I am a mystic madman, a wandering wildman, scholar of esoterica, dilettante sadhu, dready-headed hippie (only have a few jata on the back of my head right now, though more be forming of this third set of knotted hair), gentle yogi, fierce foe of falsity. I was a preacher, but I renounced that. I was married, but she renounced me. I was a grad student at one of the top universities in the world on my way to becoming a professor, but I realized they taught lies there too. I am protector of souls, lover of mountains, smoker of herb, fond of hot springs, oceans and lakes and rivers and rain and sunshine, devotee of Devi.
Whirling visions of self and other and Self (and Other ?) in juxtaposed and manifold madness of a nata (dance) that is both in vision and manifest in life lived: either consideration of revelation of reincarnations possible, probable or actual, proceeding before me as a collage of faces, places and bodies, voices and choices, memories mixed with wonderings and wanderings and seems sometimes elses . . . thought, and what not.
This is (or at least is best) seen as lila, perceived as play divine, perfected when one might see oneness, yoga seen as kleem, relationships and relationship and fractals like dancers viewed from above, swirling and weaving each of us, in concert and consort with earth and sky and fire and air, solar and planetary bodies and the earth's features, from mountains to oceans and each other. We both remember and forget, at any given moment, this unity, this beatific dance, romance, transformation through cycles of matter and mind, expand and contract: big bang boom, ya' know? Siva-Sakti, as is often bespoken, that through endless and beatiful cycles through dark and light, always to return, in a proper lila, to a point where we all remember in such a way to cycle us back to the purity we truly are at our core!!!!!
Buy Memories and Musings of a Post-Postmodern Nomadic Mystic Madman NOW !!
Have you ever heard a half-ton bump in the night? seen a skinwalker scurry across the road in the deep desert or a bioluminescent faerie fly within feet of your face in a rain forest swamp? observed your lover turn her face into the face of another in the midst of intimacies? In this extraordinary account of travels and travails, mad devotion and crazy wisdom, author Jeffrey Charles Archer tells true tales of his magical and sometimes absurd journeys in time, space and mind that call into question much of what the modern world calls reality.
Insightful and provocative, Archer's candid and scarcely believable tellings grant a view of the life of a modern mendicant, a pilgrim on the trail of truth like so many others who have renounced the tracked and plotted path proscribed them by society's strictures and hit the road to find themselves and what is true of this life. The accounts offered in this amazing narrative grant a glimpse of the world of those postmodern (post-postmodern?) mendicants yet to be found wandering America and the span of the globe, sometimes seen walking the border between consumer capitalism's excess and the wilderness, between suburban malaise and heaven on earth, hiking on the shoulder of the highway with a backpack and a dog and thumb extended, conveying an unusual aura and a divine smile meets the passerby . . .