on, after all at this point Rusdia had

quite a billing and most certainly was to appear for a nominal fee

for a couple of concerts and be on his way.

He saw this coffee house nearby and was rather taken

that a musician was unloading his gear.   The musician seemed nice,

and the coffee quite good.  Talking to him, he was referenced to

another fellow who was hosting a “Big” party and a made.for

television show that was featuring local artists- and the Mayor!

“Eureka!” Rusdia thought to himself as he unpacked his gear,

oiled his Piano, towel pressed his suit, and set off, getting dressed

for the party and carried his Piano to make a impromptu he thought. All was OK. There were so many people at

the party that there was no room to move, and the other musicians

were constantly cross-questioning him about where he came from and

what he did. It seemed intrusive, since he had a background that he

was not considered one of the stage-crew. Quite casually he mentioned

he was “Rusdia” and had performed in concert all over the world.

Unfortunately this went over like a lead balloon with many of the

other performers who passed him by or curled him aside in silence.

Who was this Rusdia? He seemed strangeto most.

The Master of Ceremonies of the event he approached with

some of his portfolio in an attempt to somehow put together a

impromptu performance. He handed a contact card with his former agent

in New York and told people to look up his website, available online

as well as recordings. He said he did but didn’t, and the cards

went quickly, those who took them most likely throwing them out with

the beer cup. Unfortunately this was given little if any attention

but plenty of beers if he wished to have them - keep him silenced

while the Country and Western group went on stage to joust their

talent. Rusdia didn’t drink and was pretty puritanical when it came

to some things like beer, alcohol and wine- (One of Rusdias sins- a

pipe he liked to smoke, a sin picked up during a Hungarian Tour)

It was obvious that Rusdia was in trouble after the

first 48 hours. Sedona seemed to be a town of musicians, but none of

them seemed too supportive, in fact the support was limited to one

thing, money in pocket, the rest being idle gossip, beer and talk,

chat and conundrums of Hollywood chatter that didn’t seem to make a

hill of sense. In some ways this seemed like New York where other

musicians cut in and performed, gave little credence to others and

hopped ahead with their take on things. After the first night Rusdia

was at ends, his funds were down to a little over 200 dollars, and

for the most part it was he, his Piano and his car which had to be

towed out of the garage or be seized by the owner.

He made a friend at the party who allowed him to stay

for a while and a place where he could park his car until things got

better. Surly thought Rusdia that this incident would be clear in

days having a very optimal perspective but it wasn’t.

The first week was like pulling teeth as a matter of

camping. Whatever funds he had were focused on trying to contact

people in Texas and onward telling them his trip might be delayed for

a while. On the eighth day of his stay there was some controversial

welling within him as to how long this stay was going to be,

attaining more and more problems and having less and less funds than

he thought would be at easy grasp. His friends in California lent

some support, and sent him a little money so he could buy the

necessaries. But unfortunately it was the second week that was ¾ way

through when he knew that the trouble was a little more than could be

handled by Rusdia...Rusdia needed God at his side.

Asking at churches he was directed to this person and

that. Referenced at city hall he was directed to meet with that

person who never really was in any specific power but managed very

effectively to spin Rusdia in miles and miles of circles, this time

on foot.

The summer grew hotter, and with this heat there were

his objects, his tapes and artifacts that would be in trouble. The

night would come and he would tend to these trying to arrange them so

that they were at least safe from the heat.

As the time grew onward into the third week there was

trouble. Rusdia was now out of funds, out of gas, and in a deeply

upset perspective. He began to pray day and night outside the setting

of church where he could to “let a miracle happen”.

The basics were met but in a very small way.

Rusdia took his portfolio here, and there and tried to

communicate to others his predicament, but few if any would blink an

eyelash. It was incredible that he was met with phenomenal resistance

to any possible project, left-right and center.

As one possible mode of getting out of Sedona he took a

sign and painted “Need Help” on it and stood in front of the gas

station, hoping that at least he could gain funds and be off towards

Flagstaff if his chariot with uncertain mechanical problems would

make the drive.

This incident was recorded in his journal:

I made this sign; “Need Gas-Need Help-Thank You”


who came? It was the policemen in two police cars that told him he

was creating a nuisance and if I didn’t stop I would either get a

ticket for such or be taken to --------


would think after trying to tell them of my predicament that they

might have some help for me, or at least send me in the right

direction! The intimidation was of course too much and I could think

of anything else than this, leaving with a polite ---I'm Sorry”

The days and weeks ahead got more difficult. His funds

dried up in a matter of days and Rusdia was put in a place more

foreign to him than any place he had ever traveled to or visited.

He tried to make communications to the other people

around him, brought out his Piano and attempted to play, but was

sidelined greatly in so far as others seemingly did not want to hear

his music. Never the less he brought out his keyboard and sat on a

rusted chair with the keyboard propped up and practiced silent

piano-no power being allotted to him without charge. Once in a while

he would try to sneak power from a nearby building, but when the

owner learned about it he grew hysterical even though given a

demonstration of Rusdias Abilities. “I don’t like that don’t know any different? Why don’t you know any

