The Jerusalem Theory


“We contain the shapes of trees and the movement of rivers and stars within us.” – Patrick Jasper Lee

His screams awaken me again. “You saw the holy city again”? The question slips from my just awakened mouth. I instantly regret the sound my question carries. “No daddy”, he says, his eyes filling with tears, “I am the holy city”. “I am the holy city”.

He awakes within his battles, turns an inward eye to see and it rolls an observation, of intuition around the holy city, which he conceived. For his mind, it is a treasure, built from time on eternity. An eschatology that confounds a modern world immersed in academic degrees.

He awakes within his battles, and fashions safe high walls. Thick in stone and drying mortar, higher towers to see it all. He circles round and round his sanctuary, placing angels four fathoms tall. His altar deeply buried in the center of the great all. He hums his body is the temple, he grasp the illusion of a call, an obtrusive whispering dragon woman, who says the time is his to call. For his mind is the eternal city, that withstands all carrion calls, underneath a canopy of G_Ds great favor, he watches dark large figures fall. Now center to this theory, of time, and what he sees, is the notion that his mind is a city in the Judean Mountains between the Mediterranean and deep Dead Sea. It’s a notion built in neurons and synapses we cannot believe, that the senses of an individual is in a world we just cannot see.

His nightmares are built in Babylon, by guile and snakes out of trees. The touching sounds of withered fingers scraping across a skin he cannot see. They want to hold him captive in a darkness ruled by grief, a unipolar world of chaos, the one inhabited by you and me. They want to tear down the walls of his Jerusalem to discover what it is he sees. They come as warriors clothed in confusion, not the peacemakers or helpers they claim to be. For in Babylon they do not understand the thoughts so different, or the visions they cannot see.

So, war comes against his city. In a rolling raging sea, armed with all of life’s armchair seers from the science of life that is brief. They call upon their allies from the Euphrates; bring your archers to shoot the breech. Let us understand this city’s weakness. Let it fall beneath our feet. Call down our god’s of human frailty, of science of no degree, let this be that, and that a lesson, not forgotten for all to see. Let us learn this place of mystery, let us in by self-decree. What we know from our own learning is what we worship as our deity.

In the end as all in final, in the end that comes so brief, there stands the ruins of Babylon, while Jerusalem can still be seen. In the end is still the mystery, the blessing of his thoughts to be, for the magic of his inward motion, is a city that holds its keep. Is a city that holds its keep.

He awakes within his battles, turns an inward eye to see and it rolls an observation of intuition around the holy city, which he conceived. For his mind, it is a treasure, built from time on eternity. An eschatology that confounds a modern world immersed in academic degrees. – 03.21.21 – דָנִיֵּאל

For the millions who fall on the spectrum in this alien world.

The Perfect Place (Absentia)


“Once there was a way to get back homeward” – Paul McCartney

“There’s a place I like to hide, a doorway I run through in the night”-Chris DeGarmo

“Is this the perfect place”, he asks, his cheeks glowing a perfect dry cold red. He looks the mixture between a loveable afternoon with A.A. Milne, and the darkest shadow of Dickens. “It is my perfect place”, I tell him, my breath blowing a long icy cigar looking shape. “I come here often”, I say, thinking my voice sounds younger, more adventurous here. I sound a better kind of honest. “Am I the first to come with you”, he asks, his bright eyes reflecting the red winter moon so close to where we stand. “You have always been here Ryan”, I say, my voice almost a murmur. “Always been here”, I whisper again, “as have I”.

In Absentia…

The grains of sand drop from the sky; falling in unison, they fill our eyes. Above the valley past eventide, the blessings come on a ghostly ride. We pray to G_D, G_D prays to us, in quantum travels on angel dust. From these twin peaks, we watch time tied, to a perfect place, as numbers fly by. There are tunnels here and dragons too, what is one wild-eyed boy when two will do. From a map inside drawn by eternal clues, one that talks to me now it talks to you. In absentia from a present gone, to a fourth wall fallen, without a magic wand. Oh, eternal womb that speeds us thus, to this great place in the two of us, to see these hosts of treasured years, these paths I once walked without present fears.

