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:
India had been a shimmering beacon in Arthur’s life since
childhood, the tales of Rudyard Kipling and the Boy Scouts, the Ramayana and
Bhagavad Gita he’d read at the Yoga School, the avatars and djiin, the myths,
history and variegated cultures of the subcontinent all enticed him towards the
white light of its rainbow heart inexorably.
The glittering jewels and fabulous artworks, the jungle
pagans and joyful mystics, the life-enhancing wisdoms and mind-liberating
practices, the architectural and natural splendors, all made his blue-green
eyes flash with the fantasy of riches and enlightenment, like the thousands of
youth before him who’d once labored to those shores under the British Raj. Now
in the late 20th century many were heaven-bent on the hippie trail.
With clear focus and determined endeavor he crossed continents, oceans, islands
and peninsulas to alight at last upon his Promised Land.
Arriving in Madras in February 1972 Arthur instantly knew
he’d crossed to another dimension by the dirt, the stench and the alien
characters raising the dust in their rush. A leper huddled on a hand-cart was
his introduction to the cruel reality of his mystical wonderland, a creature
that seemed barely human, covered in a filthy rag, only the rotten, ulcerated
limbs poking out, whining and wailing for alms in a most pathetic manner as a
horrified Arthur hurried by.
He was somewhat reassured of the cultural marvels of
India by a quick trip south to Mahabalipuram where he was enchanted by the
sculptured cave-walls and ancient temple sinking into the sea, resonant of the
architecture of his dreams. All India lay before him yet it was the Himalayan
Mountains that had ever called to him upon the whispering wind and where he was
determined to go, where he fantasized he’d find peace, knowledge and
self-realization in some glacial cave with a Baba who could levitate on
sunshine.
A delirious hippie bedazzled by fairy-tales of Siddartha,
Mowgli and Alla’din, Arthur jumped on a train heading north to Delhi, unmindful
of the fact that in early 1972 India was just mopping up a ghastly war with
Pakistan over the independence of Bangladesh which had suffered three million
dead and ten million refugees fleeing into India. Warplanes still streaked
overhead as Arthur’s train labored across a vast, desiccated landscape on an
endless three-day journey, stopping at every one goat, timeless, dirt-brown
desert town India had to offer.
(If your curiosity is piqued please go to the WEB
address above and buy the book to read further.)
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| Devraha Baba |
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| Devraha Baba. |