different? It dosent have a beat, it cant possibly be music if you

can't dance to it!” the owner grew intensely angry and walked away

even though offered a trade by Rusdia for the miniscule amount of

energy used by the power of his machine. It was primitive. Rusdia

strung together batteries from the car and a portable backup to try

to get enough power to hear his music through headphones, but in each

and every circumstance the owner would come by, bark at Rusdia for

using his electricity and verbally plow poor Rusdia into the ground

for “that kind of music”. The fellow couldn’t be convinced, and

such energy was wasted. In the days ahead he brought out the

Shostakovitch  Piano Concerto and tried to learn it keeping a battery

powered metronome at his side. It was hopeful that he could keep the

clicking outside to a positive minimum, and figuring he was parked

nearly a block away from the house, how could the owner possibly find

out that Rusdia was practicing. Bach and Mozart, Bellini were foreign

members to the musical scene of this town. Shostakovitch was unheard

of and brazen to these ears who liked cowboy melodies and rock. “But

I play Classical!” Rusdia concluded in each attempt at making his

voice heard. Soon the batteries were dead and the feeling for music

began to  dry up.  Rusdia tried desperately to make contacts for gigs

but was spun around like a top as to opportunities. Pop to Start, Rap

to Rip....but classical, even though he went without flaw through

compositions by Rachmaninoff, at one audition, people just looked at

him strangely and said “why are you here?”

Positively no one would look at pr hear his portfolio

and even less would pay attention to his story making Rusdia almost

ill by the circumstance. He used his last batteries to try to sell

his CD's at a local coffee shop, but was courteous asked to stop by

the owner and not to come there trying to sell his wares. And then it

became positively insulting until

Rusdia took out a book of concert pianists where his

name was included, buying maybe a little time if any to a scenario

that was preposterous. Scarcity and more scarcity found its way into

Rusdias life. No one helped and his illness, a problem and procedure

that had to be done was starting to daunt him in the night like

needles of cactus that were being stuck into him. Before he had

thought little about this, but pretty soon it became evident that

this medical problem was getting severe and daunting

His funds were completely depleted leaving scarcity in

his path. Each day Rusdia would try practice a couple of hours in

reference to his past. As time went on, now nearly two month since

his arrival, his regiment grew less  and less trying to figure out a

new course of this dilemma.

Rusdia found his life almost a living hell at times,

neither having transport nor venue for output. His contacts from

Texas were worried, but moreover Rusdia was worried as lack of even

the basic subsidies were few and far between. Food was scarce water

held at the cup-full and housing, well Rusdia had to be well

accustomed to sleeping in the back of his van at best, the only point

of contact, his computer which switched on and off broken by the

hours of use trying to be in close contact with his friends in Texas

as well as California and other places. A little help came to get him

through the roughest of spots, but not enough to send him on the road

again. There was no help here.

That week turned into more weeks, by hand-to-mouth and

many many miles by foot in the heat of the summer traveling back and

forth, hoping that things would heal themselves, or that something

positive could get done by the sale of something he had in storage.

One day he took a book out and took it to an antique store. It

was a manuscript of Brahms that hadnt been printed. On the cover were

the words “Alblum Leaf” -or “Alblumblatt” in German. It was

embarrassing that Rusdia was pushed to try to sell this and of course

there were no buyers, the store manager just suggested he send it to

the library, another cruise in the wrong direction, they never heard

of that piece and wouldnt take it if it wasnt in “print” not

knowing who J Brahms was in the first place, or considering it a


Rusdia was getting worn and tired, his last hope

possibly a loan on his Piano. It was a bad idea, but possibly one

that could bridge this dilemma. He had been door to door, tried to

find support or even a job to get him through, but these were scarce.

Many people simply ignored Rusdia, others trashed at him with

jealousy if he said anything, furthermore (The Truth) which was hard

mastered and very much a part of his heart was for the first time

challenged with everything that he could ever know. Everything was

leveraged at him, there seemed to be a cost in everything. If he

wanted to play there was a cost to it.

Rusdia made a very bad loan in the most part from a shop

that leveraged words against actions. It was an amount under what he

wished for a loan, but just enough to get his car running, a little

gas hardly enough to get up the hill and back. Surely he prayed, and

made vows to himself to try to straighten this out. The dying

attention he received was enough to bring any performer to his knees

and making money? None was to be had as all of his talents for 40

years had been drawn behind a bow, his education and mastery. This

was a different kind of conquest altogether in a world that did not

know music, had no particular love for it, but kind of a distaste for

people who thought the knew things or attempted to gain in anyway

respectfully. In the finality, the loan went bad and the person who

made the loan on his Piano took it and had payed him a very very

small fraction of its worth.

Now Rusdia was without his instrument, without his

passion and without his life. One fact that seemed prevalent  is that

one can only get real help from a fraction of people, and few really

care, was a matter of observed fact.

Observed fact in a culture is 99% of what is the

culture, as well as the more, of what that culture presumes to be

real, actual or a precedent. No one ever can look outside the box

when it is so confined within the culture, whether it be a town here

or a village abroad.  The far more simple countries of Eastern Europe

would remind him of his present. Only this was supposed to be a

modern and sophisticated environment which proved a dichotomy of

challenges that he would never find in Moldova, Estonia, or Western

Ukraine. But this was at home, among the most sophisticated of lands

and of countries that they were in absolute denial of their own. This

was the United States, a small, tiny town with no big thought outside

tourist dollars, the presence of “now”, with no dreams or

ambitions outside of normal exposure. This was a Spiritual town,

supposed to be a spiritual town, with an emphasis on cash advance for

spiritual redemption, a cross not necessarily included in the

transaction, but where fires of different types that were more

evident in drum beats, tantra’s and aural collections.

