I would like to conclude these true if difficult to believe tales, these mad short story accounts from my crazy wanderings around this land, with something of a denouement. I would like to, but it seems the story persists, the odd occurrences continue, the mysteries maintain their grasp on my day to day, and often of late less lighthearted or playful than during most of my journeyings. Though I certainly hope to experience other adventures and explorations of this wonderful and sometimes terrible world, for now I am at rather an impasse and the longed for conclusion continues to elude. One cycle, to some degree represented in these accounts (though with much of the subtler and esoteric insight left unrecorded), seems to have come to an incomplete or at least ambiguous close. What comes next, I do not know.
I have been living (if that’s the proper term for one who has been murdered on multiple occasions) in Laramie for just about one year, and have been psychically and otherwise vying with what might be called “metaphysical” critics (though there is likely a more accurate Sanskrit word than said Greek term) of my adventures, and of my renderings thereof. It may well be I have “metaphysically” or otherwise stepped on someone’s toes by seeking to uncover hidden truths or by pursuing a romantic dream with such fervor, else I have been facing the assaults of some mad muse improperly assigned to my service and intent upon prodding my mind with mischievous intent. Whatever the case, I have been languishing in Laramie, dealing with a milieu of mind and spirit (or spirits) that seems to be something not unlike a judgment of my critical response to the lila—“divine play,” or facsimiles thereof—that I have lived through over the last ten to twelve years. I suppose whatever vicious critique this work might receive from whatever book reviews in whatever newspapers might deem it worthy of mention will seem trifling in comparison, so perhaps I shall try to transform these subtle-plane assaults by receiving them as “good practice.”
Since I returned to this purported23 place of my birth and for some months previous I have been forced into a rather confused retrospective, encompassing not only the mostly happy years of my travels, but also everything I have memory of from this life, and seemingly some other’s (and perhaps a number of others’) memories and twisted versions of my memories appended to my own remembrances. This rather skewed review of my days and nights has been forced under the scrutiny of any number of lenses, from the purview of various dogmas and interpretations thereof, to perspectives at least represented as representing the points of view of various people I have known in this life in whatever capacity, to various portrayals of the purviews of various mythological constructs and mythical figures, deities and the likes. In addition, seems tricks and manipulations of illusion whether playful or mischievous in intent have found no cessation.
An old doorframe on the side of Jeffrey’s Bistro which should be ashed and trashed, back in place where ought to be a replacement, stands as but one example of the temporal anomalies and inconsistencies in the makeup of the reality I’ve observed upon returning to my “hometown.” Regarding this mysteriously unburned door frame discussed in the last chapter, by the way, I have consulted others who were present here during the same span of time, and even one fellow employee who was there when this incident occurred, yet no one seems able to offer a reasonable explanation for how such a thing could be.
As another example of my uncharacteristic malaise and the unusual characters seem to idiosyncratically materialize as if actors on cue, on my way to a morning (er, mid-afternoon) cup of coffee the other day, I encountered a Brahmachari fully clad in ochre pants and kurta and scarf walking past Daylight Donuts in downtown Laramie. I was feeling a bit put off in general, and the unusual sight of a shaved-headed Hindu monk in Wyoming seemed exemplary of the sort of bizarre manifestations I’ve been experiencing, regardless of affiliations or affinities, so I raised my open hand in the mudra for blessings and growled in a rather gruff voice, “Hara dharma! Haaarraaaa dhaaaarmaaaa!!” This rather startled renunciate raised his hand likewise in the Abhaya mudra, staring in disbelief as I then proceeded across Third Street.
Indeed, mind and illusion manifest ‘round me have grown more than a little insane, super-synchronistic and dreamlike, else at the least I’ve a manic and mean muse either prodding me to finish or to not finish writing and revising this text, and who also happens to have the ability to significantly alter the illusion of this reality. Needless to say, this has pushed me to the edge of my sanity, or at least to the margins of collectedness. Thus, if these last pages seem a little disheveled and a tad confused, this is because thus are my thoughts. I returned to this high plains valley expecting some good culmination or fruition, to begin some hard work for some semblance of tangible returns, and not to face further intrigues, deepening riddles and increasingly absurd lila.
Indeed, were I to endeavor to record all of the intricate and complex strands of the absurdly interwoven interpersonal mesh (and sometimes mess) of relationships and synchronies and causalities I have perceived or been forced to consider related to these tales I’ve written herein, the work would necessarily be comparable in length to the Vedas, and would likely still miss certain salient factors amongst those my mind’s meandered through like transiting some ethereal gauntlet. If I recorded every odd occurrence or curious coincidence that evinced the strange or paranormal, the resulting journal would be constantly writ from day to night, and then I’d need start again to pen these revelations as soon as I wake from dreams the next day.
Were I to write a thorough account of the mystical visions and subtle constructions and deconstructions have passed through my mind and exterior field of view and hearing and perception generally in the past few years, this account would likewise require a compendium nigh the breadth of the Vedas to record and explicate and consider. These short accounts of a rather surface reading of a few true to life experiences from my bizarre and beautiful adventures are what I might easily relate to a wider audience. A more in-depth critical analysis of karma-dharma, causation and philosophical explanations of the inexplicable shit and wonders I have experienced would leave this work rather wanting as a fun read, as well.
