An autobiographical memoir: from

Table of Contents
Preface…who Am i’s………………………………………………………………………………….. 1
Self-rememberings …………………………………………………………………………………….. 6
On the road: Shortstopped in sufi Land ………………………………………………………. 13
Poetic Interludes………………………………………………………………………………………. 21


The significance of a life is personal, but this autobiographical documentation might pass as impersonal, and will serve more one, in some incidents taken from the period of the New Age movement of the seventies in the last century. The incidents might be of value to those who come later, and who in the cascade of generations endure lives without correct information, in a dismal cycle of situations replicating almost archaic rituals. Here, there might be another reason for such a tale. It is said among buddhists that recall of previous incarnations is a great step on what they call the path. Failing that…we shall see that some may so recall that of others, but keep them in the dark. No path at all. This refers to the ambiguity over the figure Ouspensky. His world of followers should know of his fate.

One need not decide on the right approach or plead guilty to narcissism to write a short memoir of the last half of the twentieth century. Although confessing to a long involvement in the New Age movement of that period, I deduced before long that I was never a member and that the proponents had gotten their age periods mixed up. So, as a
‘secular’ modern and democratic citizen I find the ministrations of the astonishing flood of gurus of this period to be a strange distraction from living in the greater now of modernity, to use a phrase dear to those who would have us live in ancient India. Beside the gurus stand the less visible sufis whose activities can border on the obscure, a possible interpretation of ‘occult’.
The real beginning here is the period around 2005 when I began the blog Darwiniana and had almost completed the work on World History and the Eonic Effect. In fact the fourth edition appeared in 2008, giving a settled form to the initial formulation, researched and written in the period from 1995 to 2000 when the new
technology of POD appeared and the first edition found a venue. This was the period when the Internet took off in a real sense as the availability of important information began to transform political insight. The appearance of online journals such as Counterpunch made one realize the action of ideology was a lot worse than one had imagined.

The work on that blog constituted a remarkably vigorous period of social reflection and scientific debriefing, and leaves the question of the origins of doubt as to Darwin’s theory of evolution. After 2008 I began to search for new means of publication and discovered the software Indesign from Adobe and the venue of Lightening Print. I was able to produce 3 books with that technology, shorter versions of the first book Descent of Man Revisited, Last and First Men, and Enigma of the Axial Age.
I had begun a series of ‘netbooks’ using the now archaic Microsoft software Publisher 1998, which allowed the creation of write as you go booklets, and I produced a series of such now at the website, along with a flourish about Captain Nemo as a partial disguise for the net, online at

The wind done blew blew blew our faces flat
And all along the seascape loomed the rain
In clouds that tumbled like a blown off hat
I watched as Nemo scoped the cresting main His face looked distant, present from a mile Nemini, there! he barked, pointing alee. Nemo seemed one, yet two to show a smile A steaming frigate owned the open sea.
Dive! Dive! He shouted as the klaxon whined
And storm toss broke awash the coning stack.
We scrambled down, and screwed the hatch behind
The ship came swerving on a closing track. The blue-green eye electric furrowed night, none save a sea beast, nemo, given sight.

The original ‘nemonemini’ arose in 1999 to devise an AOL screenname that didn’t have numbers, e.g. nemo142887. This bio-text began with the ‘onset’ of a new blog, The Preface to Last and First Men creates a flourish on this:
As a youth every kid on my block was Captain Nemo: that shows the importance of team work, a job for the ‘little rascals’. Nemini is the plural of nemo, in pig latin. Nemo and the sea-beast are sometimes archetypally made one and/or seen as alien messengers, the leviathan or c-beast at lightspeed. Diagnosis? hyparchic future shock! But what is hyparxis?

The ‘nemini group’ is a gang of leftists, and a full blown scheme, global, of plots against the government. Which government? All governments! But first the French government. So the American covert agencies need not bother with our case, in the plural. In fact, in the spirit of global revolution in the wake of 1848, global insurrection should begin with dignity where it left off in the streets of Paris. So it is, to start, between
‘us’ and the Paris Gendarmerie.