“Where might we go from here”, he ask the red moon of the desert sky descending, to halo his face. “There are rivers and ruins here”, I say, “and adventures”, he asks, a slight smile starting to form. It is as if for the first time he can taste. “Yes, I say, “Adventures too”. “Then in this perfect place I will find me”, he says, his voice suddenly filled with confidence. “Indeed”, I reply, “in absentia” great spirits we will certainly be.

In Absentia…

The gust blows, turning by, resolving time. We go two stars to the left what do we find? Standing there in Neverland, quickened in our newer minds like my own Dad. We wander the desert in directions I have known. A porous man, a psalmist, a child now a man. Our footsteps translucent as wind spills the sand. By dragons skeletal within our hands, we form a genesis that turns our mind and in turn makes us a man. Back to a place in time where my son can become what is me. A better version born of G_D in this holy desert sea. The better place to question all of what is she. The perfect place to be. The perfect place to be.

In Absentia…

“You have always been here Ryan”, I say, my voice almost a murmur. “Always been here”, I whisper again, “as have I”. – 02.13.2020 -דָנִיֵּאל

 

The Covenant (Safe and Sound)


The angel entered covered up as all bad angels do. Disjointed thoughts in spider webs, so no one understood. Came he swiftly in the form of rapid movements and times, carrying life’s nothing’s, rhythms or what should really rhyme. Came he all of confusion, bringing violence in his name, possessed he the soul of the innocent to destroy and to maim. Oh, my son you are the victim of a cruel unusual joke, played upon your gentle feelings, your mind gone when you awoke. Came the fire of rapid synapses, over running neurons spokes, and your defenses fell a writhing, when the demon in pictures spoke. Showed upon the canvas of the inner child in you. A world that is burning, dragons, while reality spins from view. Human beings pulled apart, while monsters call your name, faster spinning thoughts they come, while the doctors diagnose blame.

Oh, my precious son, I’m helpless to mend your screams and cries, even Adonai, has left me, left me only here dried eyed. I look into your mother’s eyes as she holds you in your pain, the resolution repeated loud in safe there is a way. We repeat it through the path of broken thoughts and nightmare weaves. We keep you in our arms at night as the fear refuses to leave. The motion of a moving shadow seems to bring such terror, such cold. G_D my G_D you are so quiet, have you gone away, all we hear are platitudes from Facebook people who play their silly games. I thought by now, you’d come on down in roaring promised rage, delete the noun of madness sounds, and help us face this day.

Well my son, my precious son, the promise seems delayed, another day in Hade’s tomb, while madness has her way. Nothing really matters now, for what is lost was never found, we reach the place of no sound, but whispers we have to say, “safe and sound”, our love, “safe and sound”, today.

A dawn it comes as November’s sun, and your mother’s eyes look my way, the tears they pour like a river draining from a storm-filled lake. Somewhere in this broken house, within this finite place, a power of one is seeking how; in truth, we find the way. Safe and sound is the gift now found, from what we cannot pray. In this moment, quietness comes, and in the silence plays, oh my son, my precious son, you are okay. Above me whispers a voice, I am the same, in all silence, I am the same, safe and sound still here today! Still here today!

The angel took a quieter exit, covered, as all bad angels do! – 11.12.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

For My beautiful son who fulfills the covenant!

Ten Miles Out


We are at Lake Michigan, the Rabbi and I, he sitting, his right hand moving, watching the fog roll backwards. “I can see ten miles out dad, how about you, he says”? “I can barely see my hand in front of my face”, I say. I’m standing. “You should sit dad”, he says softly, his face radiant from some hidden sun, “from where I sit you can see at least ten miles out, and it’s beautiful”.

Ten miles from Avalon his face breaks a grin, the space before paradise favors his whims, and therefore the rabbi the son of my soul, looks over water his favors foretold, and his love it takes me forever. What is a man unless he breaks a spell, and follows a path where he’s lost in a well, a deep dark cavern where he meets his hell, and wanders like lost forever. That could be me, or that could be you however in miles it seems G-D brought me through, and gave me a son a priest that is true, and ten miles he stares on forever.

Upon a tall bluff he looks out at the sea, my son of the tribe, the last branch of the tree, and although a priest he is stronger than sin, a warrior that fights all that’s never. The ten miles of latitude that make up the shore, that point on toward harbors, where prayers aren’t ignored, at least for this man, the child of my core, the one that G-D beckons come hither. I pray on in sorrow, in-depth or in need, but my son takes hunger and makes it his creed, and looks out ten miles from above troubled seas, and sees a light of forever.