Between all of this was the mundane, so mundane in fact

one would feel it to be the epitome of stale, boring buds of light

consciousness put away and sent to charity of the Tarot, the

Divination or the Earth Magician. Yes it was the atmosphere of Devils

play that was presented in the glowing sanctuary of everything that

was it, but what it was not. Heavens angels and Devils playthings

went hand in hand among the scoured and torn rocks. General

unhappiness seemed to plague all but the Superior Race, that had been

established amongst them. Of course those King, Queens, Princes were

at arms reach, their noses and chins high in the air in

self-importance, but without good cause in the general perspective,

being a real wasted burden of their wealth as their stomachs went

forward with their dollars, and their pride, mindlessness and

inflated importance glossed itself with worthless but expensive brand

names which further increased the envelope of stupidity in a rich

mans boots.

One learns about this from travel. One learns about

these things from history, reading history of revolutions and times

when things flew by and cities were left burning, their affluent

running, in hair raising detail of French and Central European


Certainly there was talk among many of the divisions, in

Rusdias company, and most certainly there was awareness of these

gross divisions of have and have notch among the ranks of common

people and working, as well as those who were well educated but

suppressed by the energy of this place.

Rusdia would hear of the tragedies and transactions, the

good the tricky and the infer which some may feel is a reference to

bondage, or impending doom here and abroad. There was allot of talk,

but very little action. It was common to talk about things, but not

do anything upsetting that would be or could be referenced as an

action. People in general talked but this is as far as it went.

Meanwhile there were people in serious trouble that would come in the

wake of Rusdia and his own needs. There was the old man who nearly

died in his arms because there was no food. He was a writer. (Later

he found himself  back in his homeland of a Kibbutz in Israel, living

and eating in a proper manner that would not challenge his life)

There was the old lady who lived in her car and ate what she could,

most of it stale bread from the food bank. She would always look

teary eyed, each time Rusdia saw her she would look older and older

because of the kind of food given to her, existing on a pension of

200 dollars a month in addition to State Aid which was marginal if

not the worst possible of modern civilization. “They should let her

stay in a safe place, there is State help...right, for our Seniors”:

Rusdia would wonder. But this is a terribly naive assumption. One

must be able to work, and fend for ones own here. This was obvious.

It did not matter if you were young or old, if one was sick or in

health, there was positively no mercy if one could not work and make

enough money to pay rent and get food, earn ones keep. It was a

tragic legion of things that Rusdia saw.

A simple American woman

with several children living in her car, begging for food in exchange

for Tarot readings, the children running around aimless and hungry

for handouts (trying to be obvious, they were skinny and

undernourished) Rusdia felt this extreme all around him and wrote in

on their behalf to help them by possibly writing letters of concern,

which were turned back into endless political notes that were totally

useless in their dynamics, finding that awareness was more than

unappreciated by politicians. There was the Science teacher from

Alaska who lost his job and the scientist from Cambridge who were at

wits end too in these calamities. It was seen that in America one

better not bring attention to unfortunate circumstances regarding

poverty or civic problems without getting ones just punishment of a

gag order. One fellow said it sharply, “One gets what one

deserves!”  Of course no one really knew, and there were far too

few willing complainers who would stand up for each other, rather see

fit for themselves. Rusdia had his own grievances. Where was there a

place to live, and where was their work (if one is allowed to be in

this capacity-it is not earned simply by being an American it seemed-

Work is a Political affair of the “Haves” and it is certain that

work (any work is a   political venture to have here. Somewhat

disparagingly people would shoot that there were jobs, but just a

quick search would find that these jobs were tied up and extremely

low paying) Rusdia was never offered a thing in this capacity even

though applications and letters went out not one thing was offered to

him. It was quite a slap in the face for an internationally renowned

Pianist to have to endure the sheer terror of a small towns

incapacity, and live with this over days, weeks, months and ....yes

now coming on a year. But there were the few and far between actual

ones who were rare and helpful. These were angels, that separated

themselves form the gray pavement and street. They were the angels

who seemed endearing and hopeful who would offer some help whether it

be food, a nights lodging in a terrible storm or some little change

just to buy crucial amenities which places like the Goodwill would

not just give out without being paid.

Between Hades and some ethereal light of some hopeful


Rusdia was often in dire concern for his midst.

Some of the people were turning to drug trades and

bootleg in order to survive. One could see at times the infestation

if one looked, and the sin went deeper, far deeper than could be


Of the people that seemed to survive there were dark

trades among themselves that would make a puritan like Rusdia cringe!

The back desert were filled with actions of the unspeakable. It was

soon obvious that any better life was wanted, if one could be allowed

to gain it in the turpitude that was wriggling like a deadly snakes

inside the shadows. Fear is a monster of the unknown after all!

Yes, it was getting far worse in other towns it was said

by travelers. Rusdia did remember those small towns along the highway

that were tumble-weed torn and left barren as villages where only

foundations and a gas station were to be seen. Rusdia passed through

those on his way East. One place, a short stopover was unique in its

vacancy. Then it didn’t seem so much a challenge as Rusdia was

certain of his destiny on a road to Texas. That village, in

California  a stopover for gas was a place of wrecked burned out

graffitied houses with people wandering the streets for whatever they

could take and sell whatever they could sell. (Rusdia remembered the

its of India and mud holes of the Far East of  these kind of

examples)  The underbelly could be very evident if one looked and

surveyed such places. Sedona was far better, at least not so blatant,

seeming protected but one didn’t really want to survey the

shadows-that was out of view and behind the bushes, cactus and we

never can imagine that would entail horrendous discovery and

disappointment, something not unlike a horror movie might represent.

Rusdia stalled in his thinking and called vehemently to

God and his Trust!

This was the only Salvation- Not the other!