The idea of hyparxis came from J. G. Bennett’s The Dramatic Universe and refers to a dimension of time along with linear time, eternity and hyparxis in the mode of six- dimensional geometries of the universe (old-fashioned variants of the Flatland theme of the nineteenth century). The idea actually has and entry at:, time, eternity and hyparxis.
Short of science the idea nonetheless proposes that our minds interact with a timeless (i.e. not linear time) dimension within its own time.
This idea is a useful metaphysical construct and a precursor of the ideas of spooky physics (with no claims to serious rigor as science). But the idea of ‘soul’, so intractable for standard psychology, seems to want a spaceless dimension of the ‘eternal’. Everything about the lore of spiritual psychology and cement block status of standard models of mentality suggests the idea of dimensions beyond the known, in Flatland fashion…

The Preface to Last and First Men starts with a set of inklings about whales, whales in distant galaxies, and designing rocket ships for whales using string theory, and, ominously, Hobbes’ Leviathan. failing that resorting to astral projection, if whales can read books on the subject, else otherwise they are already adepts in cosmic ‘schools’. Further questions, was Moby Dick a case of alien abduction? This is a descant on Bennett’s idea of demiurgic powers…

The entirely apt idea of hyparxis suggests a solution to the ‘eerie silence’ noted by the physicist Paul Davies. Bennett’s idea of action from the virtual future puts the ‘c beast’ into the ‘nemo zone’.
Cf. the ‘tongue in cheek’ speed/ “there is a solid rumor that the ‘aliens’ have already arrived, bypassed homo sapiens, and established contact with cetacean species: Moby Dick was a alien

counterattacking against the predatory whaling industry.” A moment of silence for
Comrade Moby Dick then.

This beginning to LFM signals a mysterious channel quite different from the gross sufi/buddhist noise that has cursed the last few decades of my life. But they are too cloaked to detect, beyond the simple suggestion to write a book on communism, and may channel through sufi sources. Sufis are known to harbor claims about alien fish beings. So maybe this is a serious practical joke: a hidden sufi communist (terrified of being found out in reactionary sufis circles). I think that Bennett found the answer in his take on
‘demiurgic powers’. What’s the difference between a demiurgic power and a communist
whale from outer space? Sufis may be the only people who can contact that domain.
The appearance of Moby Dick in the period after the revolution of 1848 is somehow very timely, and J.G. Bennett sense the onset of a new age around this time.

An autobiographical blog might start at the end and the onset of The Gurdjieff
Con (2008): realization that the ‘reincarnation of P.D.Ouspensky was active in a
‘Gurdjieff resistance movement’. This one way source of communication being highly subjective has to be taken as is: I was provided with a metaphor: the ‘born identity’: ‘RG (reborn) Ouspensky’ trying to remember the ‘deep programming’ from the malevolent G entity trying to maintain control of his ‘disciple’ slaves across rebirths. Ouspensky’s partial awakening made him snap out of the deep hypnosis, but not fully. Hence the slight analog to ‘Bourne’.
Let us clarify this Preface with a simple statement: I was thought by many sufis to
be the reincarnation of Ouspensky, and these entities attacked at once…

As a bystander who also experienced stress/revolt in the Gurdjieff work I was amenable to a critical blog re: the G men menace to modern liberty….ETC I must have been a backbencher in the O. school in the thirties.

Since I only have at best garbled messages from this source I will mainly concentrate on my issues. I am a bit miffed: will deflect flack onto myself. I have no contact with this source.
I pursued a curious meditation on this theme: The Bourne Identity 100 times until past lives emerge??? Doesn’t make sense. Tried it twenty times then puked out my popcorn and couldn’t finish. The Bourne Identity is a minor masterpiece easily watched five times, but a hundred?? No matter, I got the message: you are a programmed zombie and need to find the way out. I will not specify whether this succeeded. Am I really RB Ouspensky? Ouspensky was a nasty reactionary.
RB/Ouspensky, as is typical in life cycles was a modern left/liberal who rejected totally the reactionary role in the Russian White context of Gurdjieff and felt compelled to undo the negative influence of his previous life.

Sorry, wrong man: am not RB-Ouspensky. The discussion of Ouspensky might seem strange but the only explanation for the harassment over decades by ‘sufis’ is the suspicion they thought I was ‘RB Ouspensky’ I had a hint of this years ago near the folks around Gold. That is what must have put me in danger, as per suggestion: ‘they’ wanted his ‘baraka’ past.
I find that grotesque. Hey, guys you got the wrong man!
Incidentally, I was born in 1945, while Ouspensky died in 1948. OK?
This if from several years ago at The G Con. Proof that I am crazy? Then leave me alone.
Consider this tidbit: in-a-thieves-of-baraka-game
This post may seem or is crazy, but I think it points to a hidden dimension to a hidden sufi mafia, and their method of interpolating Hollywood movies. No kidding. Years ago, around the Gold sphere, several people noticed the way sufis via Gold were tampering with Hollywood movies.
Very nasty mystics. In an earlier version of WHEE we discussed ‘sufi hyeanas’.
‘Barry Lyndon’ as a carrier wave signal in a ‘thieves of baraka’ game
This movie came out when I was travelling through EJ Gold terrain, and its hidden meaning (in the movie, not the book) would be totally incomprehensible to anyone not involved in the incidents in question, where the approximations, Barry, and Lyndon were used to refer to real people: Barry Lyndon
Note the plot of the movie, with its story of someone plundering someone else’s inheritance. Note that movies, like sci fi, are sufi games of the last generation, and here Stanley Kubrick, with his 2001, was manipulated by sufis for the obvious strategy of seeing the book made into a movie. Gold is a frequent dabbler in this direction.
One of the targets was the reincarnation of Ouspensky whose lode of ‘baraka’
from Gurdjieff was tremendous. The sufis hyenas were lying in wait.