Ten miles is a lifetime to watch for a sign, but some folks are willing, I’ve seen it in Ryan, to take on forever and never be blind, to whatever the seasons would tell them. No bench is perfect, and no beach to white, no altar’s ready unless you’ve really tried, to find yourself willing to conquer your pride, the one that keeps you from breathing. For my Rabbi tells me, there’s more just beyond, he smiles in the mystery he signals the sun, and looks ten miles further, and ten miles beyond to forever. It’s only ten miles forever. – 9.12.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל


Two שני Lights


And they are lights in darkness, maybe one, well then there’s two, some would call them children, it seems they are the light that leads me to you.

In the evening, here in the small light, may be it is one light maybe it is two. I as the old man recognize beginnings, celebrate endings, I don’t feel so brave tonight. It could be I am, called into a war, my heart a mix of gelatin and rock iron ore, and still it seems this life has gone by too fast, every little breath has passed me, it seems not to last. I walked over, asked a question of a soldier, do you have to be brave, to carry a gun? Can’t you be just as brave to raise a son, and do you place your spirit in a world, to let it die out, to watch it whirl? Are you stronger to kill and fight, to volunteer for others, when questions fill your night.

All I know is one light, two lights, or more, are less lights, then my conscious would allow me to ignore. And I know there are captains, warriors who would fight, it seems to me an industry, like there are missionaries on a foreign site teaching all of knowledge, the blessings of false spoils. Yet I will not know I will not surmise, I will not take one light, two lights in the night, I will take forever, where G_D lets me fly, I will take all of the lights, before I die.

In the morning, just before the dawn, as I an old man, reached a river run, and in the counting of lost souls, the ones that count by one, came a single light or two, their bravery past done. And what have you done my friend, you’ve fought a war never done, you preached a world of saviors, and still no souls won. While many harmless people, walking day by day, raise their simple banners, instill a good word in their children, they whisper and they say. Go and seek a goodness, seek all light that fills, never look for one light, it never will fulfill. But oh my son of better days, my daughter that climbs each hill, seek to know all of light, for partial light it kills. One light or two lights, are the beginning and end, but there is so much, so very much, that fills from end to end.

All I know is one light, two lights, or more, are less lights, then my conscious would allow me to ignore. And I know there are captains, warriors who would fight, it seems to me an industry, like there are missionaries on a foreign site teaching all of knowledge, the blessings of false spoils. Yet I will not know I will not surmise, I will not take one light, two lights in the night, I will take forever, where G_D lets me fly, I will take all of the lights, before I die.

And they are lights in darkness, maybe one, well then there’s two, some would call them children, it seems they are the light that leads me to you.

For my two lights. – 09.05.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

GHOST (blessed be)


At nine years of age I saw my first spirit, a gangly woman munching on an ear of corn down near the post office in the valley. Her eyes held different colors, one green, and the other blue. She was dressed old, nothing new, and when her voice came, it rolled in riddles and clues, and she talked of confidences, of what held my feet under me. She moved suddenly and quickly, stretching limb upon limb, and her words, came like a revelator, calming me, calming me… “A question is a shadow, that faith deletes, deeper is what you don’t see, blessed be, blessed be”.

And so I wondered, and I wandered, at night through the field of dreams. It was April, with the Hydra shining down. Smiling at me the large constellation spelling my name, telling me what I might see, and the reasons for my simple insight, that faith locked in a wild sea, within my mind, or maybe I was lost. But I thought of the gangly woman, the spirit, the words, and the revelator, and it seemed that when I looked at Alphard, that heart of the sky beast, it winked. That voice of the spirit with the different eyes, one green, and the other blue, fell upon me, calming me, calming me…”A question is a shadow, that faith deletes, deeper is what you don’t see, blessed be, blessed be”.

At twenty-eight years of age I crossed the tracks at Burlington, and saw the presence of the old man, levitating above the ground, pointing his wishbone of a tree toward the mountains of Colorado. His eyes held need, and they were the tan of a sea of wheat. He wore the dress of the farmer, perhaps the same as my Pappy had. He spoke in syntax, in verbs, words of rolling action that moved me upon my way. He was a water witch, the stick moving, waving through the air, through the window of my heart, and his words, came like a revelator, calming me, calming me… “A question is a shadow, that faith deletes, deeper is what you don’t see, blessed be, blessed be”.

