To My Brothers in the Brotherhood

To My Brothers in the Brotherhood

(When I left work – exhausted and hot.
Our secretary was hanging directions
to our meeting on the union board.)

Peace be with you.
And also with you.

It is my direct action to love!
Go home directly, hug my boy –
kiss the wife and hit the sack.

Peace be with you.
And also with you.

Let us pray.

Brothers, one day you will take
this union as sacrament.
This power we seek is to unite human
heart with sacred vision.
To be forward thinking – with resolve.
Our kinship, our favor.
Our love for one another,
will be our saving grace.
It is radical to speak without kind intention.
It is what it is, is the mantra of the broken.
Reality dictates that our strength comes in numbers.
It is ignorance that expects people
to come, who have not been invited.
It is morality that guides us to be all inviting.
Conscience that tells of our failure.

Peace be with you.
And also with you.

Let us pray.

Let us not fall to fear of what might
happen if we raise our voices on high.
They will say, “they won’t stick together!”
They will say, “they don’t care!”
They will say, “they have fallen to
greed and don’t understand!”
Let us be like the tree,
planted by the water.

For I was happy but now I’m not.
I was lost but now, I’m found.
Was blind … but now I see.
I am employed by your favor!
Let’s not get lost in arguments.
Peace be with you.
And also with you.

Let us now greet each other &
feel open hands meet &
raise our voices on high!

There is power in a band of working folks
when they stand hand in hand.

In solidarity!

I make motion to change
the name of our union to also
include the word.
Can I get a witness?



Prana meets the Beats inna Firehouse in Monterey, Kentucky

This is a chapter from my book The Table that can be purchased HERE.

Rest in peace Mike Bell!

Chapter 12 – Prana meets the Beats inna Firehouse in Monterey, Kentucky

We were young men, in a percussion ensemble circa 1993 -1995 named for a Vedic word used to describe the life-giving force. A source, per definition of the word, that comes from the sun. We were a rag tag team of twenty-year olds, very much innocently – delving into conceptual organic soundscapes – very much inspired by the resurgence of world music that came after Micky Hart released his book and companion CD, Drumming at the Edge of Magic. We were winging it.

We had a didgeridoo player, blacksmith, who had mastered the circular breathing technique of the Australian native peoples. A DunDun player wild man, new to African music, photographer and deep thinker, seeker. We also had the young son of a Presbyterian minister, Zak Fry. My first percussion student. We had Leland, the friend, who would end up sticking around in NYC after the Rant tour, that ate the beat poets, and then would travel with me to the place that was founded by the Sufi, Inayat Khan’s son. Several Folks would come in and out of this group. Toby the hippie dude who disappeared. I think he split out to Bloomington, Indiana. We also had Joshua, the white Rasta, soon to become quite a hardworking man and husband. Not to mention kick ass Djembe player in his own right.

Three of our members came as a troop. High school buddies. Our Dundun, bass drum, mask wearing, philosopher – burning man, was a close friend of Eric (habibi) the blacksmith frame drum player. Some of the troop sometimes now honor me as their first teacher, and that is an honor. But we were all new to this culture. Not a study into the factual historical relevance of the Djembe, however, we were on a journey that would take us into Smoketown, Kentucky to do a presentation for impoverished African- American neighborhood kids.

We ate Monterey, Kentucky and played the firehouse in that little lonesome forgotten tobacco town. We played the Twice-Told coffeehouse many times. I suggested that we would eventually play in Egypt and all around the world. I think big. We would wear African masks and put cool Indian carpets on the stage like the Grateful Dead. We were going further, for real. Once we had a copper bullroarer fly off the rope and almost kill somebody in the audience. It was awesome,

Back in the Prana days, I was deeply studying Islam and Sufi poetry. I was playing and making bamboo flutes. I was attending the working-class mosque on 4th street in old Louisville and praying as much as I could. I was reading books written by a Sufi guru named Bawa Muhiyadeen, a lot. My wife and I would later visit the fellowship in Philly that was organized and overseen by Bawa. On our honeymoon, we would pray in the fellowship’s mosque, eat mung bean curry and read Bawa texts in his bedroom. We would then travel to the Gershwin hostel in NYC, and sleep in a Barbie themed bed. We were ecstatically in love, still are. And,

Once upon a time there was a Cat Swami. He sat in the grain house and convinced rats to follow him. He told the rats that the cats and the rats had made friends. The cat was awesome, right? He would preach fire and brimstone, the one big union, sing solidarity forever and all was good on the farm. One day, one of the fat rats disappeared. The cat told the fat rat to stay after one of the sermons, because he, the cat, thought that he, the rat, was awesome, right? um, so. Well, when no one was looking, pounce.