Making a movie (via drones in Hollywood) is one of the black ops of this gang.
All it requires is telepathic suggestion at the starting point, plus other things unknown to me.

I cite this as a reminder that you are in totally obscure and unknown terrain in the Gurdjieff/sufiganster realm, where one of the exercises of crime is to take away/steal the baraka of various unsuspecting sufis.
How and why certain sufis leave their signature in Hollywood movies (a surface manipulation, not as hard as it looks) is beyond me, but it is perhaps a higher form of impudence to use other people as toilets for one’s magical ops.
Here the hidden message is ‘Barry stealing the baraka of Lyndon’, and how I
know that is pretty hard to explain at this point.
My moral is that the Gurdjieff world is an advanced game of black ops, and if you are a stupido in that world you are at risk.

Moral 2 is that even if you actually (fat chance) succeed in sufi game there are
‘thieves of baraka’ out there licking their chops at another spiritual sucker trotting down
the pike.
Moral 3, find a real path that doesn’t deal in ‘spiritual energies’.


I was born in 1945 to parents from Ohio and Canada, and entered into the family of a Baptist, soon Episcopalian minister. Born with gluten allergy, celiac syndrome, in a period that still misunderstood the syndrome, the first few years of existence were a crisis of nutrition, and a shock to my development. I was very late in learning to speak, until age three when, to my parents astonishment, I began to sing ‘row, row, your boat gently down the stream’. This delay in speech behavior is not uncommon, I suspect, and was present in Einstein. It may be a sign of directed birth, and with Einstein the suspicion lingers. To me Einstein was a carefully staged phenomenon. This may be the reason those who thought I was reincarnating Ouspensky saw no contradiction in the dates, Ouspensky dying in 1947/8? Since I have no knowledge of a science of reincarnation I can’t proceed with clarity, but it is obvious our ignorance is nearly complete. I have another explanation, in the odd and mistaken confusions of reincarnation. But it might follow that between births the ‘somewho entity’ enters a timeless domain, making sequential logic undefined in that space. To enter a body in strict sequential timing may not be something we can assume. My life often mimicked Ouspensky drives and interests, but so what? Bennett talked of the ‘soul stuff pool’. Maybe Ouspensky ended up in the ‘sausage machine’ and some of his characteristics ended up a flock of later persons. This concludes discussion of the Ouspensky nonsense.

My parents were solid survivors of the Great Depression, and began to recover to enter middle class life in the coming era of American prosperity. My father was chosen for a position as a missionary in a theological seminary in Uganda. This was for three years from 1955. This remarkable opportunity changed everyone in my family, brother, sister and parents alike. In my case it was still another shock to my mentality as I was suddenly transported from the American High School world to the middle of Bantu plantain culture near Mt. Elgon in Uganda. A spectacular site at 5000 feet above sea level had a colonial missionary seminary in the midst of a plantain forest hiding a vigorous culture of Bantu speakers, Lugishu, as close or closer to the well-known Luganda as Spanish to Italian. My mother later bragged that I had learned both languages in a few weeks, but that was hardly the case. But I did often wander the plantain labyrinth which