And Meeker Meadow found me like the old ghost claimed it would, brought me kneeling chasing answers when shadows questioned where I stood. For I thought about what’s just beyond the boundary of life’s breath, and how most only settle to see who does what’s best. And the moon above November skies bewitched me till I swooned, made me reach beyond those shadows in the deeper faith of gloom. For beyond the wall of separation, which shows toward the real, were the oceans of electrons, without bodies who still feel. And the old man who led all, held the witches tree of old, waved it unto me, his voice calming me, calming me… “A question is a shadow, that faith deletes, deeper is what you don’t see, blessed be, blessed be”.

At the change of life at forty-six years of age, I saw a ghost of a witch’s child at play, weaving phantom pictures from his mind, sitting bombarded in his special chair, while nefarious dimwits taught him, that life was not fair. *His eyes were brown and shiny like a spectral sea, those thoughts beyond the circumference of what his teachers could hope to be. He looked to me, to be, what I hadn’t seen. Called me daddy, and it was clear why I was me. For genes of fortune handed down, ghost seen, when no one else hears a sound. I understand son, why you would say, say to me between our minds to this day. Your words a revelator, calming me, calming me…”A question is a shadow, that faith deletes, deeper is what you don’t see, blessed be, blessed be”.

*For my son who teaches me silent faith. 07.26.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל


SAND (The Promise)


Like a young man you go to the seashore looking for treasure in sand, so many articles of logical conclusion based on what’s been or what’s had. Some dreamers dream of sailing clear oceans, some opt to stand where they can. Come you with questions now to this table, like Solomon I’ll give you a hand. There it could be a chosen few people, lying their spirits in sand, look for the places lightning is striking, grab for the children you can. So it is, I’ll question you plenty, being a father that stands, so many weaknesses on your table, forget all your options you had. Two flaming arrows I shoot into you, implanting a seashore of sand.

Take your thoughts away, the ones that’s say this is just today, for these are paths you’ve made. Blessing a spirit now it is one, look to the sky, father, this sand is falling on you. This sand is falling on you.

This golden haired warrior she will change you, and outwardly challenge the status view of a world, she will be strong. Teaching all others, from other lands, building a home when they can’t stand, building their language, to help them say, love’s found a way. She will fly away, know that she takes your sand inside her sprinkling the world, as she soars to gray. Bringing the tears from sadness to joy when she sings, bless her always, when tidal waves roar, washing the sand, glimpses of light, a fathomable darkness will hear her pray, will hear her say, my father worships this way. His sand is inside me, fortunes and witches can play, and my father’s sand never goes away.

Take your thoughts away, the ones that’s say this is just today, for these are paths you’ve made. Blessing a spirit now it is two, look to the sky, father, this sand is falling on you. This sand is falling on you.

This ark of the soul, a brown eyed boy, will challenge the spirit until it’s made whole, and look to divisions from his own life, to multiply spirits and end their strife, when he cries. Your blessing resides deep inside, for every pure night since he was born a strike of the light in a world that is worn, he will pray. Angels will move time away. The sun will stand ready, the sand will blow, building a highway, where his spirit sows All of G-Ds kingdom will know, his father bending low, instilling sand in mixes to show, a purer glass to see through, where this wonder goes. For he goes to heal the way, and his father’s sand never goes away.

Like a young man you go to the seashore looking for treasure in sand, so many articles of logical conclusion based on what’s been or what’s had. Some dreamers dream of sailing clear oceans, some opt to stand where they can. Come you with questions now to this table, like Solomon I’ll give you a hand. There it could be a chosen few people, lying their spirits in sand, look for the places lightning is striking, grab for the children you can. So it is, I’ll question you plenty, being a father that stands, so many weaknesses on your table, forget all your options you had. Two flaming arrows I shoot into you, implanting a seashore of sand.

