About Me

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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.

Hindu Gods and Goddesses

Sunday, August 23, 2015

Sunday in Laradise . . .

Sometimes overwhelmed by the torrent of the faces and people, sounds and feelings subtle and sublime come on like a flash flood or tornado and sometimes like a hurricane . . . Sitting at the Buckhorn Bar on a Sunday night.  Started this way with intentions of catching a bit of live music and maybe touting the merits of my book via the internet whilst sipping a beer.  Ran into a hippie tryin' to hop a train, saw me pass while sitting under the Clark Street bridge and caught up and invited me to taste of some Pennsylvania-grown green.  Just grabbed a pint of rum at the Ranger and a pouch of American Spirit Organic at the Smoker Friendly so I had something to offer,  and sat under the bridge with said brother smokin' and drinkin', chatting about trainhopping and travelling generally, the beauty of the road whether rail or highway, then wandered here to the Buck to soak in some singers and songwriters singing and such.  Bliss and Price and Rob and Fran and Thadeus are here, Jessica and Seth and Nick are singin', Price on bass and a graying bearded cowboy with a white hat playin' rhythm guitar.

Some family through town, a couple of random Rainbow Tribe hippies stayed at my little bitty efficiency apartment for the past couple of nights--fed them some of my famous dumpster-dive gourmet.  Some more travelling family at Andy & Crystal's (where I first met the brother I sipped and smoked and conversed with under the bridge).  Summertime and the livin' is easy and the wandering is good, and Laramie is more readily seen as Laradise . . .

Monday, August 17, 2015

What is Sanity?

"Now, in a lot of people, when the energy got so intense from their spiritual practices, they really lost their ground. They lost it on this plane. That’s what the Spiritual Emergence Network has done to help these people because in India, or other cultures, when that happens, those who are called to serve, like Meera Baba. They were called mosks or God-intoxicants. Annadamai, one of the greatest saints of all time, a Bengali woman, a very dignified woman, spent about two years doing cartwheels in her front yard and throwing off her sari and stuff. Now, in our culture, that is Bellevue material. In that culture, it’s, “Ah, there is a God-intoxicant. We must take care of them at a temple”. We have not had a support system for that type of trans-formative loss of ground, which you need to go through at times." Ram Dass

Friday, August 7, 2015

Memories and Musings of a Post-Postmodern Nomadic Mystic Madman Now Available in Print!!!!

Excerpt from Memories and Musings of a Post-Postmodern Nomadic Mystic Madman:

I am a dead man walking—er, actually I am currently sitting and sipping a highly honey-sweetened cup of Wyoming-roasted coffee with cream on the back patio of a coffeehouse in downtown Laramie.  The pale-brown liquid within my cup has grown quite cold over several hours sitting and exposed to the elements of a high-country afternoon, though ice has yet to form around the rim.  I sometimes gaze into the swirls of milk fat floating on the surface and the patterns of variously mixed solutions of bean juice and water and honey and half-and-half to scry with what shapes might emerge to tell of things present, past or possible.
I don’t mean that someone has me as their mark, necessarily, or that I am keeping a wide-eye open for fear of potential assassins, necessarily.  My point with these words is in fact rather more stark.  What I actually mean by this opening statement, these first words in print after flyleaf and front matter, is that I have already been murdered, and perhaps on as many as five occasions.  The most poignant and certain instance of experiencing my own homicide occurred one ordinary summer’s day at dusk in Golden Gate Park, when two bullets were rather randomly and undeservedly introduced to the inside of my skull after an otherwise pleasant and uneventful day on Hippie Hill.
In addition to such homicidal intrigues, I have encountered sasquatch, a skinwalker, holes in space-time, and a shape-shifter who did her turn whilst astride my lap.  In pursuit of romance and the hidden secrets to life and history, guided by instinct, intuition, chance, and sometimes helpful deities, I have been granted many such glimpses behind the veils of normalcy—at moments to my delight, and at others to my terror.
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