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:
Arthur dallied for a few months in Shangri-la doing yoga
diligently, yet enlightenment seemed to recede with the horizon, no matter how
much he strove towards it. He was somewhat fed up with the travail of surviving
India and decided to move on to swinging London and rejoin the world.
Then he received a letter from his old friend Compassion,
asking him not to leave India, to wait for the old Maestro’s imminent arrival
as Arthur’s companionship was soulfully required. He therefore cashed in his
flight ticket and made a sojourn to Manali in the Kulu Valley, most hallowed
site of the connoisseur dope-smoker where he figured he could have a relaxing
time before his beloved Compassion showed up in Shangri-la.
In late 1973 Manali was a small village with barely a
hotel on offer, tourists lodging in stodgy backrooms of the locals’ huts built
half into the mountain-sides, dank and gloomy as buried crypts. Pine forests
crept to the village edge and deep within the chaos of the trees was a
primordial wooden temple dedicated to Kali, original Mother of the Dark Subcontinent
and the true Goddess of Destruction and Rebirth, in the vicinity of which the
freaks often held their psychedelic parties.
It was at a full-moon shindig in the forests of Manali
that Arthur had his big emotional freak-out and psychic breakthrough. A gang of
assorted international freaks had dropped Acid collectively around a roaring
bonfire and proceeded to create hypnotic music upon whatever instrument came to
hand. Arthur couldn’t resist the charm of the Acid-rush moment and, slithering
like a snake around the seated crowd, he danced the dance of Salome asking for
the head of John the Baptist. His dancing was magical, flowing naturally as if
following the land’s energy lines, and the musicians kept him afloat, his fluid
motion matching their cadence perfectly.
The music quickened pace and abandoned sweet order,
became cacophonous, chaotic, and Arthur found himself propelled out of control
every which way, stumbling over his fellow revelers, in and out of the fire,
spinning onto the laps of the musicians, till he broke down, crying.
“Oh help me someone, I’m so lost, I don’t know who I am,
I’m so scared. What’s it all about? What are we doing here? I’m such a fool,
please don’t hurt me…”
The freaks were annoyed by his pathetic blubbering and
whining, kicking him away when he flung himself at their feet, demanding he
“Fuck off”, one of the French musicians hitting him on the head with his flute.
It eventually dawned on Arthur that he was not about to be roasted and eaten at
a demon’s midnight feast and this particular crazy crew were actually benign
beings. He soon settled down, curled up in his blanket on the edge of the
circle, projecting kaleidoscopic epics on the movie-screen of his mind, and
ignored by everyone.
(If your curiosity is piqued please go to the WEB
address above and buy the book to read further.)
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