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:
Hidden deep in the foothills of the Himalayas is a
super-natural site known as Shangri-la, where Rishis and High Yogis had
meditated in the jungles and caves for thousands of years, emanating blissful
vibrations that have sunk into the very rocks and become a permanent essence of
the place.
Here the sacred green Goddess of the River Ganges flows
swiftly down from the glacial heights of the great Himalayas, and above the
river’s silver beaches nestle monasteries and rest-houses wherein a community
of like-minded soul-seekers reside, study and contemplate the wonder of existence.
It was the paradise of spiritual learning that Arthur had been promised in all
the grand myths he’d imbibed and he arrived in the town dusty and tired but
with high hopes.
Though famous in folklore, Shangri-la’s exact location
still remained an esoteric secret, an oasis hidden in the mountains, a small
medieval village with little traffic, scarce electricity, no multi-national
consumer products and no advertising screaming from every wall. Cars were rare,
only a few Indian-made white Ambassadors graced the roads, everyone got around
on bikes, buses and horse-drawn tongas, and the latter-day plague of
auto-rickshaws and motor-bikes were as rarely sighted as Western tourists.
Pilgrims had to be ferried across the Ganges River in
great heaving boats, as Ram’s Bridge had not yet been built, and in the monsoon
flood it was a rollicking, wild ride. There were no televisions, refrigerators,
air-conditioners or ATMs. Commonplace activities in the modern world like
telephoning, ticketing, banking and posting were a horrendous chore where one
had to fight amidst a riotous rabble to get to a window and still get nothing
accomplished as the clerk wouldn’t have a clue what you were on about.
Modernity was best forgotten and an ancient, simpler
lifestyle adhered to; candles to light the night, a thin cotton cloth used as
sheet, towel, carry-bag and wrap-around clothing and, with no phones,
connection to the greater world was severed. To Arthur’s mind, living with the
animals was the most reassuring aspect of this devolution, many of them putting
their heads through the door in greeting, cows, horses, camels, pigs, dogs,
monkeys, elephants, snakes, squirrels, lizards, mongooses and bears, every
space had some beast lumbering through.
To get on a horse-tonga one had to run up from behind and
leap upon the backseat while the carriage kept moving for the horse didn’t like
to stop. Perched precariously thus, in high spirits, Arthur rushed up river to
the Sivananda Jungle University where he had an introduction from Compassion,
who was an original chela of the big guru who’d founded the Ashram in 1936.
Presenting himself at the reception desk with scraggy beard and tatty hippie
clothes, Arthur was not the image of the ideal acolyte they were looking for. “Hello,
here I am, after travelling 7000 kilometers, I’m all yours!”
An officious old Swami in orange pursed his lips and
grumbled, “Chello to Swiss Cottage down town, that’s where you are belonging.
We have no space for you, hippie ragamuffin!”
“But I’m a student of Swami Karunananda, I’ve done
advanced yoga, I’m serious about Samadhi, I want it so bad I could die, you
just can’t knock me back!”
“We’ve never heard of you, you’re nobody, chello Swiss
Cottage.”
Shedding tears of disappointment he dragged his sorry ass
down to the forested, rock-strewn banks of the Ganges River just outside of
town. Stumbling across a field of round, white stones he discovered the improbable
“Swiss Cottage” amid a grove of trees, a two-story white concrete cubicle with
a thatched hut at the back of it. The only other building in sight was a moldy
old ashram up the non-existent road. Created by Swami Brahmanananda, a disciple
of Sivananda, from donations from some Swiss devotees, the Cottage was a
sanctuary-lodge for foreign freaks, deadbeats and deviants who couldn’t fit in
with the traditional regimes of the established monasteries.
(If your curiosity is piqued please go to the WEB
address above and buy the book to read further.)