came upon homesteads embedded in the ‘one extended banana farm’ and was able to greet the many residents with the elaborate greeting sequences used by the Bantu spectrum of peoples. Because of my father’s courage in standing up to the color bar, he became well-known to the local community, and he dared the unthinkable, visits to his students’ homes, many of them solid householders in their thirties and forties aiming to become preachers, and delighted to host this defiance to color bar. I have always honored my father’s memory here: his sudden appearance in Uganda was a harbinger of the end of colonialism.
This experience was a remarkable stimulus for a ten year old, skipping the fifth grade to roam the novel environment of an African lapsed Eden making friends with many my age. The question of my education was up in the air. My parents had sent my sister to a Kenyan boarding school for girls, but she hated the place, and in the context of the Mau Mau era, and the dangers of racial indoctrination in such an environment, my parents withdrew here, and we proceeded in a vacation period to search out a decent educational institution in the then ‘Belgian Congo’. Arriving in Bukavu they discovered a Francophone-style Lyceum high school, and upon enquiry enrolled us in their program. My parents had the idea that Belgian colonialism was less racist than the English, and to be sure the school was integrated racially, but only with token representatives of
‘chieftain families’ and children of Indian merchants. But I can recall no issue of racism perceptible to a ten year old, and I think my parents calculated rightly that this environment would not be as dangerous in that respect. Confronted with the prospect of taking classes in French, I actually thrived and blossomed into a good student, near the top of the class, and was speaking some sort of French very quickly. After two years in this school my parents returned to the US, and the long goodbye to colonialism was at hand as Uganda reached independence.
Upon return I was enrolled (after my brother) in the well-known Groton School, with a scholarship reserved for sons of Protestant ministers, it appears. Near the end I suddenly starting writing poetry in English and French, and become the editor of the school mag, and the recipient of the classics prize. This ending was a boost to my self- confidence followed by a crash, as the episode of ‘poete maudit’ terminated almost to the year of the same, for Rimbaud. For a moment I peered through a mouse hole into that world as bird on the wing gazing on that non-pareil among poets, and then the vision faded, and the poet was soon gone. It was better so, but I failed to see the point, ending in obscure post-poetry mimicking the style of Finnegan’s Wake. This episode of the ‘poet’ was really a movement in consciousness and gave me an outsider’s identity with a strong self-confidence. From there I went to Colombia College, with a major in classics, which I completed in three years. My college experience was eerie as I became a recluse for three years of university. I was a complete longer and had little contact with students or professors and went through the major coasting on my high school Greek. It was clear I would not be destined to a career here. So I focused on getting my money’s worth, the texts of Greek Tragedy, with a thesis on the Bacchae. But my academic routine was disintegrating, and I ended up writing my senior thesis a week late by typing out the final draft on an old typewriter. By a miracle I got a B+, from Moses Hades. I had switched to calculus and Japanese, and I met a Japanese painter, and began to move beyond the world of the university.

In something like unreality I suddenly realized that my major was in unemployment and in my senior year I changed course with a course in calculus and Japanese, which I enjoyed leading to a year at Teacher’s College to learn enough mathematics to get into the Peace Corps, in 1968.
Once again I found my self in Uganda, and proceeded through a series of assignments to teach first British O level, and then A level mathematics. My self-study in (I had brought almost fifty math texts with me) mathematics had born fruit and I managed without ever having a course in physics teaching A level ‘maths’ which was a strange concoction of ‘almost calculus’ and Newtonian statics. I had enrolled for a third year, and I spent the conclusion to my tour teaching the complicated statics puzzles that graced old fashion A Level sweatshops, the august laws of Newton’s mechanics in statics engraved on the brain. This is a reminder that the tour was not a tourist spree, but a hard slog of mathematical grind explaining A level dreadfuls to a students who were very
eager, but with few chances of employment.

My second experience of Uganda was a mixed one: the closed world of very intelligent students trying to get a grip on technological mentation: British A Level math would make most American high school students fall down in a dead faint. Between the three schools I worked there was the outer world of East Africa, where I learned to speak pidgin Swhahili in a blue streak (five hundred words, plus a bit of grammar). The version called Kisettla spoken by colonists was for a while a badge of suspicion, but the period I went through was already different: pidgin Swahili in the African brand is spoken by almost no whites anymore, except in Kenya perhaps, where people actually speak real Swahili, but is universal from Mombasa to the borders of the Congo in the markets, bars, shantytowns and general transport systems to bring some means of communication to domain with a new language every hundred miles. I saw a lot of the whole universe, from the coastal mystery cities north of Mombasa, to the world of Daresalaam where I came across the amazing Makonde street sculptors whose raw genius stepped out of the trinket tourist trade to some really stunning psychedelic pieces sold for a pittance. But the shock of colonialism still lingered and the possibilities of interaction were still limited. I used to walk through the shantytowns without fear, but real communication is difficult with a pidgin.
This period was not a tourist spree but a prolonged trek via the mixture of mathematical and scenic memories to the crisis of globalization. The enigma of Africa deserved ‘simple attention’ as I made a kind of meditation from its cascade of people and cultures.
I concluded this remarkable three year stint with an extravagant exit: I took a bus to Lake Kivu region north from the Bukavu of my youth, and from there decided I would hitchhike across the Congo. I must the only American-style hitchhiker nutty enough to have gone from Kivu to Stanleyville, nope, Kisangani (I am almost prehistoric in using the old term), a nearly hopeless route. But I lucked out and got a ride the whole way with two men from Seychelles with a lorry load of whiskey and a briefcase of cash. They seemed to think I would seem like I was riding shotgun through a set of roads that were no turnpike: twin dirt tracks through the great jungles of eastern Congo. From Kisangani

