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:
It was mid 1974 and the ghastly Indian drought burned on
with accompanying food-riots and general disaffection. It might as well have
been a dust storm on Mars for all that it affected Arthur contemplating his
gonads up in the Himalayas. He lingered on at the Sivananda Jungle University
for several months after his beloved mentor’s death, continuing his yoga
practices and philosophical studies despite the sexual beast gnawing away at
the underbelly of his psyche.
To soak up his energies, Arthur worked as a volunteer
nurse in the Sivananda Charity Hospital and he even tended to the ailing lepers
in the leprosarium the ashram supported up the river, dressing their wounds and
cheering them up with his gracious attention, like some charitable princess.
He received permission from the Jungle University to move
down to the river’s edge to a small concrete cave that some smart Sadhu baba
had built into the riverbank in seasons past. It had a little concrete veranda
with a thatched awning and was just the thing for Arthur to do his yoga and
pranayams upon. Its only drawback was that it faced a section of the river much
favored as the best swimming spot by the multitudes of local young men.
Daily Arthur had to suffer the sight of their muscular
frames, barely concealed by wet cotton sheaths, leaping about boisterously,
with smiles that would put the morning sun to shame and innocently giving
Arthur the come-on. His saintly resolve to again attempt celibacy was cracking
and would possibly tumble like the walls of Jericho at the blast of one young
man’s horn if given the chance. He was in paradise and gorgeous angels
frolicked all about him and he just had to find something else to distract him.
It was about this time that Moti Ma, (Mother of Pearl),
showed up and started hanging around with the Australian gang. She was a
twenty-four year-old New Zealand woman who had wandered India for four years
and looked the part, draped chastely in a faded sari from head to foot like the
goddess Saraswati. She had long blonde dreadlocks massed in a beehive on her
head, and bright blue cat’s eyes that fascinated every man she looked upon.
She had managed to travel the wilds of India by keeping
the company of fellow international freaks and thus got protection from the
constant advances of the multitudes of lustful Indian men. In the end, every
one of her male firanghi protectors also put the hard word on her, and she
found it very tiresome, everything boiling down to sex and never being left
free to practice her yoga like a Hindu nun. Arthur assured her he was as pure
and guileless as a newborn brother and she would only find the best of friends
in him.
Together they planned a pilgrimage to the sacred site of
Badrinath, for the government had recently opened the town to foreign tourists
after centuries of isolation and Arthur was determined to complete the quest
Compassion had once had his heart set upon.
Arthur was obliged to get permission for the journey from
the head of the Ashram, Swami Chidananda. Young women were forbidden in the
monastery as anathema to the contemplative’s life, only old crones like the
German Countess getting a look in, (having donated plenty of money) and, when
the ascetic Swami clapped eyes upon the beautiful Moti Ma, radiant as a
goddess, he forbade Arthur and her to travel together.
Arthur didn’t have the courage to tell the old celibate
that his sexual inclinations were more at risk with his fellow monks, yet never
one to be thwarted from his intentions, he journeyed on alone to the top of the
Himalayas and Moti Ma joined him a few days later, without directly disobeying
the well-meaning old Hindu Abbot.
Badrinath was a magical place, revered for thousands of
years as a sacred site to Lord Vishnu the Preserver and His Avatar, Rama, whose
ascension to Heaven occurred somewhere in the vicinity, and rarely had a
foreigner ever set foot there. India’s border with Tibet lay only fifteen kilometers
away and the main attraction of the town was a clunky wooden temple surmounted
atop a granite vault; the building had a Tibetan feel to its architecture and
the idol of Vishnu in the inner-sanctum was in reality a Buddha seated in
meditation. It had been weathered to its barest outline from having been hidden
for centuries in the hot-springs as safeguard against unsympathetic marauders
such as the Muslims, then resurrected as a Hindu deity, the confusion of
religions lending greater mystique to the idol’s cryptic, minimalist shape.
