The Parable of Stone-age Outer-space: The view from GR 663-2BCT:
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I was sleeping under the passenger seats in the very back of the plane when the Golden Gate Bridge suddenly came into view, and nobody bothered to pick me up at the airport. This was America. Yes, I remember finally coming back home with all its exhausting trials and dreary ordeals, also Swamiís timely insights and warnings, then the bitter exile from Olema.
And I havenít forgotten how the psychic energies just kept flattening out like dissipating steam, the further I journeyed Westward from India, and yes, I havenít forgotten yet all that tedious shit in Marin along with all of Jimís stupid self-serving spins, and his silly BS jive, and how he then carelessly lost my Honda, my royal steed I had used for journeying on my exciting California pilgrimages.
I remember the stupid, tedious crap with Bill and Monica, and the sudden collapse of decrepit Russia as the hairy World Bank pimps and IMF gangsters began to cash in. Also faltering Indonesia with its unraveling chaos and all poor little dot-com scammers getting ready to their deserved fall.
I was back in America.
And I remember being in dusty Stockton and keeping company with Bhante during his final lonely days. And the sweet blessings, and the tense stress, and the psychic powers, and how I thought about the forlorn Beats, and the distant hippies, and about these hasty drugs and doing my newly discovered meditations, and about NASA and our decaying space program, and about how an unknown alien could possibly just see our jeweled earth as a religious icon.
I thought about Atlantis.
And I havenít forgotten that shiny terma altar with those three tables stacked on top of each other and the retreat from Warrenís forgotten cabin and his deceitful, unispiring tricks, and I still remember Dylan Thomas and all these vast guru wars, and the new and powerful theory of flash and flow and the timely yabyum visions and Rimed insights, and I still remember all the writing and reading and of being completely immersed in Kerouac, Keats and of course Dickinson.
I thought about UFOs.
Then just getting smacked with nasty tuberculosis, and all the endless transmissions from Bhante and then quickly reciting Gerard Manley Hopkins, and recieving all these special healings, and these mystic dreams, and the really depressing isolation.
I havenít forgotten any of this yet. And I still remember those sneaky monks and the sinister, fluorescent hospital and those dreary walks to the empty bus-stop, and all that endless hitch-hiking, and the cruel, cold winter and the suffocating summer that quickly followed, and I still remember those confusing letter Ily had sent me, and all her confusing e-mails and then finally a raw silence, and I thought about those lost Yuppies, and our emerging flaky New Age, and about CNN and those silly Bobos and also our mangy internet and how we were all just being wired by force on this very scared planet with its looming material limits.
And I havenít really forgotten yet, Bhanteís expected, yet sudden death, and also Stephen Seagall, and the shifty crowds, and the cold hospital with its faint cheesy smell and that galactic darkness that was always just floating out of Bhanteís room, and then hearing those heavy groans, and having these very weird dreams warning me of my impending challenges, and then finally that electric thrill of finally seeing Harvest of Gems on the web and the extended wake after Bhante's death, and all the delicious Khmer food, and then hearing on the radio about some strange guy called Osama Bin-laden, and also of this war in a very remote place called Kosovo in the early frantic morning.
And Bhante then asked---have you forgotten me yet? Swear to me now by the dying sun that you will never forget.