Hissing, spitting, howling, purring from a dumpster in a back alley of Cyber City - TALES WITH THE BEAT for ADULTS ONLY and artists, atheists, adventurers, beatnics, bohemians, brights, dharma bums, dreamers, dancers, civil libertarians, eco-warriors, free-thinkers, freaks, loners, libertines, mystics, mayhem-surfers, outcasts, poets, punks, pagans, renegades, ravers, rockers, queers, shamans, sci-fi nuts, trippers, trancers, tricksters, wanderers, wankers, yogis, zorros, zippies and zen.
These stories, that have been available on
Blogspot for 10 years for free, will now only be available on Amazon at the
address above. They are contained in “Vagabon Freak”, the 1st volume
of a trilogy titled “The 7 Lives of the Punk Poofy Cats”. I have been the
archetypal starving artist in his garret, painting, drawing and writing,
writing, writing as if I were some waif crying out in the wilderness. Now I
need you, dear reader, to hear my cries and go to Amazon and buy a copy of my
book and keep me alive. There you will find my complete tale, from beginning to
end, in one place, for you to hold in your hot little hands. When you read it
straight through, I assure you, it will blow your mind.
Below are introductory
paragraphs and some pictures that I still retain to illustrate this story,
hopefully to give you a come-on to get my book. Thanks for giving me a go, TZ.
As a result of Arthur’s soul-seeking travails in the
variegated, outlandish Baba camps of India he came to the conclusion, and clung
to it, that he had the best of all mentors, patrons and guides in his dear, old
friend back in Australia, Compassion. Indeed, the Old Fool had told him on his
departure for the mystic wonderland of India that he couldn’t find there what
he didn’t already have on his front doorstep, possibly meaning his own humble
No matter what forceful, alluring come-on Arthur was
subjected to by the army of ravenous and/or charismatic saints he encountered,
he held the white-haired image of the Australian yogi shining clearly in his
heart, warding off the intrepid imposters that tried to bewitch him.
He’d gone adventuring in Kashmir and whilst getting
embroiled with the Sid Quartz Gang in their houseboat flotilla Arthur received
a letter informing him that Compassion had arrived in Shangri-la and was
awaiting his attendance. Without much ado he disentangled himself from his
fellow freaks’ machinations and split the scene, rushing from the paradise of
Srinigar’s lakes to be at his old friend’s side.
He found the Old Fool living naked in a small brick hut
deep in the jungle behind Sivananda Ashram. He was shocked to discover the old
boy was dying from a recurrence of a disease he’d caught in his earlier
sojourns in India; he’d lost his voice, could hardly swallow, and his arms hung
uselessly at his sides like limp spaghetti. Compassion communicated by tapping
his big toe upon an alphabet board, only it was his right foot, not his left. Over
the months Arthur became quite adept at reading his flashing toe, he could even
finish the sentences for him, mental telepathy having taken over.
Alternatively, the old fellow was a little nonplussed at
Arthur’s devolution, he’d lost a front tooth, his bald head was peeping through
his sun-bleached dreadlocks and his skin was so tanned he looked like a native.
With a scraggly beard hanging like moss from his face, Arthur had made himself
look extra ugly and it was possibly for this reason he never got seduced by
Indian men, most of whom hate hair, ashamed of their own hirsuteness. Also, Gay
Lib hadn’t yet made it to the subcontinent and homosexuality was taboo, Arthur
keeping this side of his self hidden, even from his old mentor.
Arthur’s nursing skills came in good stead for Compassion
required an industrious healing program to stay afloat. This was a man who’d
endeavored, for the latter half of his life, to lead the healthiest of regimes:
exercise, fresh air and unprocessed food, and absolutely no drugs. He’d caught
a weird parasitical disease from sand fly bites called Kala-azar, Black Fever,
in West Bengal in the 1960’s and it had resurged with a vengeance in his
fifties, destroying the bone marrow in the vertebrae of his neck. The old
codger refused all medications, especially pain-killers, and he must have
suffered terribly, yet in all their time together he never made a murmur about
being in pain.
old yogi had brought two Australian youths with him as attendants whom he
dubbed Serenity and Humility, the former a sweet angel who thought only of the
old man’s welfare, the latter a spoiled monster who whinged and bitched and
wouldn’t lift a finger to help out. Compassion also dubbed Arthur with a new
tag, Ananda, (Bliss), perhaps because Arthur had a disposition towards
depression, yet half the time laughing his arse off at the absurdity of the
world. Or maybe the Old Fool saw himself as Buddha come again with Arthur as
his most assiduous disciple, whose prodigious memory and writing-talent kept
the tales of Siddartha alive.
(If your curiosity is piqued please go to the WEB
address above and buy the book to read further.)