Doc Nirvana

Draft of a book

I accidentally found this book on my computer. I forgot I wrote it. Some 250 pages. Most of it makes no sense. But I found some of it to be honest. Part of this I wrote years ago, but most of it I wrote about 5 years ago was when I uncovered and discovered that I had cancer and was in a lot of pain. It mirrors the pain and trauma I grew up with as a kid and teenager.

My cancer has returned, so revision will be slow. I will post more!

The 36th Chamber of Shaolin: Overcoming Trauma

“The root of suffering is attachment.”

City of Angels: Home of Demons

Recently, I was diagnosed with a relapse of cancer. I have survived through a lot of trauma and pain in life, so cancer was just another form of pain. My childhood and high school year were my ways of undergoing my lessons in life.

“Homeless: The Shadow Manifesto” Draft

Forgive the errors. I will revise later. Chemo from Cancer Treatment caused me brain damage, for I am now relearning to write. Before cancer, I was writing the best ever.  Now, I begin over again to relearn what I have forgotten.

Friday 23, 2023

CHAPTER ONE

I am who I am because of the lack of wisdom from my father.  My father was not very smart, for he never finished high school. He read but not masterpieces. Instead, he read the sexist and racist dystopian crap they called science fiction.  When I read what he said was great, I realized where his ignorance and lack of compassion came from. His society. Yes, there are genius science fiction / fantasy writers like Jorge Luis Borges, whom everyone plagiarizes from.  He even visited UCO once. I doubt my father ever heard of him, and I also doubt he would even understand his short stories.   Every time, I re-read a story of his, a new meaning emerges. 

Instead, I prefer the magical realism of Latin America. Indeed, Garcia Marquez is my favorite author. Autumn of the Patriarch is my favorite book. I also love Thomas Pynchon. I know my father could not even read the science fiction reality of Gravity’s Rainbow, a narrative of our own crazy dystopian times. Both write about a dystopian reality were the poor are abused while freedom of speech is an illusion. Garcia Marques, like Hemingway, was a journalist. If you write the truth in Colombia, be prepared to die. Many Latin American journalist do. Pynchon writes in a strange manner that parallels our strange manners in America, where the homeless roam like the buffalo, and everything is going to be all right. Except nothing is, and we kill our environment and continue to be live by a constitution written by white misogynistic male slave owners.

We still have not had a women president, though we are close. And states like Oklahoma put more women in jail per capita than any other state.  We even sell them as slaves to capitalistic companies. That part of the constitute about slavery is still being demanded and a reality.  At least we pay them something. States like Texas pay slave workers zero.

I am who I am because I remember past lives, my masters who taught me and my enemies who persecuted me. I had a photographic memory as a child. If I read something once, it stayed in my mind. I could recall it verbatim.  If I heard a lecture from a teacher, I could remember it verbatim, like it was a film. I made 100 percent on tests. I only had to grab the book in my mind and turn to the page to find the answer.

Basically, school was boring because I could remember my amazing friends, genius gurus, and master teachers from my previous lives. The people I know today were my past friends, family, and wives. One of my previous wives teaches here at UCO, but I leave her alone. I searched all my life to find her again. I did. She doesn’t remember me, so I leave her alone. She is a director here and helps many people. I smile and am proud of her because in her previous life she was abused and came to me for protection and stayed away from all people, except me. She has come a long way.

I am who I am because I am many people. I am Afro-Carribean, Indigenous Mexican Colombian/Peruvian, Han Chinese/Korean, Irish/German Jewish, Tamil Tiger/Sir Lankan . . . and more.  I grew up speaking Korean and learned Spanish on the streets of Los Angeles. No one speaks English in Los Angeles. Those who do moved away to the suburbs in the mountains. We stayed in the ghettos or barrios.  Just go to the Southside of OKC. That is LA. Crime City! Just go to the prisons in Oklahoma, that is LA. The LA gangs rule the Southside and the prisons across the country and even those in Latin America.

I am who I am because I was raised by a rat pretending to be human. He was born in that year. I was abused by my father who sexually raped my sister at night when my mother was working. He threatened to kill me if I told, or he would kill my sister before he was arrested. I was a little kid. He beat me again and again and called me names. Always promising he would kill me. He made me take off my clothes and hit me where no teacher would see the marks. If I cried, he hit me more. He forced me to look him in the eyes, with no tears. He would say things like, this hurts me more than it hurts you.

I am who I am because I had a will to survive hell. I learned nothing from Satan. I didn’t believe in God, but I knew the demon rat who raised me. I do not think he was human.  I became a teacher because I want to help, and I believe learning is a gift of patience and a desire to break out of ignorance.