On this Father’s day I remember a lonely single man given a promise on a deserted stretch of beach in 1991. – 06.21.2015 –
דָּנִיֵּאל

HEART – Sand

Nederland (The Prayer)


Were in Nederland, the sun has started its track to the west side of Long’s peak, resting for a short time between Meeker and Long’s, giving a parting shot before the whole of the world becomes darkness. “Dad, I have to pray, its sundown”. “Now”? I look over at Ryan, his brown eyes wide, reflecting the high thin fading light, so far, so high. “It’s a commandment you know”, he’s grinning, but serious. “Well I guess if it’s a commandment then”, I’m grinning but serious. “Can I just drive while you pray”, I say. “Sure I think so, I think it will be okay this time”, he says. “Yeah it’s probably okay this time”.

“Perhaps you’re hidden in plain sight, in this shadow or in that light, that ours down on the trail of sky to Nederland. A molecule that parts our hair, from ancient days, in this thin air, your purpose sanctifies and cares our naked minds. If you are real or just as is, beyond knowledge of all we wish, we are here, from day to day anyway. Instant death is not surprise, longer life we ask from skies, but anyway, both are blessings that we pray. Perhaps you wish our gratitude, just like the area, the fire forsook, that place near Nederland, the other day. We think we wish and that’s an art, but what we ask for is so stark, of things to buy, not life sparks, and that’s a shame.

Perhaps right here in Nederland, a place you gifted, and I’m glad, for right here, I think I found my way today. Some visions start right out of time, but what I’ve seen starts in rhyme, this mountain vale, this mountain high, has scared my fear away. Perhaps you planned it from the start, designation of loves pure part, to raise me up, to strike my heart this day. You strike my heart this day.

Perhaps this wind in Nederland, that binds this car, as we descend, teaches us to never ever be afraid. Indigo, or reddish blue, we see you paint a higher hue, of spirits rushing and falling fast, as if to bade, us to be safe. We are scents from what you are, the very essence in this car, the smell of days of sunshine rays, where wonder plays. Perhaps were farther from the truth, but well okay, for when we look, you’re above us and behind in Nederland. A gift before us all our days. All our days.

Perhaps right here in Nederland, a place you gifted, and I’m glad, for right here, I think I found my way today. Some visions start right out of time, but what I’ve seen starts in rhyme, this mountain vale, this mountain high, has scared my fear away. Perhaps you planned it from the start, designation of loves pure part, to raise me up, to strike my heart this day. You strike my heart this day”.

It’s dark, the headlights from the car, pick up the glassy eyes of a coyote moving swiftly near a sharp curve in the road. “I wouldn’t mind living in Nederland”, I say looking quickly over at Ryan and then back at the mountain road. “How about you”, I ask? Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my son grinning when he replies, his hand held up to his heart, “I already do dad”, he says, “I already do”. 6-7-2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Children of Color (Stillness)


(Stillness)

We lay there in the darkness, he but four, and he says, “I’ve seen an angel he say’s Papa’s going to die”. Well I turn there in the darkness, and my eyes are open wide, I say what else of all the future, can you tell me when I die”. “Tell me of the tree of good and bad, and what it taste just like”, then he rolls to one side looking his smile changing all that’s dark, and he says, “the children of color, have come to bring a brand new start”.

(Stillness)

He prays by the garden and see’s ghost go by, and rarely does he wonder if what he knows is right, and it could be it’s an ego coming from a little child, but careful, careful doubter, it could be he reads your mind. Could it be he knows your secret of the times you hate this life. Of the time you committed blasphemy with your body in the night. So it is nobody calls you different, but this child knows your insides, and even though you lie in words, you can’t meet a human eye. It’s a little bit of faith in craft of neurons that don’t meet, but better faith in something known, than men of cloth are prone to teach. Oh he rises ever higher when he watches angles fly, and he claims he once saw Ezra measure walls that reach the sky. Oh it could be he’s autistic, or it could be he’s not real, may be doubter of this noun and verb, you’re the one, who can’t let your soul with G_D meet.

(Stillness)

Numbers, numbers, choreographed from the start of time to now, geographic petrography, to the stars of breath sublime. Schizophrenic as diagnosis from a man who hates his mom, mental health done by neurotics from a psychopathic bomb. So it comes now from a child who counts in numbers six by odd, data to the ones and zeros, dreams of summer though there not. Is it faith or insanity when he learns to tie his shoes, for the whole world has ignored him, while he reaches for the truth.