But when the fires of Ego burn so brightly at the

premium of the Spiritualist who can barter for redemption to the

Anglican stile, the cross to bear, or the work and Truth that should

be evident, but is not, nor can be but a guise that will forever be

interrupted by E go.

Soon it seemed evident that weeks were going to give

light to months and survival was at a premium. Oh, there were comers

to the town from far away, and some who knew Rusdias story as

visitors. After all one cannot be an artist or just put out ones hat

on the street for money, one has to have contacts and be resourceful.

It was not long before Rusdia was beginning to feel ill because of

the effects this incident had on him and had to go to the hospital.

This was serious. That he had little or no money was  even more

difficult. That this could be life-threatening another story


A prayer was answered and now Rusdia could have surgery

and would be healed at least partially from this illness, but never

the continued hardship that was 20/20 before him. This would take

Faith, and a matter of Faith that would call all the Angels to War,

and Jesus to Power—if this could happen.

Rusdias Faith was challenged not just once but many,

many times over the weeks and months of hardship. Politics played

everything. One had to pay in all instances and it was not like there

was a handout even for trade that could be done. Usury had its hard

ball and was played and often suggested by those who stood before the

pyre of the Pagan crystal vortex. If you allow people to take

advantage, people will take more advantage than can be honestly

comprehended. People will play for more and more of the advantage

like taking the hand of the person offering. There was always a sense

of balance with Rusdia. It seemed nominal to charge for whatever work

he could get at a fair rate---but fair rates were few and far

between, trick were up each persons sleeve, not all of course but

many more than could be rationalized. Promises were plundered, things

went every which way. Honesty was a quick wink by a mischievous eye.

If one did work would one be paid for it? Would there be enough work?

Would it pay any bills or could it make up for food, shelter and

absolutely bare essentials needed by all?

Perhaps a bare minimal

Perhaps hopes and dreams of getting on the road

successfully and abandoning the harness of the Abyss and keep one

abated from that crooked road, that leads quite frankly to

starvation, and possibly even DEATH! Why to consider this

possibility? Because of lack of the basics that are allotted. Simply

speaking, those without the basics of food, water and (not allowed

certain entanglements) are allowed Death as an option. If one is

restricted from earning a living, or food, water etc. One is faced

with the obvious-”Starvation” and the amenities allowed under the

parameters of this. Big country, rich lands or lands of promise

proclaiming great statutes of freedom and liberty, peace of mind,

have one flaw that is the culture that is in between the

basics—allotment of the vitals. Of course each individual is not an

island, or his he or she? According to independent thought,

independent life, resources are plentiful so long as the access is

allowed to these. Access being underscored. Certain “help” was

allowed by law, and certain beneficial aka benefits from government

(the very basic allotments, that did not necessarily last months, and

did not include housing, or that element of cash which would be

valuable in conditions such as Rusdia encountered-seen as possible

incursions for alcohol use or drug abuse, as if someone might use

these for moral turpitude as given in the tenants of a society based

on 'clean' living) , churches, organizations etc. These allotments

were gracious, but there was a very difficult shadow to having these

“allotments”, or receiving these “allotments”one had a very

serious encounter with people who felt that every be seen as an

island, grab what one could in a sense of survival, or live on the

edge-as this case was hoping for a blessing from God Himself to make

up for Life, the opposite being sometimes very obvious (especially as

the tenants of “Life” were required to have cash money to pay for

legal essentials, as provided by insurance, gasoline and other

essentials that have made their way the “Top” of Maslows Law and

pyramid of human survival.

Rusdia, being well aware, had made an engrained

education  of the partitions of allotments, the allowances and the

restrictions that a person, categorization and bias represented by

the community at large so his basic safety might be had. In the

culture one regardless of education and regardless of background, or

ability have, and have anything was a lead foot and a pastime of

“being ashamed of ones self” in a restricted paradigm.

One does not want to ever think about the word DEATH,

but one encounters this in any survival motif such as breaking down

in the the small, tiny town, or a war front in Iraq. When people

talk, but don’t share, when one is cut-off in ones seeking,

expanding, or growing indeed one can find themselves being soot

cleared underneath the society and reasons for “Good of Society”

represented as a social norm to be some of the highest societal

ambitions yet to be laid.

Ideas and concepts of “Man without Money” is “Man

without God” were despicable tenets in some societies. That a man

should fall prey to hardship, penniless, food-less, shelter less, by

acts of circumstance, things that just happen, are not a component of

what a man/woman is about nor a perception of 'worth', that element

'Worth” held to Work-Employment, making the digs, having the gold,

or perceptions of peon, or Prince being tied into the gnarly and

imploded suggestion that a human is not a human unless he has dollars

to spend, or dollars in his pocket, blood that flows through him or

her that is desirable or undesirable a point to the junction of

appearance of race, creed or color. Of course to Rusdia, the elements

appeared cross and disdained. It was about all of this! It was about

work-employment, race, creed, color, denomination and determining

factors as to ones 'being' that were judged delivered and executed,

upon the wings of prejudice and bias in a predicament. His personal

wings, his ambitions, dreams and facilities were cut off, somewhat

cruel to the junction of the vanity that scourged around him, and

pettied the famed man in his essence, because, simply speaking he was

not one of “them”. Needless to say there were some kind offers,

but it was not necessarily full facilitating to Rusdia. It did not

include the necessity for education, these offers didn’t even come

close to the interior need for a person to use their talents,

abilities, Gods gifts or analysis for that was delivered somewhere

off there in some other world, down the highway, across the seas, in

some other universe. What came were basics, often rare and slim.

Survival can mean the same at home as in the foreign

battlefield as well as in our tiny town.