Whatever you might imagine of my sanity or honesty from what you’ve read herein, I do solemnly swear that what I have recounted in these passages is a true telling of my (mostly) quite lucid and self-critically considered and reconsidered perceptions of certain unusual life experiences and events. These tales are true, as much so as is the truth of my own existence . . . though perhaps I ought once again note, if anyone who reads these accounts has inside information, a clue or an informed alternative perspective on these evidences recorded herein, I’m always willing to revisit certain conclusions already considered, reconsidered and contemplated over-and-over in mind and in conversations with skeptics and believers alike. I’m not one to hold faith in well-debunked myths—not even my own, should they prove errant.
What means these odd occurrences within the broader context of what “Western” thought has termed metaphysics, ontology and epistemology or from the perspectives of theology or sectuality, I cannot begin to express within the bounds of this work. Had I a mastery of Sanskrit, I might be able to approach a taxonomy of these phenomena. I am just a beginning student of that more precise language, however, and so shall be forced to leave you, dear readers, to consider these whimsical true tales with only the rather limited commentaries and sometimes imprecise subtle analyses I have provided. And myself, now left to sift through the preceding pages to perfect sentences and paragraphs and simultaneously to exist outside text and past times in spite of questions begging and other coherent and contending plots pressing some point or theme or other upon my mind.
Dark and light reflections of varying hues in far faster than sound bite progression proceed before my visions outside and in self and story. Important themes I’ve in mind even sometimes simultaneously appear as surreally acted-out skits performed by seemingly random characters observed in my day-to-day, at the coffee house or library or marketplace. Else I might see someone’s doppel walk by whilst I am revising a sentence about him or her, experience the synchronous manifestation of a word typed and simultaneously sung over satellite radio and through the coffeehouse’s PA, etc. Such things are more constant these days than I’ve ever known before, and not always the fun they once were.
Once again, I would make no claim of uniqueness by these experiences, nor make presumptions of being “chosen,” holy or inimitably gifted. Rather, I would proclaim that these sorts of experiences ought bravely be recognized for what they are by any who might experience similar anomalies, accepted as containing potential and significant meaning and not merely reflecting psychiatric symptoms, despite the comfortable categorizations psychology might try to impose to suppress any “supernatural” content within any given life story.
Though the twisted intrigues portrayed and then deconstructed in this sometimes perverted retrospective forced upon me (only scarcely eluded to in the latter parts of the preceding narrative) would indeed drive most to madness, and far beyond whatever degree of crazy it is I’ve been driven, I’d still encourage others to challenge the lies of politicians and preachers, professors and pundits and other perceived authorities. Plays of words and memes and mythemes, memories and misrepresentations and machinations have been forced upon me like a flood or firestorm or volley of bullets (figurative or otherwise) as I have endeavored to make presentable sense of these bizarre happenings on my pilgrimages and other trippy pathways trodden, and as I seek to comprehend encounters and conflicts and communions with so many others, with past and present and future (if not necessarily in such a succinct sequence), with life and death, the in-between and outside-of, karma and dharma, all considered. Still, I believe it is well worth it to live life as a heroic quest for what is true and beautiful and good, and would encourage others to unabashedly seek and question the status quo in favor of freedom, purity, justice and honesty—if not without a cautionary note. Revolutionaries end up dead at least as often as not, after all.
I have plans to build an amphibious-psychedelic-peace-presenting-pleasure-cruising-wind-and-biodiesel-powered-dharma-conveying-fun-mobile, something I have contingently dubbed “the sailbus.” I have a want to purchase some land to create a haven, a sanctuary space for myself and other weary pilgrims, something not unlike an ashram, but by no means of the traditional sort, nor precisely a commune, etc. I have a wish to find my true beloved, my eternal consort, a woman divine and human, gracious and beautiful and kind, fierce yet compassionate, fun and wise and properly matched to me.
In the meantime, supposing my dharma permits and assuming I do not experience some breakthrough in the milieu in which I am currently mired, I may soon wander into the wilderness, only carrying whatever tools I’ll likely need as I part ways with the contemplative overload of recent times, and taking whatever time I’ve need to practice and meditate away from the confusions of so many other minds and the so often senseless chatter of society’s various neuroses. Nature is nigh always the best healing.
Supposing this book is published and proves popular, I suppose I’ll find the means to accomplish the aforementioned material goals, though I intend to carefully weigh whatever consequences might exist, to cautiously contemplate whatever dharma might accompany said karma before I proceed. With much (er . . . whatever degree of) understanding comes much responsibility, and I have no intentions of foregoing due consideration of what consequences might accompany even those humble wants. To make the transition from even dilettante ascetic to even dilettante householder is no small step.
There is indeed much more to life than material possessions and comfort, though given the choice, all things considered, some humble share of home and hearth and happiness seems not at all a bad thing. Whether those things are indeed forthcoming or whether instead I shall embark on other mad meanderings “off-the-cuff”—or perhaps a bit of both—remains to be seen. Until accounts of those (mis-) adventures find their way into printed accounts or other medium, I hope you have enjoyed what you have read (or shall, if you skipped to end before reading the beginning and middle) in these mad meandering whimsical pages, these difficult to believe but true accounts, these memories and musings of a post-postmodern nomadic mystic madman.
नमस्ते—Namasté
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