Sol-2-Soul Sunday 81: Abundance Year Episode 1941 (audio: noxsoma.s...

Full Metal Ox Day 1876
Sunday 19, April 2026
Abundance Year Episode 1941
Noxsoma Life Camp:
Sol-2-Soul Sunday 81

Prosperity
Crime Pays
We are so deep into the matrix, the only way out is through.

Today's Episode: https://odysee.com/@Noxsoma:2/1876_full_4-19-26_1941_sol81:e?r=47k2ScJsm9Uex9eETqgCCA8q1fukdST9
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So Deep into the Matrix the only way out is Through. (The Audio is way better.)
Today we have a Trilogy of Trials that revolve around two, (of many) maxims that fuel my energy cells in the simulatrix. First of all, “if you panic, you die.” And secondly, “when you’re in so deep there’s no turning back, the best way out is through. Our snippets are based on true stories. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Kash, 2016. The lighting’s soft, but his eyes are still hard.

“We were the only three left breathing after the ambush. Deep in Indian Country (hostile territory). Even deeper than that. I was a corporal. Two peckerwood privates, both green, both full of the kind of generational hate that basic training don’t bleach out. They wanted to shoot our way through every village, every trail. ‘Kill Charlie,’ ‘body count,’ they kept sayin’.

I told ‘em, ‘We play it cool, man. We move at night. We hide in the swamps. We don’t look at the villagers. We become ghosts. I’ll getcha thru this.’

They didn’t listen. One of ‘em pulled a rifle on an old woman collecting water. The VC came out of the elephant grass like they were born from it. Took the two of ‘em. I heard the shots. I heard the groans. I knew they were finished.’

I kept moving. Through the rot. Through the leeches. Through the difficult decision of leaving them, but they brought that shit on themselves.

High school taught me something different, Mr. Callahan, my history teacher, white man, Irish Southerner, told me, ‘Son, the only way out of a trap is to stop fighting the trap.’ In ‘Nam, that meant stop fighting Charlie like a cowboy. Start moving like water.

I came out the other side. Not because I was tougher. Because I was smarter. And I had nothing to prove.”

Vivian, 2011. Her voice is calm, almost warm.

“I was twenty-six then. NewYorican to da bone, ya’know? Poppi told me once, in Spanish: “Mija, los hombres buenos respetan. Los otros, los reconoces por como te miran cuando creen que no estás mirando.” (My daughter, good men respect. The others, you recognize them by how they look at you when they think you are not looking.”)

That night, ‘John-boy’, that’s what I called him in my head, like the Walton kid, we connected on a dating app. I thought he was kinda fly, for a white guy. It was cool. We were chillin’. Then he put his hand where it shuddint be. I moved it. He laughed. I got up and left out.

He followed me outside, he grabbed my wrist. Said, ‘You chicas like it a little rough, right?’

I told him, ‘You don’t know me. Or mi gente.’ He squeezed harder. Tried to pull me toward his car. That’s when the switch flipped. The flashback. Memory. I was fourteen, practicing for my black belt test. Sensei taught me the hip throw. “Use his weight, not yours.”

He reached for my chest. I dropped my center, pivoted, and threw him over my hip. His body thumped on the sidewalk. He groaned. But it sounded more like a whine. The fall knocked the wind of him.

I didn’t wait. Ran four blocks to the F train. Didn’t look back. Didn’t exhale until the doors closed.

Men like that? They think machismo is muscle and money. Real machismo is, well, you just know it, right?

Becky, 2011. Sun-weathered hands, easy laugh.

“Twenty years on the job. First female on my squad. They gave me hell, burned my lunch, called me ‘Princess’ till I proved I could drag a two-hundred-pound dummy up six flights. But when that ceiling came down in that warehouse fire? They showed me who they were. Real pros. They had my back, especially the chief.

He grabbed my facemask. Looked me in the eyes and Said, ‘Take a breath. If you panic, you die. You’re this far in. The only way out is through.’ And he got us out too.

Fast forward. Hawaii. Vacation. Me and a rented longboard. I’d taken three lessons, thought I was hot stuff. Paddled out past the break. Caught a few two-footers. Then one wave grabbed me like a bad structure fire, rolled me so hard I lost which way was up.

When I broke surface, the shore looked like a postage stamp. My lungs were screaming. My legs were jelly. And that old panic started to crawl up my throat.

Then I heard Chief. “If you panic, you die.”

I looked at that beach. Looked at my board, still strapped to my ankle. And I thought, “You’ve crawled through black smoke with zero visibility. You can paddle a thousand yards.”

So I did. One stroke at a time. I locked on to a lifeguard tower. Took me for ever. I lost track of time. My shoulders were on fire. But I made it.

When the lifeguard ran up, I just pointed at the ocean and said, ‘That sucker almost had me.’

He said, ‘Ma’am, you should not be alive.’

I said, ‘Honey, I’ve been not supposed to be alive for twenty years.’”

Being genuinely interested in humans, even if I cannot take, “the public,” has its advantages. I’ve learned that people in bars love to talk. About themselves. Their pasts. They have one story they tell over and over again, and I’m that guy who hasn’t heard it yet. The trade-off for my genuine attention, is whatever I’m drinking. Dark & Stormies, in a Park Slope bar with Vivian. Karaoke night and fruity rum drinks at a Waikiki Beach Club with Becky, or City Winery in Philly listening to war stories with Kash, while sipping watered down Long Island Iced Teas and listening to Incognito perform live. This is something your curious vagabond doesn’t have to fake.
Epilogue – I haven’t heard stories like these since I quit drinking.

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