One has to be aware of Allies and Enemy as they are

within ones reach at all times as with honesty and deliberate fraud

of intention.

Rusdia didn’t keep close friendships except with a

few...but he had to watch them too!

The proverbial smile of “business” or even

“Luv-(untrue) wasn’t what it was, being deceptive in its very

nature, in fact it seemed an infestation for possible usury.

Profit motives seemed to be in the hearts and on the

tongues of many, but in Rusdias case it was very clear---”Survival”

Rusdia was friendly enough to be forthright, but he

could be cool when he had to be, or be the observer in a

circumstance. The mix-me-up attitudes were prevalent, an alibi was

sought for each inability, the reason for Rusdia was always his own

fix, and certainly was attached to his own karma having he viewpoints

of many who would take from one pocket to drift into another with a

deft sense of psychological conscientious scruples laid upon one as

if it were psychological warfare being used rather than common


There were people who understood Rusdia. There were

others who thought that he was giving some made up story. We stated

this before that “Trust” is very lacking among many people as

with the essence of “Truth”, having in mind that someone is not

to be given any benefit of a doubt rather be throttled by DOUBT. ,

This was the unfortunate, but the real. Rusdia, in the most spiritual

of towns was getting the absolute burden of a great mistake of not

supercilious  spiritualist  shadows  held his direction, watching as

others went about their lives, and of course Rusdia left out of the

circumstance because of what he felt was the great 'snob appeal' of

misunderstanding forced his direction.

With words like “Get a Job” or “Deadbeat” ,

these, that and other suggestions, one could find any international

artist would be or otherwise brought to his knees in integrity, and

literally put out of misery from the societal content, if allowed.

Either this was allowed or survival was a play on this particular

stage. As time progressed a little word of Rusdias past did come to

be known, with jealousy, contention, dismay and even disbelief!

People couldn’t understand what was right in front of them. Even

the parchment and gold medal with signatures and stamps reading

Medaglia D' Oro Grand Conservatory Mozart or an article from the New

York Times, Prager  Zeitung, Paris Herald Tribune didn’t winch an

eyebrow.  A mention of big business and lots of money seemed most

important, but that 'Great Glossy' Recording on some overseas label

only brought questions and trouble but did assure him that he would

not have a common job or be the very last in a conversation when it

came to big bucks, stock options or bails of hay being loaded on the

back of a tractor.


and Imtepode the Clairvoyant

As with any story there has to be stories of friendships

made, harnessed and trusts built. In this case the story of Imtepode,

the clairvoyant whom he met a few months after his arrival.

Now Imptepode was not a choice for a relationship but a

friendship as Rusdia was a rather platonic fellow who had to know a

lady for a long while before making a commitment.

Imptepode latched on to Rusdia like a hook into a tree.

It was sort of this way in the tiny town. Survival being what it may,

and the emptiness being what it was left tremendous gaps of hardship

that were better held with a friend.

Imptepode was a clairvoyant and psychic. She was tall

and blonde and had the suggestion of a far off and distant land which

was completely foreign to Rusdia. She was known as a Shaman of sorts,

exactly opposite to Rusdias faith. She talked in deep riddles and

came out of the blue with suggestions of Metaphysical realities which

seemed somewhat bizarre from a normal framework.

The innitial greetings were fair and had a normal

timbre, but Imptepode seemed to have some problem with the subject of

actuality. So far she was out there that one could imagine a book

could be written at this point of where was Impetepode? It was her

framework of metaphysical magic that was emptied right in front of


Rusdia, having a kind heart wanted a friendship and

would gather as much as he could to implement this thinking that the

two could have conversations and comparisons of life, as well as

share a bit in it without becoming involved. Of course Rusdia was a

bit naive to the magic and the cosmology of our tiny town. Impetipode

moved right in with suggestions for magical phenomenon on the greater

apogee of the Twilight Zone. It was a friendship, but unfortunately

there were seen ghosts and phantoms around Imptepode which were

difficult to address, not understanding completely astorcartography

and cosmographic spheres of celestial influences which brought about

auras and specters from the plants and animals that seemed to be the

domain of Imptepode. She was troubled in some aspects and seemed to

latch on to Rusdia wondering if he could do something for her, or

perhaps be something more than a friend in a romance, if not that,

something rather strange. Poor Rusdia wanted friendship and provided

what he could. But Imptepode began to get ill with anger and

distress. He knew she had a problem, perhaps a mental illness, but

who was supposed to measure this. She left town as a ghost

Soon, and quite soon indeed Rusdia was asking himself a

very personal question why he ever pursued his career, or had ever

learned the Piano, as he survived as he did, trying  to give lessons

in Piano by posting signs everywhere and only finding so very little

interest in the subject, except to play for free in public events to

be noticed, or at the local bar, crowded, filled with drunks for

tips. Rusdia knew, if anything like this were 'the only path allowed

to peruse' one should certainly watch instead of make a mockery of

that Tchaikovsky, Saens Saens, Mendelssohn and Mozart which at one

time brought crowds to their feet in much better circumstances, and

that it would be positively foolish to give real pearls to many who

did not understand them. Of course he encouraged people to learn

about aspects of his craft, as once he was a teacher, but to

positively deaf ears wanting to know the score of a football game or

the price of nuts bolts at an auto yard. But he did learn compassion

even as the possibilities did flow in from other parts of the world

that did read about Rusdia and did wonder.