It was mid 1974 and the ghastly Indian drought burned on
with accompanying food-riots and general disaffection. It might as well have
been a dust storm on Mars for all that it affected Arthur contemplating his
gonads up in the Himalayas. He lingered on at the Sivananda Jungle University
for several months after his beloved mentor’s death, continuing his yoga
practices and philosophical studies despite the sexual beast gnawing away at
the underbelly of his psyche.
To soak up his energies, Arthur worked as a volunteer
nurse in the Sivananda Charity Hospital and he even tended to the ailing lepers
in the leprosarium the ashram supported up the river, dressing their wounds and
cheering them up with his gracious attention, like some charitable princess.
He received permission from the Jungle University to move
down to the river’s edge to a small concrete cave that some smart Sadhu baba
had built into the riverbank in seasons past. It had a little concrete veranda
with a thatched awning and was just the thing for Arthur to do his yoga and
pranayams upon. Its only drawback was that it faced a section of the river much
favored as the best swimming spot by the multitudes of local young men.
Daily Arthur had to suffer the sight of their muscular
frames, barely concealed by wet cotton sheaths, leaping about boisterously,
with smiles that would put the morning sun to shame and innocently giving
Arthur the come-on. His saintly resolve to again attempt celibacy was cracking
and would possibly tumble like the walls of Jericho at the blast of one young
man’s horn if given the chance. He was in paradise and gorgeous angels
frolicked all about him and he just had to find something else to distract him.
It was about this time that Moti Ma, (Mother of Pearl),
showed up and started hanging around with the Australian gang. She was a
twenty-four year-old New Zealand woman who had wandered India for four years
and looked the part, draped chastely in a faded sari from head to foot like the
goddess Saraswati. She had long blonde dreadlocks massed in a beehive on her
head, and bright blue cat’s eyes that fascinated every man she looked upon.
She had managed to travel the wilds of India by keeping
the company of fellow international freaks and thus got protection from the
constant advances of the multitudes of lustful Indian men. In the end, every
one of her male firanghi protectors also put the hard word on her, and she
found it very tiresome, everything boiling down to sex and never being left
free to practice her yoga like a Hindu nun. Arthur assured her he was as pure
and guileless as a newborn brother and she would only find the best of friends
in him.
Together they planned a pilgrimage to the sacred site of
Badrinath, for the government had recently opened the town to foreign tourists
after centuries of isolation and Arthur was determined to complete the quest
Compassion had once had his heart set upon.
Arthur was obliged to get permission for the journey from
the head of the Ashram, Swami Chidananda. Young women were forbidden in the
monastery as anathema to the contemplative’s life, only old crones like the
German Countess getting a look in, (having donated plenty of money) and, when
the ascetic Swami clapped eyes upon the beautiful Moti Ma, radiant as a
goddess, he forbade Arthur and her to travel together.
Arthur didn’t have the courage to tell the old celibate
that his sexual inclinations were more at risk with his fellow monks, yet never
one to be thwarted from his intentions, he journeyed on alone to the top of the
Himalayas and Moti Ma joined him a few days later, without directly disobeying
the well-meaning old Hindu Abbot.
Badrinath was a magical place, revered for thousands of
years as a sacred site to Lord Vishnu the Preserver and His Avatar, Rama, whose
ascension to Heaven occurred somewhere in the vicinity, and rarely had a
foreigner ever set foot there. India’s border with Tibet lay only fifteen kilometers
away and the main attraction of the town was a clunky wooden temple surmounted
atop a granite vault; the building had a Tibetan feel to its architecture and
the idol of Vishnu in the inner-sanctum was in reality a Buddha seated in
meditation. It had been weathered to its barest outline from having been hidden
for centuries in the hot-springs as safeguard against unsympathetic marauders
such as the Muslims, then resurrected as a Hindu deity, the confusion of
religions lending greater mystique to the idol’s cryptic, minimalist shape.
(If your curiosity is piqued please go to the WEB
address above and buy the book to read further.)
.jpg) |
| Laxmi Ma. |
.jpg) |
| Swami Chidananda |
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| Laxmi Ma. |
.jpg)
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| Durga. |
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| Vishnu. |