I took a boat down the Congo river and then went to West Africa. I took my time reaching home with a tour of West Africa and South America with my rapidly dwindling Peace Corps exit fund. I will leave an immensity of memories of these years in limbo, for the nonce, and try to reach my present in ‘league boots’. My contact with Uganda had a remote quality, but the real effect, in its richness, came later, in fact.
Upon return to the US, I was shocked to realize the obvious that three years public service and a degree in classics counted for zero in the American economy. I got a job, however, as an orderly in a crisis clinic in a hospital in New York (My father was now a member of the staff of the cathedral of St. John the Divine).
This remarkable experience introduced me to the world of schizophrenia in the age of Thorazine, and I was soon an R.D. Lang style pain in the neck for the staff, who were actually far beyond the dreadful thorazine circuit, with a progressive, one hopes, stance on the issues of crisis treatment. I must have made an impression and the suggestion I would make a good psychoanalyst was rendered moot by my lack of pre- med essentials. But the experience was remarkable in the way I went into a kind of funk as a mysterious resonance effect in contact with schizophrenics. I recall a period of a kind
‘racing mind’ effect that was a kind of ‘high’ that soon devolved into a near clinical depression. But I managed to conceal this and was able to complete a year of this until the world of the New York cab driver opened up as my father, alarmed at my mysterious depression, suggested a brilliant solution: a short course in scuba diving in an indoor pool. The experience did not lead to a Jacques Cousteau future, but I did discover something I had never heard of, pranayama 101: take a deep breath. The sudden new breathing rhythms of the elementary course were the key to a lifting of depression, and I was soon in the realm of the New York cabdriver with some contact with economic

This was the period of entering into the New Age movement in 1974. And I experienced a series of instant satoris in a strange sequence. The breathing experience was followed by a week doing yoga exercises, and I recall the sudden onset of a deep relaxation, almost an altered state of consciousness. In the strange way I had of dropping things I had tried, I dropped yoga almost as soon as I started and moved on to new trials: I paid up for the emerging Transcendental Meditation mantra yoga technique, and as usual succeeded at the first step, before dropping the technique. I recall the strange way the first use of the TM mantra in a short session flipped me into what I thought a mini satori, which lasted for three days, fading away, not to return until later. I am not sure if
‘satori’ is the right term: a moment of ‘self-consciousness’, and I had the basics of the whole game at the start, with the concluding episodes unable to reach the beginning. I should have been suspicious of gurus at the start, most are vampires for higher energies, but the two subsequent satoris, one on reading a book on caballah and another reading J.G. Bennett’s The Dramatic Universe.
It seems looking backward that I was on the threshold of enlightenment until I entered the New Age movement and regressed completely to nothing. At this proximate point I picked up a copy of ISOM by Ouspensky, and felt like a duck in water. I could spiel on this book without stopping, but my later New Age experiences took me quite away from the end in my beginning. I can leave this short account there, for the moment,

and consider Castaneda’s idea of erasing personal history. I think that mystery man was wrong there, but a full autobiography seems narcissistic, and in any case, the collision with the sufi world left me derelict for decades: the tale would be a boring rehash of the secrets of riding freight trains west of the Mississippi.
The world of Gurdjieff so clear at the start turned into a nightmare and I stepped out of it, with, I think, some help from a hidden Buddhist or else the emerging Rajneesh.
But I found the Gurdjieff menace hard to shake and I think this world is really that of rogue Sufis, and you are more likely to be mindfucked than enlightened.
I think that the issue here for the moment is that, Ouspensky or not, your contact with the shady gurus of this world can put you in danger in a future life. Honest teachers with the super rare skill of seeing your past incarnations ought reasonably to tell you, but the dangerous reality is that you are more profitable if they don’t tell anything. Be forewarned. But I did get one hint from a borderline sufi about the Ouspensky
connection. No comment. The only explanation for this situation is that someone unseen feared a rival.
In any case, ‘what me worry’: I had the basic taste of threshold ‘enlightenment’ (I dare to guess) in the three periods of ‘satori’, if the Zany Zen men will forgive this usage, and knew what was missing, an important stage of realizing the mechanicity of personal behaviorism. Clearly I was to be a graduate but ended up repeating the starting points, to forgive my trashing of the new age movement. I remain suspicious, all my ‘satories’ stopped once in the world of new age gurus.
As I explored the new age movement I was drawn to the works of Ouspensky and began to search for the solution to its riddle. This was really the world of the sufis, and I examined most of the groups here, including the world of Arica and Oscar Ichazo, and then that of E.J.Gold. Looking backward I almost regret having gone this route, but the experience taught me the dangers of the spiritual search. The world of E.J.Gold was a
strange monstrosity and I got the message very quickly that this was not my venue. I was suddenly in a phase of emnity with Mr. Gold whose ‘school’ was a series of deceptive layers. It took me a few years to realize I was being given a tour of this world, before moving on to my real path. The world of sufism is almost impossible to decipher, but has a mysterious spiritual ‘technology’, the seed-plexus phenomenon.
I have described my experiences here at the blog The Gurdjieff Con and I was strangely made aware of the real sufism even as I was accelerated beyond the sufi world, at once critical but with some awareness of its hidden core. The so-called school of Gold was a series of nonsensical phases and the charades of this stand up comedian turned sufi sheik were a warning that I was in the wrong place altogether, and was at risk due to the facile surrenders of new agers of some dangerous and debilitating occultism.
We should pass over briefly this phase, a story for a later chapter. It is tale of
spiritual war, invultuations, and the dark side of the ‘work’.
The world of Aleister Crowley, Gurdjieff the devil, and the confusing fronts of Mr. Gold (his spiritual side kick was the founder of the San Francisco Ball) belied the extremes of fascism, pornography, and an all around Machiavellian sufism. It took my too long to realize I was noone’s student and should be off before those who thought me a rival finished me off. The world of black magic was dawning, even as I refused the bait. It was clear I should move on a fast as possible, but, having lost my hack license to one of Gold’s students, I confronted the prospect of a new kind of path: the fakir or beggar.