Misery in any cooperation usually invites others who

have seen this. It is not uncommon unfortunately, that incidents

happen off the seemingly well adjusted track. Quite soon Rusdia knew

he was not alone, and that others had been brought into this same

scenario and in a similar situation were nearly crushed by the

dynamics, if it were allowed to be so. There was Charles  the

scientist from Cambridge, a spiritual customer that found himself

here. And Lustia, the Russian ballerina who by chance,  on tour with

the Bolshoi to Las Vegas mattered a defection long ago, was married

to an American and they found themselves here. Now, there were others

had this same story. For some it had been years and years of waiting.


Rusdia knew that all of this was a complete misfortune

in the Metaphysical Oort Cloud *a cloud of gas, meteors, comets that

surround the sun- Yes, it was indeed  a big mistake taking too much

time off from his trip and not forming a direction straight through

to Texas where he did seemingly belong. But what is this thing called

“fate” that foils even the most simple scenario-Surely we cannot

know! How does one know ones path when it is intercepted by fate, a

mishap, or just a series of events that happen??The road trip had

just happened, and from all this the Piano wound itself down slowly.

But now a journey forward? Was it was more-or-less out of the

question to continue on, pack ones bags and vamoose from the

environment of the sketchy, often uncultured and cluttered, or stick

to ones guns and have the truth be known?

Over his computer at night he appealed to friends

abroad, and those in nearby towns to try to understand the SOS was sent up in blazing though the dead

night sky, separated by stars were piercing the heavens and of course

weeks grew into many months. Apparently some times had changed, and

people were challenged by an economy that was stiff, underfunded and

filled with pit-holes. It was clear that even SOS signals for what

they may be are merely sent up as firecrackers because of the general

concentration on self in the me generation. Sometimes Rusdia received

condolences, other times hopes to see and hear him again in the

future!  (but that was far off—this was here, and this was now!)

Time integers and remorse began to be felt some year and

a half, in a hallucination of dioramas, those hopes and dreams being

spilled down upon a platform, a cage enclosing the obvious, and life

itself being purged for the magisty of the nothingness around one,

and seeming contempt from all that one could ever be anything more

than one person lost in the crowd, and a watcher of the delirium as

it may be. In thoughts and in prayers, there was a sincerity to the

goals and manifests of Rusdia. If it were not for one exit, on

tributary to the great onset of what life’s pleasures do bring

through ones craft, Rusdia would have a heaven on earth, being able,

being enabled to do what talents God did bring him. It was Faith that

brought that! Willing and able he was, but time-and misconception,

delirium and the inter-digestion of what society brings to us, in

fair exchange should fulfill our hopes and dreams. More often than

not all dreams, even ecclesiastical dreams formed from virtue of arts

are met with profound discouragements by honorable knights of others

practical influence who say, by defacto definition, that all men are

the same, and not a one of them is different, as a straw in the field

mankind is, one no different and no more gifted than another.

The prayers did die as the crystal havens did rise.

Astrologers have a continence with nature, circles of protection

being drawn to the self-mirror, that likewise sought between angels

and nemesis. Rocks to cry when sometimes they are jilted, one ancient

Chinese proverb says. Contest against mans desires are always being

laid out, one to heaven and one to straw, one to golden Eden and the

other to Baal in a nightshirt ceremony of scryers, only pagan

believers do remain as this story does bring us to the end, of ones

thoughts and dreams, hope and Faith, for they are as terminal as mans

own cry to heaven to bring us fresh remorse for our this

case being the sins of being different, challenged in the way of

excellence, but now rifted to the gully the pit and pendulum. We can

summarize good in all of this of course, but where? The first statute

cries out stammering, the second clause with the least of all

effort...but where???

Over the course of this time, Rusdia and the Piano

became more and more separated, tied apart because of the energy and

dark pulse of misunderstanding and Rusdias misfortune. This was a

place of simple lives that were not within worldly views. Some people

were kind at first. That Rusdia played the Piano was a plus, but how

well he played it a minus. It was evident the playing of any musical

instrument was seen as a glorified hobby at best, or a chill factor

at possible fame in which envy, jealousy and other remarks would

spark. No one would believe Rusdias background in full. They would

manipulate and downplay any talent that Rusdia had, or mock it


As a Matter of God!...I Tell You What

You Read Is The Truth

Rusidia was always trying to get some help, but really

politely he was turned down right, left and center for the falsity

that was around him.

He gave people CD’s if he could not play for them on

his Piano. He tried to get interest in what he did, giving people

clippings. They would pass over them as if they could not read a

word, as though the word was a sin in itself.

If a Man Speaks “The Truth” it is told, and need is

eminent, why should he be treated to the disaster of being sidelined,

an absolutely ignorant disposal of everything he was or could be

absolutely and positively being denied to him- If he didn’t speak

“The Truth” it would be one matter, but speaking “The Truth”

was another, and yes, poor Rusdia was treated with a dramatic sense

of Ignorance blatantly and methodically put right in his path as a

passer through.

Rusdia prayed every night, with a Bible, and his palms

held upward, but unfortunately there is no cure for ignorance, he

came to is like leading a horse to water, in on way, or

giving real pearls to swine in another. Wholeheartedly he would not

accept that this was Gods way of seeing right or the “Truth”, but

rather Satan’s way of putting flowerless and spiny vines in a place

that could be redeemed as beautiful.

Yes it was a beautiful place. Some people were kind.

