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.
Sample:
When Arthur was twenty years old he journeyed to Sydney
with a gang of friends in their car, ostensibly to see the stage production of
“Hair”, the hippest phenomena then available to down-under Aussies. He and his
girlfriend, Robyn, had other horizons to explore, more electrifying, and they
hit the road to hitchhike to the Ourimbah Rock Festival further up the coast.
Rock’n’roll had long been Arthur’s main focus of
adoration, it had followed him from the ‘Fifties with the explosive birth of
the art, when Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis and Elvis Presley proved
a wild music could shake up the staid culture of the mid 20th
century. The music evolved in the ‘Sixties to something even more dangerous,
rebellious, risqué, psychedelic, very attractive to alienated teenagers.
Conservative, goody two-shoes conformists hated the phenomena. At Ourimbah he
got to shake his booty to Australia’s best, Billy Thorpe and the Aztecs, Wendy
Saddington, Chain, Tully, Max Merrit and the Meteors and Jeff St. John. Rock’n’roll
catapulted him down a road of alternative freedoms, different styles, carnal fulfillment
and other-world knowledge, his brain would’ve shriveled without it.
He’d never forget being in the showers at Ourimbah,
everyone unashamedly in the nude, and there beside him stood Billy Thorpe,
naked, beautiful, tripping off his face. Artie had been there before, expanded
into THAT at the Newhaven Clinic, and he recognized Billy’s shit-eating grin,
LSD enlightenment with a smile that lifted hearts, and he returned the smile in
true brotherhood, sexuality didn’t matter, rock’n’roll was the religion. His adult
mind often drifted back to that moment, that hottest of guys, nude and
friendly, and he wished and wished, oh if only he could’ve cracked onto him,
but he was straight.
The drug-induced Nirvana Artie had been catapulted into
at the Gingerbread Clinic in Kew hadn’t lasted long, his devious libido had
merely shed a skin, his desires grew back like the ravenous cut-off heads of
the dragon that guards the gates to paradise. Arthur was drawn back into the
realm of flesh by his over-riding desire for the male, he who bears the phallus
and carries the testosterone boost.
To quell the turmoil of his passions and confusions he
tried Transcendental Meditation after hearing a hippie pseudo-guru speak of its
cosmic benefits at Ourimbah. He did hours of Yoga exercises daily to channel
his libidinous energy upwards but it only made him more healthy and spunky and
he became twice as randy.
He then went on to sully the waters of his enlightenment
by falling ridiculously in love with a fellow meditator at the TM center, Mox,
who smiled benevolently upon him making Arthur think the sun had broken through
the roof. He read copious autobiographies of saints and spiritual adepts for
inspiration, consulted the ‘I Ching’ for advice, and rigorously followed the
instructions of the “Yoga Sutras” and the eight-fold path of Gautama Buddha,
attempting to glow in the dark.
(If your curiosity is piqued please go to the WEB
address above and buy the book to read further.)
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| Rajneesh |
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| Compassion. |
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