Back in New York from the California and Boulder new age circuits I came upon the world of the Bowery. One could get a cheap hotel cubicle and meal ticket from the city welfare system, and I found myself in a strange situation: the sudden relief from the mentality of economic life induced a profound period of relaxation and I had a sense I couldn’t forget of the effect of capitalism on one’s state of mind. I made good use of my time here, and began a study of the now complete four volume work of J.G.Bennett, The Dramatic Universe. That book made a tremendous impression on me, and I embarked on a study of tensor analysis and General Relativity in order to assess the fixation of both Ouspensky and Bennett on the six-dimensional universe. This period was remarkable in the way it turned me to the left and the study of marxism. I had met an old jewish communist living on the Bowery and he was enthusiastically supportive of my sudden radical bent.

The yoga relaxation peaking and then TM cosmic consciousness moment must have been earlier in 1972/3
NY loft period 1974 spring… first california sufi visit 1974
living with some gold students 1974 fall
Reshad interaction
second visit to california summer 1975
Plexus/x seed ripped off in fake sufi interaction return to new york
bowery hotel experience: The Palace, classic bowery flophouse
study. The Palace was a buddhist meditation on the kind leaving his palace, a lot of later buddhist study…
sudden relaxation outside of market economy generating an accelerated study

study of Bennett’s DU, tensor analysis, General Relativity
two more periods of cosmic consciousness with a book on qabalistic tree of life and more massively reading DU vol 1
meet jewish marxist friend…back and forth to Midtown library, walking med, read dozens of books
on marxism…and …many topics…

another trip to california, no more sufi/gold contact, persona non grata, start of black magic attacks
Los Angeles skid row …
Born Again sequence, january 77, spree with job, money apartment collapses in early september
back to bowery, study of buddhism, start to encounter Osho world, speedreading the flood
of his Poona series books (standing up in Weiser’s bookshop)
back and forth, broke/rich with newly mastered daywaitering job

decide to become a vegetarian and walk out of final restaurant job, dispersing money asap
I must have had a grubstake five times over to start a new life,
but every time I would get a really nasty set of black magic shocks, and it all collapsed.
Life briefly with an Osho sannyasin and try to enter the office temp world, but the lure of the road beckons…
I get the Path train to new jersey and start walking west
I learn the tricks to winter survival in the rockies and am back and forth from
Northwest to Texas, Utah, Colorado
winters in Boulder Colorado and Grand Junction. Start writing poetry again, sonnets, blankverse
Visit Rajneech commune, 1984?
mysterious darshan: not a state of enlightenment unless some primitive variant but a shock realization my senses were deceiving me
moving back to Grand Junction, Texas, Colorado
The task of survival thus gets downright easy:
up early, pick up aluminum cans three hours,
$5/10 in cash, and every day a clothing set and shoes
(in terms of commodities this was a fifty dollar an hour job…)
endless free commodities from dumpster diving, afternoon off, jug of cheap wind,
sitting (boulder creek…) writing poetry….
Idyllic, positively, but my basic question, how can one follow a path of the homeless yogi in a capitalist economy:
it doesn’t really work, although it might. After another year especially in Boulder
I visit my family in Long Island and Dad suggests I live there.
He lets me use his new truck and in no time I am an entrepreneur
recycling metals in the still open landfills: a gold, or aluminum, mine plus copper…
It is hard to believe, but they still buried tons of aluminum and copper/brass everyday in public landfills.
It lay out in the open for several hours before burial and was easy pickings.
I buy 300 Rajneesh books and visit a Rajneesh now Osho workshop at Omega institute.