Other turned their heads in the Plutonian “Energy” which makes

coal out of the finest diamond, and brings to light the worst of all

modal consciousness, that word called “Ignorance”. A case in

example was the Brahman who came to town. Now Rusdia was respectful

of all different so called classes, and natures whether they be

Christian, Hindu, Jewish or Islamic. There was no difference in the

point of an argument of God in Rusdias mind, but a case for ethics of

individuals which truly indicated their class. On one hand one had

the Spiritual who were truly spiritual, the other one had the rogues

and 'gangstas' of supposed spirituality which was a coin lifted out

of one pocket and smack into another pocket. Class is determined by

the way one is, according to some. Others hold themselves in

high esteem for being the sharpers of money gathering, regardless of

the costs, self implemented Caesars, masters of tricky hands, and

hearts. Well to some of us among the ethical crew, we know our humble

status, to others well mere bait for sharks of status and moguls of


The Mogul of Greed

One story is the “cup of coffee” incident. What does

one pay for a cup of coffee? One or two dollars? Something little,

not something big. Rusdia had made friends with the Brahman, and

wondered one day if he could ask for a simple cup of coffee, of

course to be paid back later. Simple question with a convoluted

answer. The Brahman winced at Rusdia and gave him a lecture about

Spirituality that was inductive of the mire of convoluted reality

that relates itself to a sneer in disrespect—even though the

question of balance (being paid back a miserly two dollars) shouldn’t

be a big thing for a friendship...or should it. The lecture and

dynamic ensued, to the ritual of the Brahman who really gave Rusdia a

very bad lecture on asking for anything. (The Brahman was smiling

when he did this and had no idea of the impact and disturbance to

Rusdia who was summing up in totality the supposed Brahmans energy)

“Well I am willing to trade for the coffee” sparked Rusdia! The

carnal smile of the Brahman ensued as Rusdia brought out a rare

collection of stamps
and handed it to the Brahman. This dynamic

was according to the law of perspective and balance. The stamps were

worth over 200 dollars, “I'll exchange these for that cup of

coffee” Rusdia said feelingthe dynamics of fire and brimstone

fighting each second during the exchange. On one side, there was the

obvious—on the other side if the Brahman made the exchange one

would know the standing of his friendship or potential observation as

to the character of him. People who are honest, can feel balance. The

Brahman made a quick shift into his pocket for 2 dollars in cash in

exchange for the stamps, smiling like a child a the exchange, Rusdia

remaining firm in his energy of the laws of balance. 200 dollars for

a cup of coffee? Asking for a cup of coffee would be enough from a

friend---according to Brahman tradition, there is a severe impact to

the laws of Karma and status when one makes an imbalance such as

this. “Here take my coat and my clothes...said Jesus!” , the

honor was a mere gift to the Brahman now- And of course the purported

Brahman was in challenge of himself at this point-if he knew the

rules, he should not have accepted, as any good person would not take

advantage of a situation, being a friend---or just the measure of a

cup of coffee! There is no right or wrong in this situation but

plainly there was a imbalance off the scale-

The Brahman walking away all charged about his 2 dollar


Caveat Emptor, are specific words to be seen in Justice

and perspective, from the small tiny town where the cloaking of

dishonesty are spurred by words of honesty, balance and injustice,

emptiness and farcical spirituality. That there are too many like

this here in the snake-pit of out tiny town, or that one must keep

their eyes 20-20 on such is obvious, as with the folding up and

bankruptcy of the world around him. Ironically the postage stamps

were of a very well known despot-from Germany (we can guess who) and

something collected form adversity of that frequency, and the works

lay justice there in—Rusdia was so glad to get rid of that energy

in his midst, (gladly passing those onward—even for a cup of

coffee) being Christian and also a part Jew (two generations

back)—now there was an energy exchange in quick order. The Brahman

quite quickly acknowledged his like for the despot, smiled and went

on his way! (Rusdia was glad to see that energy away!)

Truly there is no “Right” to ignorance, only wrong

to this concept. But unfortunately it was around him each and every

day, tinkering with his mind as though a Christ in the morn of a

Beelzebub, a Satan, the Devil (Proving a point in general and in

specific, that all people are not good, and there are many who are


Rusdia had to put this at his side and in his pocket. It

was his awareness that was important. No matter how many lessons were

learned from his parents or in he Holy Bible, the test is and will

always be the place in-between, this mortal and media contaminated

world set on the lowest common denominator, not music, not art but


He had spoken to the Christian Ministry and was little

accepted because he was partially a Jew, he spoke to the Jewish and

he was misunderstood for being a Christian, he rationalized with

Shaman, and New Age actuaries of limited knowledge, replete with

conjurers and tarot card readers. Each had the mercy written in their

tabernacle. For the Christians it was come to church and repent, for

the New Agers it was to Divine ones energy, and for the Mystics it

was always something completely different, a Divination, a crystal,

or a vortex that was causing the problem in the past, which had to be

given away for the future to hope for.

For Rusdia the answer was plain, simple and to the

point, for it had been this way for many years, high tides, or low.

The solution was simple, yet so held at bay and arms length that it

seemed the leaps of a student trying to perfect his craft again

(which he wasn’t, but a professional, lagged by the wayward small

town, that tiny town which breached snobbery of art, where there was

none, and beseeching by false pride in the mainstream)

Rusdia got another Piano, and in his time waiting

practiced, when allowed to.(something about the sound of Pianos make

nervous the unsuspecting tourists. Even in Paris it could be noted he

remembered the good street musicians waiting practicing their craft

where they could. There was always some deep sympathy for this) In

Rusias case there were only a few hours of practice now  maybe

weekly, the bow was slowly getting defeated in his arms, his fingers

becoming threateningly weak by this energy,  unsympathetic which came

in the form of localized obscurity (in cases) offers and tricks by

others, to suave him in to sexual paths which Rusdia found contrary,

and other articles which may be introspective to what now formed over

a year of residence here. On occasion he would get offers in

Barcelona or Zagreb for a performance by one of his old agents, but

this was not possible.