Education is freedom. It was for me. And it can be for you too. The path is before you, the door is ahead of you, and the heart waits for your awakening.

GROWING UP. . . .

“Garganta” by Ana Carolina

“But I’m not a saint, I was born in the street

and I’m not going to change my ways just to please you”

https://lyricstranslate.com/en/node/110322

Ana Carolina remains one of my favorite singers. This positive song is one that I listened to again and again. Growing up, I listened to artists from around the world. They became my friends. I didn’t have many real friends. Instead, I was always fighting to survive. Read more.

I didn’t have a home growing up. Well, it didn’t feel like a home. Often when I came home, I tried to leave as soon as I could. Or if I saw my father’s car, I would stop, turn around and walk back to a bus stop, and stay out until late.

I trained to stay sane. I saw things that no one else noticed. Hungry ghosts, fox spirits, and demons occupied my realms of survival. During the long dark nights at home when I tried to sleep, they would always attack. Every night the battles started. This was my childhood.

I never slept much. These dark beings are not just things in Asian cinema. I preferred to watch Eastern films to Western films.

I trained in martial arts all my life. My Korean friends were black belts who often came to my house to train. They just wanted to be better fighters. We practiced, laughed, and trained often in full contact when we fought. If we hurt on one side, we turned and offered the other side. No one admitted pain. Pain was merely mental.

Basically, I was demon fighting. So my training had to be tougher and harder and longer. I didn’t have expensive equipment. Therefore, I learned to kick trees, thrust at metal poles, and punch brick walls. I jumped rope thousands and thousand of times, single jumps, double jumps, and triple jumps (the rope went under my feet three times for each jump).

As the sun rose up, I woke up enthusiastically, mentally prepared for my ordeal, and went for long runs. I enjoyed running over the freeways that were almost empty. Something rare in Los Angeles. No gang members messed with me, for they were sleeping or too tired.

On weekends, I jogged to Chinatown, watched Shaw Brother films, and bought Bruce Lee magazines. The owners often gave me discounts because I came so much. I still have those collectables.

Gymnastics: The Pathos of Training

In high school, I became a gymnast. It was probably the best men’s gymnastic high school men team in the country. We were the best in Los Angeles. I had never practiced before, yet in a year, I became the second best on the team.

I trained every single day, preschool mornings, midday brunch break, lunch break, gymnastic class, after school training, and weekend training at the UCLA gym in Westwood with the collegiate gymnasts.

I became good in gymnastics because I was already flexible from my demon hunting practices, and I was in good shape. Strong. Furthermore, I did something others did not do. I was creative.

I watched what other gymnasts did from other teams, and I learned to do tricks that no one on our gym did. My originality made me unique. I stood out. However, I also paid a price for this. The price of pain.

Black Out: Demon Attack

One day something happened. I blacked out. I was doing a double back off of rings. I didn’t make it. When I woke up, they told me to not move. My fellow gymnasts were looking down at me. Behind them were the demons with wings were looking down, smiling. They had never seem me defeated. This was new. They were patient. Night time was the time of our battles.

My friends asked if I was okay. However, I noticed something. I had no feeling in my feet. Indeed, I couldn’t move. I panicked. I was about to cry. Instead, I just waited. I looked up at the ceiling. Looking at the demons looking down on me. Waiting. Waiting. Hoping. Hoping. The demons were waiting to pounce on me. Night will come.

Then slowly I felt a sense of feeling in my nerves begin to return. So I stood up. As I felt electric bolts shoot through my legs, I felt terrible. They asked if they should call ambulance. I said macho like, “No, I am fine.” However, I was in a great amount of pain as the demons followed me out. Smiling.

The next day I was home by myself before anyone came home. I was simply walking across the room. Suddenly, I collapsed and found myself on the ground. The same feeling of no feeling as I felt nothing in my legs, in my soul. I couldn’t move them. I panicked. I stayed there looking up at the ceiling. The winged demons were looking at me. Smiling.

I managed to crawl across the room to the phone and called my mother. Only because I was a gymnast was I able to crawl just using my arms to pull me along the floor. I was strong, but I was also light. I didn’t eat right.

I waited for my mother to come home in what seemed an eternal wait. But my feelings returned to my legs. She returned and took me to get acupuncture. It helped, but I would have major back problems all my life. Often my back would give out. If I was practicing, I acted like nothing happened and fought through the pain. The demons would be smiling.

I quit gymnastics. However, my demon training continued. I visited the emergency room many times growing up: a broken nose, stitches from a knife wound to my head, and other physical obstacles to my training.

Always, blood is to be spilled when fighting demons.

–Doc Nirvana

AKA Dr. Wayne Stein