The other rats got the picture and figured out the moral of the story and they all lived happily ever after. Right?

That is a very simple version of a Bawa story that was in one of his Children’s books. It is a story that teaches folks to be very wary of guru’s, plastic shamans, new age bull chicken and the such. Bawa’s stories are deep and his teachings, wonderful. Nobody can find any dirt on him. No cars, women, drugs, no wild sex and other things that sometimes come with Indian guru new age crystal visions. I am not Muslim now and my Lebanese Greek Orthodox grandfather would have killed me, if he knew my wife and I got married in the mosque. I am a huge fan of Sufism and, I digress, often.

I think the important thing to mention is that none of us were music students at the college. The non-academic qualities of our group are important to this story. The living and breathing fact was that we were all struggling to figure out some relevance in a world that had lost its way. Lost its culture. I think that it is also important to mention that while some of us were studying the liner notes of all the new world music CDs we were sharing about our collective. We never called it a collective.

We didn’t have a website, email and a blog. We released a cassette. Our rehearsals were held mostly at our Dun Dun player’s house and were naturally centered around food and friendship. A dundun is a common general name for the bass drums that are the backbone of traditional west African village music from the Malinke people.

We were mixing together the rhythms that I had learned from a collection of African rhythms from two of my earliest teachers, Herbie Johnson and Musa Uthman. It is important to note that these two people were African Americans, from Louisville, Kentucky. These two folks were part of the generation of African Americans that had found African music from the previous generations. From the pan African 1960’s.

It is also important to note that the resurgence of World Music, that can be directly blamed on Mickey Hart, was fueling this group. We were adding to that mix, a study of Classical Indian music that found our group traveling to Cincinnati to a birthday celebration for Zakir Hussain’s father. If I remember correctly it was his 70th birthday and the concert was a long tabla recital with his two sons. Long, meaning over three hours. Zakir Hussain is one of the most celebrated Tabla players of his time. His father was one of the most important Tabla players of his time. Time.

Eric, our didge player and I had become very good friends. We were dropping acid, playing music for hours, talking, laughing. Eric, is a trickster, seer, magician. He was at the time a Blacksmith. His homemade Didgeridoos, made of copper, were exquisite. To make a serious point, I think Eric is one of the most talented musicians that I have ever played with. I have been places with Eric, in music, that are hard to explain. Other Worlds. Sun Ra has a song called, I’ll Wait For You. That is where we went.

It’s a far place.

Many light years in space …

I’ll wait for you,

I’ll wait for you!

Where human feet,

have never trod,

human eyes, have never seen –

I’ll build a world, full of abstract dreams –

I’ll wait for you … I’ll wait for you.

Something like that. Before Prana, I had a friend named Blue. He played the Japanese flute. Blue and I worked at the Good Neighbor Food Cooperative together. He was an ex-Marine, turned hippie, lost son of a folk musician – step son of a biker. Not just a biker, but a real one. His step-father was … well, think biker gang, Louisville Outlaws – think, Hell’s Angels. That is how Blue grew up. We met and would become inseparable. We would spend hours and hours playing our flute and drum, in the burned-out chapel upstairs from the Co-op. We named our group One Song, from a line in a poem by Rumi. Blue and I would frequently go to the place that is described in the Sun Ra poem.

To get to that place, a Sufi poet once gave perfect directions. The instructions read:

to enter that place one would need to fly through a window,

but, why do that, if there were no walls

Something like that. Jazz musicians call this place, “In the pocket.” Miles Davis called his notes colors. Many musicians have tried to describe leaving the human world of language and place. It’s like a magic carpet ride. L.S.D helps, but like Timothy Leary had suggested in his time – once you get across the river, why carry the canoe – …

The river I was crossing with PRANA was a poem that would have many rewrites over time. Drum, Beat, Dance. The poem turned into an elaborate stage presentation called The Rhythm of Civilization. Here is one of the versions that is in my journal that I carried in my grip while eating NYC, meeting all the old farts of poetry and going to meet Baba Olatunji. The poem is Circa 1994.