Rich again, but the era of open landfills is passing and it gets harder to do the recycle…
Set aside poetry after attempted invultuation by sufis/gurdjieff types to control/experiment with a poet…
I discover computers and dad finances a cheap computer which I find fascinating. Take to C programming with a cheap compiler
and am suggested to take a years course in which I do well. But no job…

I am pushed away by Osho presence and told to get rid of books (which are a cloud of bookworm’s fake buddhism)
The C programming cured me of excessive drinking and twelve hours a day of C
was a remarkable unwitting
experiment in neuroplastic reprogramming. I am being pushed away from
(imaginary) new age path to start
work on what will become World History and the Eonic Effect. Someone seemed to want an outside opinion treatment of the Axial Age
and/or in specific critique of Bennett’s DU and where he went wrong on world history.
And in the era of floodtide postmodernism, the status of so many antimodernist new age groups
was a concern of many spiritual powers, I bet.

The latter came to me much latter and was a secondary issue: the point was to makes sense of the evolution/history debates.
I asked to move to New York to live with parents to use the Columbia Library and was on my way with WHEE. The solution to the problem came to me
in 2005 and the next four years were a massive bookread in the stacks of the great library…
I had no idea how this could be published, but just as the book was finished the new POD technology
started up and I was on my way with a book, and soon an internet life.
The first edition was so arcane noone could read it, but the rapid series of editions up to the
fourth brought the effort to a usable form.
Whatever its flaws the ‘macro model’ set forth in the book resolves so many issues it is almost unavoidable
but the fact has to be faced the result is still too difficult for most students.
And scientists trained in physics thinking an reductionism can’t handle it either. That’s a pity because some mysterious core of ‘differentials’ is at the heart of it. But it is more like discrete interval difference blocks.
And the factor of ‘will’ is mysteriously present and confounds causal analysis. We are in a world prophesied by Kant and intuited by Schopenhauer.


In the period of New York life when I was a cab driver making a still robust wage, the era is long gone now, I was able to move into the greater Manhattan universe, moving into a loft in Greenwich village, or rather a cubicle in that loft, rented by ‘Olivia’, Ms. Blavatsky I came to call her, a classically ugly fat lady and irascible shrew…we seemed to take a liking to each other, from a distance, and I was able to exist from that cubicle in the remarkable world of downtown New York in a period of cultural transformation. Olivia, who I later suspected was a rare ‘enlightened’ one, was the apotheosis of a bag lady and her loft was the most extraordinarily cluttered space one could imagine. Some might simply take fright at the spectacle of a hundred yards of junk in a scene not unlike that of Dickens’ Stella and Mom in Great Expectations. Very ready to respond vigorously to any suggestion her loft was preposterous, she was often very cogent in her observations about people and seemed to sense what was about to happen to me: encountering the new age world starting to accelerate all over the world and especially in New York where within a few years Rajneesh sannyasins in their red robes would swarm the Village. With ample funds I began to explore a number of venues, among them an expensive course in cinema at NYU. This was the first instance of signing up for workshops, attending the first session and never going back. In this case I had picked up a copy of Ouspensky’s In Search of the Miraculous, in the process encountering his novel, Kinemadrama, if my memory serves me. I took to ISOM like a duck to water and felt like I knew the whole book cold, and began to explore the world of fourth way groups, so-called. Most seemed very mechanical, but in the winter of 1974, it must have been, across the street from the loft, I ran into a couple running a discussion group connected to the world of one E.J.Gold in California and this was a straight encounter that seems like the ‘magnetic center’ connection spoken of by Ouspensky. A group, reading up various resources over coffee, coffee, into the AM’s, rapidly created a focus of concentration (ingenious simplicities of sufi methods) and thence a group bond. This was followed by the next stage, a trip to the lair of Mr. Sufi in Crestline, California. There can be no doubt that Gold was a remarkable version of the sufi, sufi sheik to boot, and the group pilgrimage in a series of cars was a very remarkable introduction to the kind of alternate universe that rare spiritual types inhabit, a case resembling in a very poorly done description of the Magus in the novel by that name. I had gone with another student, a young jewish fellow somewhat younger than me, and we both came to be a sort of Gemini in a strange and dangerous match of opposites. I became the victim of some jewish mischief here as the collision of two ‘reincarnates’, so they said, produced the collision spoken of in the strange nonsense phase of the film Barry Lyndon, Larry and Landon…Gold was/is a remarkable case of the type of Western sufi very badly portrayed by Anthony Quinn. But the overall movie framework suggests what many never see: the actual world of the Mr. Conscis types that so rarely appear in Western culture, the reason someone like Gurdjieff can pass himself off as some kind of hyperalien. He was, to be noted, himself a Gemini in some mysterious relationship with the ‘Archdruid’, the owner of the San Fransisco Ball, and one more riddle in the strange concoctions of good and evil ways in sufi circles (about which I know nothing).
This interaction with Gold was to prove fateful, if not fatal, and the group returned to New York to live in a group situation for three months after which it dispersed. My first meeting with Mr. Gold was remarkable in its severity: he took an instant dislike to me, almost savage, and apparently wished to destroy my life, path, and