(Stillness)

We live now in a world of difference from elitist to the poor, where a leader of a people has an IQ of a decimal .04, and while people watch him with such awe, a child sits, in the dark, turning light switches on in Bangladesh, with a synapse from his core. Know you now these days are numbered, when one and one will not mean two, when apocalyptic waves of chaos will be broken by order new. For these children of the color, those that are now of the age, they will break this social order, bring an end to all disordered rage. Call it faith or insanity, time that has no end, for the world has turned in sorrow, and this G_D will have no more. For it is he sends his brilliant children, special lights to change his song, bring a world that’s hung in darkness know it’s love for which he longs. While a tree sits there in Eden waiting for its final end, a child takes the final bite of knowledge, and turns his thoughts within.

(Stillness)

We lay there in the darkness, he but four, and he says, “I’ve seen an angel he say’s Papa’s going to die”. Well I turn there in the darkness, and my eyes are open wide, I say what else of all the future, can you tell me when I die”. “Tell me of the tree of good and bad, and what it taste just like”, then he rolls to one side looking his smile changing all that’s dark, and he says, “the children of color, have come to bring a brand new start”. (Stillness) – 04.13.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Silversmith (1969)

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Well, good thoughts aren’t miracles, and prayers not an art, belief’s for the living, who live in the dark. In silver’s a dross that falls into waste, on a sunny September the 9th, the stripes came.  With medals shiny, and grim faces wrought, they spoke of the timing his sweet Jimmy fought.  A flag they left folded, a flag he did not want, a silversmith crying, his future blocked.

It’s all about smithing with silver and heat, a raising hammer, the fire and the glow, the night time upon him, his inner soul.  A small set of tweezers, a soldering poke, rough hands bright eyesight, a scriber in tote.  His Tripoli Polish stands worn by its wear, seen many a scratch now worn without wear.  A wind from the high bluff that whispers and moans, and moves his old Hogan without any hope, his hope his main action his time to see clear, he’s finished inscribing what name he holds dear.  A light above cloud line the mesa away, the one he saw Jimmy riding that day.  His uniform dancing, his stripes so in play, from halls of the Aztecs to an African bay.  A sigh of strong memory, that swoops and it smokes, by now it’s a Chindi gone up in black smoke.  He turns his face away, the silversmith, he looks so gray.

In 1950 his smithing a prayer, a gift to the blessing of harmony’s care, a child of the river his Jimmy did cry, he built the wood Hogan, under blue sky.  By the San Juan, he worked and he played, his artisan silver, he sold every day, and when he was finished his son he would take, young Jimmy Nakai, in the river they played.  You should see the log hut, the hut of belief, the one on an island, near rapids and snares.  Their poles catching rainbow and brown to share.  There by moonlight a fire, trout to taste.  Albert Nakai, would teach his boy to place, a sliver of turquoise in silver lace, a line from the heaven in shiny grace, first man and first woman in times embrace.

What ways of a nation, disrupt peaceful souls, with laws about fighting on dangerous soil, a draft for the living when eighteen does come. A silversmith a poor man, he has his one son, so Jimmy is drafted to fight the Viet Con. The silversmith working, his art and his trade, molding miracles to help his boy save. Each day he walks down to the river to see, if his islands standing with the hut of belief, the circles still open, the bad spirit released. He turns his face away, the silversmith, he looks so gray.

Well, good thoughts aren’t miracles, and prayers not an art, belief’s for the living, who live in the dark.  In silver’s a dross that falls into waste, on a sunny September the 9th, the stripes came.  With medals shiny, and grim faces wrought, they spoke of the timing his sweet Jimmy fought.  A flag they left folded, a flag he did not want, a silversmith crying, his future blocked.

The moon over Burnham, the dark mesa near, the river it’s calling the spirit is near.  The silversmith breathing, his tools in his hands, he wades the swift water through dark churning sand.  The moon over darkness, the hole in the land, the ring of pure silver, the tools in the sand.  The fire of belief, it rises so high, the silversmith watches his eyes have grown dry.  He turns his face away, the silversmith, he looks so gray.

Jimmy Nakai, died on Saturday, September 6, 1969, in Operation Idaho Canyon, in Vietnam.  His father Albert Nakai, buried his silversmith tools, and a ring he had carefully made for Jimmy in a hole on an island in the San Juan River.  Although the story is real, I have changed the names for the above piece, the island and its location along the San Juan River are also real, but the exact location unrevealed. – 03.10.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל