Books published by publisher War Monkey Publications, LLC

An insider’s mind-blowing autobiography. It reveals for the first time the closely guarded enlightenment secrets of meditation masters in the world’s oldest lineage of Buddhist monks. Read fascinating personal accounts of accomplished adepts, both women and men, with the rarest of abilities.This definitive work also maps the evolution of Buddhism into today’s post-traditional form. It explains the Buddha’s science of mind and body as never before. Meticulously footnoted, it will hold up under the scrutiny of every Buddhologist and Buddhist teacher.Explore the empowering potential of using cannabis, MDMA, and LSD in sacred sex rituals to intimately grasp the nature of reality. This part describes in detail a ‘power practice’. You can embody the supernatural knowledge of dedicated initiates!Advance Warning: Theory and Practice sections C, D, and E contain dangerous spoilers for Vipassana meditation practitioners. Traditionally, these derail ultimate success, but this portion wouldn’t be complete without them. In this new paradigm of the Information Age, anything less than full disclosure isn’t fair to you. There are warnings where they start. If you read them, consider yourself to be a consenting adult.British spelling is a conscious choice.About the author:Born late in the Baby Boom to white-collar, WASP parents, Alex Walking was orphaned in his youth. As a teenager, he enjoyed thorough immersion in the imported cannabis trade. Cashing out at twenty-two, he spent six years spread over the next seven living in Sri Lanka, India, Nepal, and Thailand. He took to practising meditation in caves and jungle, well off the beaten paths.In Asia, Alex learned both Samadhi and Vipassana meditation from incredible adepts in their inner sanctums. His Samadhi teacher was an extraordinary woman highly placed in the Theravadin Buddhist world. She would bounce him into states more vivid and electrically charged than our sphere.An accredited master in that orthodox Order of monks threw the experience of Nibbana into Alex’s system. Understanding Nibbana at four progressively deeper levels confers enlightenment from barely to fully.He was taught how to repeat the experience which is essential for becoming fully enlightened. Then, Alex was objectively tested for it over and over by the monk’s lineage’s secret methods to make sure there was no mistake. He emerged, apparently, irrevocably a different sort of human being. Theory and Practice C, D, and E explain how this happens and what it means.For fifteen months he was a fully ordained Theravadin Buddhist monk in the forest tradition of northern Thailand.All of that rare yet classical education enabled him to write this important work.The entheogens Alex is most familiar with are cannabis, LSD, and MDMA. He’s taken LSD at least three hundred times. MDMA, he’s taken at least four hundred times. 99% of his experiences with MDMA centred on ritualised tantric sex, as have many of his LSD trips.Although no longer bound by a pact to not disclose the identity of his late teacher of Red Tantra, Alex chooses not to at this time. A major Western guru loved to present her to his students as the most accomplished Tantrica he knew. In her local community, she was considered a role model for women.The book does contain inspiring details about her and insightful quotes. Multi-orgasmic and fully ejaculatory, she would completely morph into the archetypal sex goddess that the Tibetans call 'The Diamond Yogini'. Physically regenerated, her features retained the shifts afterwards.This gorgeous, brilliant lady considered such access to be every woman’s birthright which they’ve been denied through the subjugation of their sexual energy. She was adept in her navigation of the realms and her ability to articulate the experience. That made her the indispensable Initiatress into the secrets of sexual connection.Whatever your deepest question is, its answer is in this book!

