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Thursday, January 26, 2012

WHO TURNED ON THE LIGHTS? PUSSY CHOW. BIRTH OF THE SCHOOL FOR MYSTICS.





        The School For Mystics started out as light-hearted fun, because I wanted to discuss a whole bunch of experiences I've had all over the world in my private search for the meaning at the core of things.
         The truth is, I've never gotten used to this astounding world we live in, which came as a hell of a surprise to me.
          Maybe it's because I was a premature caesarian birth, and I awoke in amazed shock, shook my head
and I'm told  I gave out a loud cry meaning something like: "Who turned on the lights?"    As I was untimely ripped from my mother's womb.
            And since I've grown here and managed to visit various countries, with their various outlandish beliefs,
and since I've studied a a number of so-called outstanding universities, where I've studied certain nonsensical
views, and other views that seemed obvious to me:  I still can't get used to the idea that we're all living on some cooled rock, still molten at the center, which is moving through space in a circular pattern at the speed of something like 18,000 miles per second.

          After absorbing this basic reality, I've had trouble addressing myself to financial concerns or
politics. Because my basic reaction is still: "Holy shit! Have you taken a good look around you?"
          The fact of this bewilderingly beautiful planet still stops me for hours at a time. The other day,
for example, I sat for several hours on a rock. The snow was melting all around me, and I could hear
water dripping from tree branches. Occasionally a hawk would sweep by; I could feel it's shadow.
Or a raven would caw and hoot in passing, flying in an unruly way, like some intoxicated bikers I know
being forced to leave town.
           Then something shot by with a ear-shattering roar, and I saw a light flash by, and my reaction
was, "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?" It was either one of those jets we get around here, guarding the north east sector, or a hellish dream because my pants were wet, or Tinkerbell dashing past, or the Wild God of Bananaland  shouting, demanding a name. But that is another story for another time.
            So I had a chance to travel a bit around the globe, and so I did, and I visited a number of religious
shrines, and other places that weren't shrines but seemed mystic to me... And what next?
             Well, what was next was some of these Roving Reporter articles. Most of the early articles
I started in the spirit of hilarity. One beginning I loved was, "I was going to send this story in by story in
by pony express, but they shot all the ponies."

             In the stories I pretended I was drinking whiskey even more than I actually was, and the editors of the paper started getting letters saying things such as: "This isn't funny, this man should be institutionalized!"
So I made the stories more and more extreme, which wasn't difficult because my life seemed to be getting
more and more extreme all by itself, without any help from any writer or editor.
              More and more letters were sent to the editors, and even a protesting woman's group occupied
the office of the Chief of Police. (Because they thought an article I'd written called, "Pussy Chow" was a total allegory, when in fact it was the story of a bush cougar attacking my log cabin on a cliff. I had to nail the plank doors closed and light a fire in the window. And fire the odd shot with an M-1 rifle though the glass of the window right in front of me.
                By four thirty AM, I was whispering to the cougar and I could hear her clawing the oak logs just
below my one unshuttered window. I hate to mention this, but the big cat also seemed to be purring.(I don't
expect you to believe this). But I could hear pretty clearly - no lights, no electricity. And she was only five feet away from me through the wall.
                 I knew the cat could hear me and I knew we were getting pretty close. If I had stepped outside, she would have torn my head off.
                 It turned out it had been 20 to 30 to forty below zero all week on the cliff face and the cougar
was starving. And since my secretary had left a bag of used tampons outside my door, the cat had developed
a powerful taste for human blood. And so the attacks.
                 In the morning, heavy claw marks were found in the logs below the one exposed window. The cabin was just a hut, really.

                 After that, I wrote a bunch more stories and I indeed was institutionalized more than once, and the editors had to bail me out, and your Roving Reporter has always felt a compelling need to get to the heart of the story at all times.


                  Out of this came the beginnings of the School for Mystics.


                                                                                               Earlier articles will follow.










































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