After graduation, after a divorce, after an election
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A pituitary tumor, a shot of thorazine, the flu
I love to eat.
It was one in the afternoon, but the carnival was still in the stages of opening for the day. Only fifty or so people milled around on the circular midway. The managers of the food concessions were discussing strategies for coping with a breeze that had kicked up. Lowering the panels on the south side of each stand, they decided, would keep the dust from settling over their hot dogs, pizza, and tacos.
For three weeks straight, both nights of the weekend we struggled and tossed around, cramped under the steering wheel of his Impala, windows steamy. No luck. What is it some song says, “We just couldn’t make it fit”? Literally.
What kind of a teacher is Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh? The kind that gets under your skin and stays there. The kind that teaches unlearning. The kind that tenderly, relentlessly leads you back to yourself again and again, until your childishness is purged and you begin to take responsibility for your own inner life.
But this place is not dead — it crackles with presence. It offers itself to me in silence and lucidity. Every line is clear; the depths of the blues equal the depths of my longing. Rock, sky, water, and my heart meet in mysterious and simple communion. Here is the holy place.
Home, for me, is in western Indiana, West Lafayette, even though I lived there for only one year of my childhood. I remember it as a time of brutality and shame, and I think of it as home because it is the only year I can remember when my father lived with us. At the end of that year, my parents divorced, and my younger brother and sister and I have not seen him since.
Dogwood blooms scattered along the path looking like unreal party decorations; wonderfully visible auras of soft neon; hearing the one note that we and all we sense are merely harmonics of
Waiting for the angels, chopping the head off a chicken, building a house — twice
In the year 1937 there were eight major newspapers in New York, and all had a want ad section. 1 found out soon enough which papers carried the ads that would apply to an eighth-grade education applicant, with no experience, but big and strong and willing to work.
I could not hit with Pop in the stands. I would crouch at home plate, waiting for the inevitable surge of nerve juice to tighten my thighs, and stare at the pitcher. Pop would squat behind first base at the base of the wire fence, where he could best stand watch over my stance. I never looked at him. I knew he was watching, alternately silent, and then: “Watch it leave his hand! Watch for the spin!”
Garbage on TV? I admit it, but if a viewer is selective, he can enjoy outstanding concerts, drama from the days of Euripedes and Aeschylus to Shakespeare to the present day, amusing series that are cleverly written and acted, good children’s educational shows and high lights of the news.