Sounds that came from a

place inside you that

you didn’t know were there.




from the heart by the

hands the sweet music

flows, Sounds of a


Drum – Beat – Dance …

Children dancing on

the skin that stretches

across …

Looking at the sun

the white heat grabs you.

Drum – Beat – Dance!

A new civilization singing …

Lonely for the flute,

I come looking

for you …

Drum – Beat – Dance …

We Celebrate, with music –

and wine, not made from grapes!

In a place, you can’t imagine.

The Marriage of flute and drum.

The Rhythm of sound.

The breath of life.


Sound and Power.

Drum Beat Dance and Sing and Dance

and Love and Life and Drum – Beat – Dance …

with you.

We started the song with forest sounds, clicks and the bullroarers. The didgeridoo drone would then lead the way to a deep six-eight pattern on the drums. I would do a flute presentation and then start into the poem. The song ended with a long flute solo and then finished with the conclusion of the poem.

When we played this song in Monterey, Kentucky, my flute, right in the middle of my solo, broke in half and fell to the floor. It was surreal. The solo that I had taken had moved me to start crying. Of all the performances that we experienced as a group, the firehouse gig was my favorite. The hash was good, the L.S.D that we took was pure and the creek we swam in was cool. I was young and with my friends. Monterey, Kentucky holds a special place in my heart. I had never experienced that sort of mystical feeling before. A deep rapture that broke my flute. Right?

On Woody Guthrie’s Birthday

Oh Woody, I am thinking about you!
I have grown somewhat bitter.
I must admit!
I know you – sometimes I fancy
that I am just like you.
But maybe it is because I know too much
and have been burnt by the fire.
So, a few questions I might ask. For
I am romantically involved so as to
mention – Sarah Ogan Gunning!

Was she bitter because Aunt Molly got
to hang around all them rich folks?
Was it because Pete played for the
Rockefellers, while singing –
I don’t want, your millions mister?

Hypocrisy is a bitch!
If you point it out –
they will bury you!
How much more crap should I take
before I “die with my hammer in
my hand?”

I heard Sarah ripped your ass once –
because you did one of her songs.
She picked your little ass up and
almost ringed your neck.
Is that true?

Woody, brother, i see what you saw,
and I think I know why you wrote all
night, alone, falling asleep on your
typewriter, full ashtray …

It takes a worried man,
to sing a worried song.

I certainly am worried.

One last question:

Did you ever hear Joe Hill talking
to you? I have.He said,
Don’t mourn, Organize.
So, i organized my life.
Trying not to get bitter and
am working now as a deck
hand on a Ohio River
Steamboat built two
years after you was borned.

I wish we could hang out!
See, I worked on the railroad.
Found a lonesome darkness
engulfing me.
I gave it all up.
Once I built a railroad ..
you know the rest.

For your birthday –
I offer you a song.
I wrote it for Jimmie
Rodgers. I have alot
in common with him too.

When the song
gets to the part where
I sing “I think y’all knowd.”
That part is for you!

Happy Birthday.

JP “Catfish John” Wright


You wanna hear some shit?
I heard Sarah Ogan died at a
singing circle. Time came
for her to sing. She took a
deep breath, and died.

I wonder if the dress she
wore was blue?

She sure knew how to
drive that steel!

Do Re Mi – #occupyICE

Do Re Mi


Original lyrics by Woody Guthrie

Rewrite by John Paul Wright

Well, thousands of folks all over the world

are leavin’ home everyday,

beating their way to the good ol’ U.S.A.

Lured by prosperity and that

message from Lady Liberty,

but eventually here is what they’ll find.

When the I.C.E. Agent comes a knockin’

on their door,

“we don’t need your cheap labor anymore!”


Oh, if you ain’t got that Do Re MI.

If you ain’t got that Do Re Mi.

Better go back to Central America, Africa

Mexico or the Middle East.

We need workers for

“our interests in the region”

Uncle Sam ain’t in the

business of Sanctuary!

So believe it or not you won’t find it

so hot, if you ain’t got the Do Re Mi.

So you want some of our diversity

or to send you kids to a university

that’s real nice, but it’s all just a dream.

We got prisoners working for free,

we made cages an industry.