There was help, but only enough to lead a couple of

months out of the many. The Piano became a  dream. To play, perform

and be a part of that unique experience, exploration, freedom,

liberty and consciousness that was good. Everyday was a plan, and

everyday each plan dissolved to the practical, often defensive, as a

shapeless ghost of very contrary ideas and ideologies permeated every

space around him. His love of Life being forthrightly denied in this

specific path, his heart just wanting to “get out” and go onward

to a better and more fulfilling life.

A year passed. All Rusdia wanted, all he wanted were

funds enough to get him out of this “Tiny Town”- It would seem

logical at this point, but he was anchored in by the problem. Times

were very lean, as a matter of fact so lean it felt like being

incarcerated in a Disneyland variable of some land beneath at times.

Rusdia was very conscious and tried to be true to his nature. He met

with absolute resistance to everything he was or could be and the

musician, artistic community seemed so unsupported as to be like the

hell of going though the rafters of a degree program without the

talent around to back it but enough scrutiny to manage Lucifer’s

oven in a spicy conundrum of contempt. Rusdia had to stop playing. It

became increasingly difficult to keep focus in the Vortex energy, not

because he couldn’t but because the energy was so stiff and deadly

that one could imagine only brass rails on it if there were any

resistance.  There were good people though who sent him just enough

to pull through although admittedly this was the least he had ever

lived on or had dreams of surviving on, the end of a 40 year career

was very eminent. Very little being offered. He saw one year pass

with contention and a deep sense of being ignored, yet he refused to

be blistered by the fiery fingertips that seemed to be at and around

him attempting to bring all his experience down. There was a Shaman

girl-friend although not a very romantic relationship, who he had

met, understood him for a while and then without too much to be said

went elsewhere, having been disturbed by the energy around and about-

word had it she had died. And then there was the one who seemingly

adored him but swatted at him with a terrible sense of disrespect,

one of the difficult ones, and seemingly a spiritualist with her own

adornment and value of material and possessions. She was a amateur

musician who had been played by the same energies and brought this to

the table, further developing a thick skin on Rusdia. And now another

year passed with hardship. It was soon to be over, with a smack of

dismay and a tank full of gas...out of there. The costs were far too

much for this kind of lifestyle. Rusdia was getting bitter and angry

because nothing was happening nor could ever happen as far as the

energy was in itself draining of the fabric of good. People seemed

distant, spoiled beyond measure and droll-

It became evident that things don’t change and small

towns are small towns for a reason. Values being simple and plain

should be welcome or have the idea of prosperity, not destitution

which guide them. That a person has ability is one thing, that they

had worked at this for 40 years another. Somewhere the values were

twisted up to a conglomeration of pseudo ethos, what was there? Was

it the skill that others were projecting to have, the measures, bodes

and snobbery, pseudo ethics and pomp parade? Or hard ethics that

would assume these to be Judeo-Christian or Golden Rules not just

pissed around but followed? Do we follow Golden Rules or flaunt them

as pride worn medals upon our vests? There is skill here. That skill

or talent is denied even the most miniscule treatment is one thing,

that it is denied completely, putting a person at risk- and at risk

in many senses, including “life” (never mind liberty, nor pursuit

of happiness) another problem in its entirety- Exploitation often

being the clever mans tricks to purge good from one for the suit of

honor that makes us self-riteous. That the total limitations of life,

ones goals and pursuits and limitations are made manifest by the

society, social-economic controls and large scale (secret society)

despotism is one thing entirely. When even work is denied, a feeling

that a person is not a citizen of his right possession of  a unit or

country is manifest- Rusdia was seeing this and feeling this

unfortunate situation, his life and talent wasted behind him, a small

dim future seeming to find itself under a dark cloak and looming

before him, yet was this some kind of twisted sense of Karma put upon

him? Where is what is right here?, when Wrong is so self-evident!

And poor Rusdia, there seemed at once to be more than one among the


Something was going down in the country around him.

In anyone’s mind who reads this, one can wonder what

would every happen to Rusdia?

Those small towns, those tiny towns which one can find

on the off ramp of some great interstate. If one questions who is

there, it could be Rusdia, drinking coffee (if) he could afford it,

waiting (conspicuously), writing (endlessly), hoping for the future

to resolve, and being caught from one of life's fulfillment to

another entire life thinking in retrospect more rewarding.

In short we cannot judge, only listen to the tune we

play, as well as the music others attempt. Good, bad or ugly, it may

be a message and music of one sad story called Rusdia and the legacy

of one tiny little town that did its business in regard to one, and

from there the story lay as the winds blow.

The bow is busted

A harp is challenged

Music died a hard death, golden keys spread about like

gravestones taunting the living for a plea.

The end of culture had now come and went, and that music

of Rusdia, be it in that place of the magic rocks or the toll from

the nether, dis-respondent and corporeal sense of human lips has its

appeal, and music and grace to God for no other music could have been

more beautiful than the voice of one now delivered---there----among

the , crimson, golden, molten, gravestones of the red red rocks which

lay testament to Rusdia.

This is unfortunately a very true story, names,

incidences and events changed to a narrative.

Email this Story

Read more of Richard 's Stories   |   Read other great Stories


Related Files

No files attached to this story.



You must be registered to leave comments. Register here! It's free!

Already a member? Login here

No Comments have been posted yet.