An insider’s mind-blowing autobiography. It reveals for the first time the closely guarded enlightenment secrets of meditation masters in the world’s oldest lineage of Buddhist monks. Read fascinating personal accounts of accomplished adepts, both women and men, with the rarest of abilities.This definitive work also maps the evolution of Buddhism into today’s post-traditional form. It explains the Buddha’s science of mind and body as never before. Meticulously footnoted, it will hold up under the scrutiny of every Buddhologist and Buddhist teacher.Explore the empowering potential of using cannabis, MDMA, and LSD in sacred sex rituals to intimately grasp the nature of reality. This part describes in detail a ‘power practice’. You can embody the supernatural knowledge of dedicated initiates!Advance Warning: Theory and Practice sections C, D, and E contain dangerous spoilers for Vipassana meditation practitioners. Traditionally, these derail ultimate success, but this portion wouldn’t be complete without them. In this new paradigm of the Information Age, anything less than full disclosure isn’t fair to you. There are warnings where they start. If you read them, consider yourself to be a consenting adult.British spelling is a conscious choice.About the author:Born late in the Baby Boom to white-collar, WASP parents, Alex Walking was orphaned in his youth. As a teenager, he enjoyed thorough immersion in the imported cannabis trade. Cashing out at twenty-two, he spent six years spread over the next seven living in Sri Lanka, India, Nepal, and Thailand. He took to practising meditation in caves and jungle, well off the beaten paths.In Asia, Alex learned both Samadhi and Vipassana meditation from incredible adepts in their inner sanctums. His Samadhi teacher was an extraordinary woman highly placed in the Theravadin Buddhist world. She would bounce him into states more vivid and electrically charged than our sphere.An accredited master in that orthodox Order of monks threw the experience of Nibbana into Alex’s system. Understanding Nibbana at four progressively deeper levels confers enlightenment from barely to fully.He was taught how to repeat the experience which is essential for becoming fully enlightened. Then, Alex was objectively tested for it over and over by the monk’s lineage’s secret methods to make sure there was no mistake. He emerged, apparently, irrevocably a different sort of human being. Theory and Practice C, D, and E explain how this happens and what it means.For fifteen months he was a fully ordained Theravadin Buddhist monk in the forest tradition of northern Thailand.All of that rare yet classical education enabled him to write this important work.The entheogens Alex is most familiar with are cannabis, LSD, and MDMA. He’s taken LSD at least three hundred times. MDMA, he’s taken at least four hundred times. 99% of his experiences with MDMA centred on ritualised tantric sex, as have many of his LSD trips.Although no longer bound by a pact to not disclose the identity of his late teacher of Red Tantra, Alex chooses not to at this time. A major Western guru loved to present her to his students as the most accomplished Tantrica he knew. In her local community, she was considered a role model for women.The book does contain inspiring details about her and insightful quotes. Multi-orgasmic and fully ejaculatory, she would completely morph into the archetypal sex goddess that the Tibetans call 'The Diamond Yogini'. Physically regenerated, her features retained the shifts afterwards.This gorgeous, brilliant lady considered such access to be every woman’s birthright which they’ve been denied through the subjugation of their sexual energy. She was adept in her navigation of the realms and her ability to articulate the experience. That made her the indispensable Initiatress into the secrets of sexual connection.Whatever your deepest question is, its answer is in this book!

Published in 1926 to explosive acclaim, _The Sun Also Rises_ stands as perhaps the most impressive first novel ever written by an American writer. A roman à clef about a group of American and English expatriates on an excursion from Paris’s Left Bank to Pamplona for the July fiesta and its climactic bull fight, a journey from the center of a civilization spiritually bankrupted by the First World War to a vital, God-haunted world in which faith and honor have yet to lose their currency, the novel captured for the generation that would come to be called “Lost” the spirit of its age, and marked Ernest Hemingway as the preeminent writer of his time. “One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh; but the earth abideth forever… The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to the place where he arose… The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits. .. . All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.”– ECCLESIASTES