Stick around just a little while

and here is what you’ll find –

that your just another wage slave

capital knows no boarders anyway!


Louisville is – A Native Language

Louisville is – A Native Language
for Geoff Gage

Years ago, we ate acid like it was candy. Little paper squares. Gold star and album cover. We found and lived out the stories in the books our parents collected on shelves. A real life folkways. The Grateful Dead concerts were our pilgrimage and remember: Ken Kesey left that battle to go home.
On our acid trips, we explored chaos while walking the property that used to be known as Mulberry Hill. George Rogers Clark’s home was my front yard. That big tree was our friend as we played with crystals, native religion and youth. Our parents dragging us to a neighborhood theater called the Uptown to watch movies of their generation.

Woodstock, Harold and Maude and then we found our books! Seven Arrows, Lame Deer Speaks and Black Elk.

And years ago, I found myself living in a shadow. A shadow of an activist mom at war with the University of Louisville. Who didn’t flinch when I found Frank Zappa. And you went to prom with my sister. Your long hair and top hat. Her tie dyed dress. We were only doing as we were Twice Told. Good children, raised on the rest of the story and rebellious members of a sorts, of a corps of discovery, of our own right of passage. Your brother, enticed by Minerva and her messaging on the bulletin boards. He bit the apple in 1984.

Once i suggested that our youthful parties were liken those hippies and their acid tests. Like Garcia and Bob. Our heroes and their masks. We passed our exams and life went on. And now what of it?

I went in search of America, by way of traditional marriage, railroading and folk music. You went in search of Europe, by way of music and love. And this prose is breaking rules of language! A way of thinking in lucid colors and fragments. Our curriculum, changed our thinking. The experience, we kissed the sky. Our freak flags now old and tattered, yet waving. Bones creaking … listen to the river sing sweet songs to rock, my soul.

So, brother, this is what you need to know.

We come from the land of Ali! I see his face from the middle of the river when we are docking that steamboat. My heart and soul found me all fought out. Not broken! A decorated veteran of the union army.

Muhammad’s palace sits on the Banks of the Ohio. His muraled eyes, looking over at this town as if to say, uh hum Louisville, y’all full of shit. And remember, York was willed to William Clark as human property. So when the activists start talking statues and slavery? This whole town needs paint thrown on it. And all the whitewash made, won’t change the fact that a Boone watches over the entrance to Cherokee Park. Not even Mother Nature could remove that statue with a direct hit of her Tornado, we all spookily remember.

And back to that shadow.

Your father. A hero of mine, and a potential legacy for you. My father is an electrician who taught me about family, labor and love. Your father, was why I knew what to do when I got to the railroad. When the spirit of Joe Hill started pulling at my heart! It was because a long time ago, I stole one of your dad’s records. Doc Watson and his son, Merle. They sang about John Henry on that record. My step father’s entire family worked for the L&N, that doesn’t stop here, anymore.

And back to those trips, Captain Trips and your top hat. And that land known as Otter Creek Park and lovers leap. We were like hobbits, like elves, like wizards. Our Joseph Campbell classes like a real time university in mythology, learned in the hearts of darkness. Like your family friend and his Vietnam boonie hat we all shared, however, given to you as a gift. Your father’s close friend, and his war bonnet that sits on your mantle now.

I am thinking about all those hippies that must have been laughing at us. The elders who come and sit with your father in your backyard, around a fire of your creation. We are to them the ones grasping a baton, their race almost run. Their Wendell Berry dreams, their cooperative visions, worn down like the forgotten Paths to Peace, the ever changing banks of the Ohio.

We see all their failures ; the unkempt houses, their back water stories. What they built for us, their Homefronts, sacred song circles ; their youths for peace are being willed a dream that is being stolen from them, piece by piece or worse : in danger of extinction! That is the big picture! That is their worry.

I am writing in a language of place.

And dropping names of people and ideals great in scope. Like Hunter S. Thompson! Nobody ever told us that we were trippin’ in his neighborhood! This is Outlaw territory! So what! Like Miles and his colors! Like Harlan Hubbard and his watercolor dreams of river life! I am breathing in the hot air of the Ohio and hearing the puff of the steam engine. Like John Hartford in the pilot house of the Belle, and all the Folk People that have visited this place on Baxter Ave.

You have your stories!

