Ya Gotta Wonder …. not quite over the top, but close

What would a Beer Bike be?

Some kind of vehicle with up to 22 people and a central bar with many litres of beef careening through the streets of Amsterdam.

Reuters Article

 

Introducing, “The Man from Brazil”

Paulo Celho is a phenomenon … who else has sold 100 MILLION books … and many of them by giving them away.  The interior story is more interesting, still.  He takes a walking 500 mile pilgrimage in 1986 and writes about that.  He then writes, The Alchemist, which sold 900 copies, but since then 65 million … a story of spiritual search, discovery and awakening.  Oh yes, he had a spiritual awakening on the Road to Santiago.  He is amazingly prolific and does not stop … you can discuss The Alchemist with him on line; he checks 2 – 3 times a day to see if someone is there … he has a website called “Warrior of the Light” that has a sharp, incisive piece every couple of weeks. 

To make this all the more challenging, his books mostly start with, “

O Mary, conceived without sin,
pray for us who turn to you. Amen

The Prologue to The Pilgrimage, begins the movement from a man as mystic acolyte to the one whose heart opened to the world … read:

‘And now, before the sacred countenance of RAM, you must touch with your hands the Word of Life and acquire such power as you need to become a witness to that Word throughout the World’.
     The master raised high my new sword, still sheathed in its scabbard. The flames on the bonfire crackled – a good omen, indicating that the ritual should continue. I knelt and, with my bare hands, began to dig into the earth.
     It was the night of January 2, 1986, and we were in Itatiaia, high on one of the peaks in the Serra do Mar, close to the formation known as the Agulhas Negras (Black Needles) in Brazil. My Master and I were accompanied by my wife, one of my disciples, a local guide,
and a representative of the great fraternity that is comprised of esoteric orders from all over the world – the fraternity known as ‘The Tradition.’ The five of us – and the guide, who had been told what was to happen – were participating in my ordination as a Master of the Order of RAM.
     I finished digging a smooth, elongated hole in the dirt. With great solemnity, I placed my hands on the earth and spoke the ritual words. My wife drew near and handed me the sword I had used for more than ten years; it had been a great help to me during hundreds of magical operations. I placed it in the hole I had dug, covered it with dirt, and smoothed the surface. As I did so, I thought of the many tests I had endured, of all I had learned, and of the strange phenomena I had been able to invoke simply because I had had that ancient and friendly sword with me. Now it was to be devoured by  the earth, the iron of its blade and the wood of its hilt returning to nourish the source from which its power had come.
     The Master approached me and placed my new sword on the earth that now covered the grave of my ancient one. All of us spread our arms wide, and the Master, invoking his power, created a strange light that surrounded us; it did not illuminate, but it was clearly
visible, and it caused the figures of those who were there to take on a color that was different from the yellowish tinge cast by the fire. Then, drawing his own sword, he touched it to my shoulders and my forehead as he said, ‘By the power and the love of RAM, I anoint you Master and Knight of the Order, now and for all the days of your life. R for rigor, A for adoration, and M for mercy; R for regnum, A for agnus, and M for mundi. Let not your sword remain for long in its scabbard, lest it rust. And when you draw your sword, it must never be replaced without having performed an act of goodness, opened a
new path, or tasted the blood of an enemy.’

     With the point of his sword, he lightly cut my forehead. From then on, I was no longer required to remain silent. No longer did I have to hide my capabilities nor maintain secrecy regarding the marvels I had learned to accomplish on the road of the Tradition. From that moment on, I was a Magus.
     I reached out to take my new sword of indestructible steel and wood, with its black and red hilt and black scabbard. But as my hands touched the scabbard and as I prepared to pick it up, the Master came forward and stepped on my fingers with all his might. I screamed
and let go of the sword.
    I looked at him, astonished. The strange light had disappeared, and his face had taken on a phantasmagoric appearance, heightened by the flames of the bonfire.
     He returned my gaze coldly, called to my wife, and gave her the sword, speaking a few words that I could not hear. Turning to me, he said, ‘Take away your hand; it has deceived you. The road of the Tradition is not for the chosen few. It is everyone’s road. And the power that you think you have is worthless, because it is a power
that is shared by all. You should have refused the sword.  If you had done so, it would have been given to you, because you would have shown that your heart was pure. But just as I feared, at the supreme moment you stumbled and fell. Because of your avidity, you will now
have to seek again for your sword. And because of your pride, you will have to seek it among simple people.  Because of your fascination with miracles, you will have to struggle to recapture what was about to be given to you so generously.’
     The world seemed to fall away from me. I knelt there unable to think about anything. Once I had returned my old sword to the earth, I could not retrieve it. And since the new one had not been given to me, I now had to begin my quest for it all over again, powerless and
defenceless. On the day of my Celestial Ordination, my Master’s violence had brought me back to earth.
     The guide smothered the fire, and my wife helped me up. She had my new sword in her hands, but according to the rules of the Tradition, I could not touch it without permission from my Master. We descended through the forest in silence, following the guide’s
lantern, until we reached the narrow dirt road where the cars were parked.
     Nobody said goodbye. My wife put the sword in the trunk of the car and started the engine. We were quiet for a long time as she carefully navigated around the bumps and holes in the road.
     ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, trying to encourage me. ‘I’m
sure you’ll get it back.’
     I asked her what the Master had said to her.
    ‘He said three things to me. First, that he should have brought along something warm to wear, because it was much colder up there than he had expected. Second, that he wasn’t surprised at anything that had happened up there, that this has happened many times before with others who have reached the same point as you. And third, that your sword would be waiting for you at the right time, on the right day, at some point on the road that you will have to travel. I don’t know either the day or the time. He only told me where I should hide it.’
    ‘And what road was he talking about?’ I asked nervously.
   ‘Ah, well, that he didn’t explain very well. He just said that you should look on the map of Spain for a medieval route known as the Strange Road to Santiago.’

     This writing crackles with authenticity … I have the main works in electronic form.  Let me know if your appetite is whet enough. 

     He believes in peer-to-peer sharing of books and even created a Pirate Cuelho site to distribute his books.  Got him in trouble with his publisher, HarperCollins.