It was a titanic struggle, and the waters won. That is the extraordinary thing—the waters won. The water seems so soft, so yielding, so fluid, and the rocks seem so impregnable, so adamantine, so immutable. Yet the waters always win. The land makes no impression on the sea; but the sea grinds the land to powder. I know that the sea is often spoken of as the natural emblem of all that is fickle and changeful; but it is a pure illusion. There are, of course superficial variations of tone and tint and temper; but, as compared with the kaleidoscopic changes that overtake the land, the ocean is eternally and everywhere the same. It, and not the rocks, is the symbol of immutability. ‘Look at the sea!’ exclaims Max Pemberton, in Red Morn. ‘How I love it! I like to think that those great rolling waves will go leaping by a thousand years from now. There is never any change about the sea. You never come back to it and say, “How it’s changed!” or “Who’s been building here?” or “Where’s the old place I loved?” No; it is always the same. I suppose if one stood here for a million years the sea would not be different. You’re quite sure of it, and it never disappoints you.’ The land, on the contrary, is forever changing. Man is always working his transformations, and Nature is toiling to the same end.‘When the Romans came to England,’ says Frank Buckland, the naturalist, ‘Julius Caesar probably looked upon an outline of cliff very different from that which holds our gaze to-day. First there comes a sun-crack along the edge of the cliff; the rainwater gets into the crack; then comes the frost. The rain-water in freezing expands, and by degrees wedges off a great slice of chalk cliff; down this tumbles into the water; and Neptune sets his great waves to work to tidy up the mess.’ No man can know the veriest rudiments of geology without recognizing that it is the land, and not the sea, that is constantly changing. We may visit some historic battlefield to-day, and, finding it a network of bustling streets and crowded alleys, may hopelessly fail to repeople the scene with the battalions that wheeled and charged, wavered and rallied, there in the brave days of old. But when, from the deck of a steamer, I surveyed the blue and tossing waters off Cape Trafalgar, I knew that I was gazing upon the scene just as it presented itself to the eye of Nelson on the day of his immortal victory and glorious death more than a century ago.

He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. In the first forty days a boy had been with him. But after forty days without a fish the boy's parents had told him that the old man was now definitely and finally salao, which is the worst form of unlucky, and the boy had gone at their orders in another boat which caught three good fish the first week. It made the boy sad to see the old man come in each day with his skiff empty and he always went down to help him carry either the coiled lines or the gaff and harpoon and the sail that was furled around the mast. The sail was patched with flour sacks and, furled, it looked like the flag of permanent defeat. The old man was thin and gaunt with deep wrinkles in the back of his neck. The brown blotches of the benevolent skin cancer the sun brings from its reflection on the tropic sea were on his cheeks. The blotches ran well down the sides of his face and his hands had the deep-creased scars from handling heavy fish on the cords. But none of these scars were fresh. They were as old as erosions in a fishless desert. Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same color as the sea and were cheerful and undefeated. "Santiago," the boy said to him as they climbed the bank from where the skiff was hauled up. "I could go with you again. We've made some money." The old man had taught the boy to fish and the boy loved him. "No," the old man said. "You're with a lucky boat. Stay with them." "But remember how you went eighty-seven days without fish and then we caught big ones every day for three weeks." "I remember," the old man said. "I know you did not leave me because you doubted." "It was papa made me leave. I am a boy and I must obey him." "I know," the old man said. "It is quite normal." "He hasn't much faith." "No," the old man said. "But we have. Haven't we?" "Yes," the boy said. "Can I offer you a beer on the Terrace and then we'll take the stuff home." "Why not?" the old man said. "Between fishermen." They sat on the Terrace and many of the fishermen made fun of the old man and he was not angry. Others, of the older fishermen, looked at him and were sad. But they did not show it and they spoke politely about the current and the depths they had drifted their lines at and the steady good weather and of what they had seen. The successful fishermen of that day were already in and had butchered their marlin out and carried them laid full length across two planks, with two men staggering at the end of each plank, to the fish house where they waited for the ice truck to carry them to the market in Havana. Those who had caught sharks had taken them to the shark factory on the other side of the cove where they were hoisted on a block and tackle, their livers removed, their fins cut off and their hides skinned out and their flesh cut into strips for salting. When the wind was in the east a smell came across the harbour from the shark factory; but today there was only the faint edge of the odour because the wind had backed into the north and then dropped off and it was pleasant and sunny on the Terrace.