Like you dad, hanging out with Jean Ritchie, like me and Wendell sitting around his kitchen table, showing my son an original painting from Harlan, the old man by the river, winking at me like my watercolor son is something special. And I find solidarity with Uncle Burley. Remember that story I told you about the father cutting tobacco. Remember the part about the grandfather breaking up the fight and little brother, worried about the son, the brother, mad who leaves the homeplace to find his own, then, returns.

I am writing this because I know, you know!

You see me sitting in your backyard cabin. My son, a young buck shadow boxing and stealing the key from his mother’s pillow.. If you hear us fighting, it’s because we are harvesting tobacco. He, just like you is living in a shadow. John Paul, the labor guy, is his father. And one day this field will be his. What that will be, I don’t know. Don’t really care. Let there be songs … to fill the air.

So, happy Mother’s day.

I am Iron John. and isn’t that a funny way to put it? Brother, remember, I am the one with the tool that the slave masters made illegal. And remember, we live to be like all that Sun Ra our mystic sufi teacher threw at us to decipher. When those men and their movements were finding themselves, we were flying on our magical carpets. If i remember correctly, you went to the moon. I, watched as you traveled, the smoke from the lodge, the night sky. Now ask about Rumi and Shams. Ask about Soul Fury and my conversations with Coleman …
Ask me what i see when i play that djembe drum. Ask me why i still believe in things that nobody else knows about. Like Juba – flowing like Sweet Honey From a Rock. (York named one of his children, Juba) Like drums of passion! Brother this is slave code that I am writing in. This is a native language that I am spitting, mad like a farmer, folk in remedy! Jin Go, Jin Go Ba … informs my mind wanderings as I whistle railroad chain gang songs on a packet boat. Right?

So, in conclusion. Brother. I have gone to many a source. Sun Ra and Bawa’s house in Philly. Sought out Anne Braden’s closest friends and Joe Hill has spoken to me, like a saviour. Like a Chicago anarchist martyr. I, as well as you have seen a big picture! We are living in it!

Once a mentor of mine, he was Carl Braden’s best buddy, he told me, “you can’t take Jesus from the working class.” That was all I needed to hear. We pile it high and deep. PHD  -The Dalai Lama and a Marx, that hits the spot! Carl’s father was a railroader!

This town, Louisville, is our home. And nothing has changed since we were kids. Big money still runs the show. Jim Crow is lurking around every corner. The women are fast and the horses, beautiful. The Bourbon still flows on Bardstown Road and Thomas Merton’s name is mentioned around here almost daily.

And as the sun comes up behind me,
a rebellious son, sleeping in the loft above me.
Just know this …

We went further!
Like what it said on that bus. We probably went too far. Reflection is what fuels this morning lamentation. Remember, I was the one who went into cuckoo’s nest. And remember the big indian runs into the sunset!
Remember this too … ripple in still waters, when there is no pebble tossed, no wind to blow. I know this has been imprinted into your heart like that story about tobacco harvesting i found when i fell into Mr. Berry’s well.
Like how those steel rails haunted me of railyard ghosts.
Like that whisper i hear daily.
Don’t Mourn, Organize.

Your not so distant neighbor.
John Paul of Turtle Island, USA


It takes a worried man to sing a worried song.
Brother … we are the Blues Brothers.
We are on a mission from God,
the great spirit – call it what you will.
Amen and women too.
You are the preacher’s son, a jumping mouse
climbing the seven storey mountain!
hint … you are the big chief now!

I already proved i could lift the control
stand and beat the steam drill down!
It’s your turn hoss!

Chapter 2 / Before N.Y.C

Chapter 2 – Before N.Y.C

When I posted chapter 1 on my blog, a person who I had been chatting with on Facebook showed an interest in this story. She called herself a “red diaper baby.” A red diaper baby is a kid raised by a political activist and I suspect I am one of those. She also mentioned that she thought the blogpost post showed “moral courage.” I asked her what she meant by that and she said it was courageous to be openly talking about mental health issues.

We chatted a bit and somewhere in the digital exchange, I mentioned my wife. I always mention my wife, especially if I am chatting over the internet with a woman. I also mentioned my mother, thusly the red diaper comment. My mother was my rock and moral compass. I told her that my mother was a political activist. My Facebook friend, wanted to hear more about my mom, Glenda the good witch.