"How you ever became a commissioned officer, with such manners, I'll never understand!" he snorted. "Of course I was saying something! But don't let me bore you further. I can see something frightfully important is on your mind. You do have a mind, don't you? Well, what is it? I'll be patient, and listen.""Oh, skip it," Dave grinned. "Sorry from the bottom of my heart, sweetheart. Go ahead. Put the record on again.""Like Shakespeare, I never chew my cabbage twice!" Freddy snapped. "No, never mind. I insist upon knowing the reason for that puzzled look on that homely face of yours. Out with it, my lad.""Just a couple of fellows eating on the other side of the room," Dave said. "I've caught them eying us quite a bit. Came in just after we did. No! Don't look right now, dope! It's not polite."Freddy checked his turning head and flushed slightly."Rubbish!" he mumbled. "But what's wrong with two people looking at us? Frankly, I think we look rather pukka in our U. S. Army Air Force uniforms, and wings, and all that sort of thing. Or perhaps I present an interesting contrast to your sloppy appearance.""Boy! You must have strained a brain cell on that!" Dave growled. "Okay! So people look at us. But there are about twenty other officers in this dining room. And these two guys—Well, if I were going to rob a bank, or maybe kidnap somebody, I think I might be tempted to make a deal with those two. Okay! Take a sneak look now."Freddy twisted around and made as though to brush something off his left shoulder with his right hand. He took a quick look across the dining room and then turned back to Dave."Phew! They are a nasty-looking pair, aren't they!" he breathed. "But maybe they're house detectives, or something. I've always read in your American detective books that hotel detectives are generally horrible-looking creatures.""Say, maybe you've got something there, pal!" Dave said with a laugh. "That's what they've been doing!""Eh?" the English youth echoed. "What have they been doing?""Counting the knives and forks and spoons, as the waiter put them in front of you!" Dave shot at him. "I bet you a buck they search you before you leave.""Well, they'd certainly—!" Freddy gasped before he caught himself. "Blast your ears, Dave! You made me fall right into that one. Right you are! My turn will come, my good fellow. Seriously speaking, though, have they really been giving us more than usual notice?""I'd call it that," Dave said with a shrug. "But maybe my imagination's going a little bit haywire tonight. No, not that, exactly. I mean, waiting for orders makes me think all kinds of things. Darn it all, the picture just isn't complete, if you get what I mean."Freddy Farmer shook his head and looked very grave.

Soon a tall man strode leisurely along, and from every movement of the woman I could see that he was the subject of her watching. He came near where I sat, and stood there with that calm unconcerned patience which is a characteristic of the fisherman.He was a fine-looking fellow, well over six feet high, with a tangled mass of thick red-yellow hair and curly, bushy beard. He had lustrous, far-seeing golden-brown eyes, and massive, finely-cut features. His pilot-cloth trousers spangled all over with silver herring scales, were tucked into great, bucket-boots. He wore a heavy blue jersey and a cap of weazel skin. I had been thinking of the decline of the herring from the action of the trawlers in certain waters, and fancied this would be a good opportunity to get a local opinion. Before long I strolled over and joined this son of the Vikings. He gave it, and it was a decided one, uncompromisingly against the trawlers and the laws which allowed them to do their nefarious work. He spoke in a sort of old-fashioned, biblical language which was moderate and devoid of epithets, but full of apposite illustration. When he had pointed out that certain fishing grounds, formerly most prolific of result to the fishers, were now absolutely worthless he ended his argument,“And, sure, good master, it stands to rayson. Suppose you be a farmer, and when you have prepared your land and manured it, you sow your seed and plough the ridges and make it all safe from wind and devastatin’ storm. If, when the green corn be shootin’ frae the airth, you take your harrow and drag it ath’art the springin’ seed, where be then the promise of your golden grain?”For a moment or two the beauty of his voice, the deep, resonant, earnestness of his tone and the magnificent, simple purity of the man took me away from the scene. He seemed as though I had looked him through and through, and had found him to be throughout of golden worth. Possibly it was the imagery of his own speech and the color which his eyes and hair and cap suggested, but he seemed to me for an instant as a small figure projected against a background of rolling upland clothed in ripe grain. Round his feet were massed the folds of a great white sheet whose edges faded into air. In a moment the image passed, and he stood before me in his full stature.