My mother was the reason I ended up in the care of Central State mental hospital on a three-day self-imposed mental inquest warrant and property of the state of Kentucky. I freaked out. I yelled at her and accused her of brandishing a weapon. I left the house, I guess you could say I ran away to the loony bin by way of a teepee.

I had been living in her basement for a year, slowly slipping into a deep dark depression. I was suffering from the breakup of a two-year relationship. My life was collapsing. My girlfriend, who I had met at the food co-op where I was working several months before, cheated on me with a friend in our circle. I was also suffering heart problems.

My heart was skipping beats. Panic attacks were a daily event. Every day I walked across the park, that was my 46-acre front yard as a child, and go to the store and buy tons of junk food. I ate tons of sugar and tons of salt and then went home and slept for hours. My body was rebelling. I was getting fat and more and more in my head.

I was reading, listening to music and sleeping for hours on end. Sometimes upwards of eighteen. I was reading the Sufi books that I had been turned on to by the manager of the food co-op. I was reading Black Elk Speaks and a book with speeches from Native American Chiefs called Touch the Earth.

I was a young hippie, deadhead. The medicine man manager at the co-op, the teepee connection, had turned me onto a Sufi guru from Philadelphia named Bawa Muhaiyaddeen. I was deeply getting into the Sun Ra that he had turned me on to. I was listening to Sun Ra and reading all his poetry on the CD covers and starting an impressive Sun Ra collection.

Bawa’s books are deep! The idea of killing my self was on my mind, but not that kind of killing. I was deeply thinking about who I was. My friendship with my long-haired hippie herbal Sufi manager was deep. He is a very humble person and was always saying something that I thought was something I needed to think about.

Sun Ra, well, ifin you ain’t never heard of Ra, best be firing up that Google machine. My little trip up the river of life was starting to come to a delta. All my problems seemed to be rushing in on me. Over the course of eight months I had gained one hundred pounds. Something was going to break.

One morning, after one of those long dark days and nights in the basement, I had a crazy audible hallucination. I thought I heard my mother run through the house and get her .38 and pull the trigger back. I ran up the basement steps and told her that I had had enough. Then after a short freak out. I left.

She would not let me come back. She had had enough and didn’t know what to do. I am sure she was hurt, terrified and lost as to why her little Johnny, was so sick in the head. I didn’t have a plan as to what I was going to do. I was ready for some help. Several of my friends were on the crazy check. I knew that was an option. However, I didn’t think that I was that kind of crazy, so, I phoned a friend.

The friend owned a delightful home out in the south end of Louisville, had a nice family, who were then celebrating Thanksgiving. He drove all the way across town and picked me up from the Walgreens drug store where I had called him from a payphone. I stayed in his backyard teepee overnight. He built a fire. I had a big plate of food.

We talked about me being nuts and then, after a long night rearranging all the dirt, sticks and staring at the fire burn, I knew I needed help. I was not going to get this crazy out. I got a ride downtown and somehow ended up getting ready to have the meeting with the woman who handed out gum at the co-op, who was the mother of the young woman, who set up that table on Christopher Street that you were reading about a minute ago.


The Most Important Paragraph Upton Sinclair Ever Wrote … IMHO

Especially with the rise of the new socialist movement of today! Upton Sinclair’s conclusion to his book, Profits of Religion, gives folks a very important warning to what the movement may suffer from.

The full audiobook is posted below.

This book was self published in 1917.

I have known hundreds of young radicals in my life; they have nearly all been gallant and honest, but they have not all been wise, and therefore not so happy as they might have been. In the course of time I have formulated to myself the peril to which young radicals are exposed. We see so much that is wrong in ancient things, it gets to be a habit with us to reject them. We have only to know that a thing is old to feel an impulse of impatient scorn; on the other hand, we are tempted to welcome anything which can prove itself to be unprecedented. There is a common type of radical whose aim in life is to be several jumps ahead of mankind; whose criterion of conduct is that it shocks the bourgeois. If you do not know that type, you may find him—and her—in the newest of the Bohemian cafes, drinking the newest red chemicals, smoking the newest brand of cigarettes, and discussing the newest form of psychopathia sexualis. After you have watched them awhile, you realize that these ultra-new people have fallen victim to the oldest form of logical fallacy, the non sequitur, and likewise to the oldest form of slavery, which is self-indulgence.