economic future in one scowl. He began the attack in the first session of a group discussion with him, and that was the end of my sufi career. It was a puzzling situation uncalled for in any normal circumstance of teachers and students, but in retrospect it freed me forever from sufism at the first draught, and I was being driven out of a mechanical sufi path Day 1. After that I was never again able to really interact with other sufis, and it was often hard to even talk with other students of Gold. But I was later invited to a return visit, with one other person, for a short one on one with Gold, to the consternation of the others in the group, so I must have been not as feckless as he made out. And in the New York situation, I worked on the so-called GSR project, a parodist clone of the Scientology e-meter, which Gold was exploring in one of his many ‘raids’ on scientology, a cult he strongly condemned. In any case, the question of a later relationship disappeared after one more visit to California. In all this I had at one point overheard a Gold remark, with respect to me, of ‘bus stations’ and the life in them. That, later, was the smoking gun evidence of malevolent intent, attempts to use magical means to destroy my economic life. My hack licence now in the hands of the Gemini twin spelled the end of my easy New York life. This Gemini twin, let’s note, wcas a favorite of Mr. Gold in reverse portion to my being trashed as a fool and failure. It seemed cruel and unfair, but in the end a victim of the Gemini sacrifice play can stalk his twin to a recovery and a reversal of fortune. But the end of the New York episode was graced with a visit by Reshad Field a strange expatriate sufi sheik from England and it was from this point that the mysterious plexus phenomenon, evidently sufic, emerged with respect to the original group. This mysterious moment went almost unspoken in the baffled trance of this extra-sufic phenomenon.
My reckoning with sufis was thus brief, in fact, there was no real interaction at all, and I was very soon banished from the kingdom. But the following spring after New York I did voluntarily seek out the ‘school’ of Mr. Gold in Los Angeles and spent the summer there with another group of his students. It was at this point that I encountered once again one of the fringe students in our group, who was clearly aware of having missed a key aspect of a ‘school’. Living in Los Angeles, and buying a beautiful old fifties car with the ridiculous fins from another student, I went about LA trying to find some success as a salesman (one of Mr. Gold’s jewish/sufi bad of tricks, himself no death of a salesman type, but a fast talking case able to sell anything). It was towards the end of the summer, after zero success as a salesman, that the fringe gal reappeared with a mysterious gambit as a lady new ager and amateur sorceress, sufi something. This gang was scary in retrospect. Thieving baraka isnt’ funny. She was suddenly possessed of a remarkable kind of hypnotic demeanor, and after work in the evennings was driven by me in the old car to the tune of the streets of LA with some clever discussions based on mysterious references and puns, such as on the fast food joint Arby’s (R Bee’s, etc…). This went on for a few weeks and then suddenly I realized the plexus entity had gone upwards to become a state of consciousness, very high, the classic type of self- consciousness with which I was familiar. I spent a day in higher consciousness and then in the evening was graced with a visit from this girl, and a strange Mustapha who chuckled at my state and then, after a sly reference to the tale of Mulla Nasrudin and the stolen fruit disappeared with Anissa, the two never to be seen again by me. And with them went the energistic of that strange day, after which it was clear the plexus core had surface flushed out as ‘consciousness’ and then passed away, like the fruit. This strange

conclusion to the sufi encounter left me strangely in reverse gear, until I understood being conscious without ‘energy’ props (it took me several months to figure this strange form of theft), etc, and as I was getting ready to leave LA I was suddenly taking to the streets, after selling back my little gem of a car, and beginning to encounter the world of the down and out. I recall walking down one street and seeing Mr. Gold stop, as if to give me a ride, which I refused, to his baffled head shaking, driving away realizing the ‘school’ had lost me forever. I never say him again or had any other encounters with sufis, save for my ‘Genimi’ twin, who later contacted me. He had as Gold predicted become
‘conscious’ in a remarkable transformation as I sank into a kind of parallel opposite madness. But he warned me of a few things (he had been secretly coached as a jew in the Gold circuit, but also realized that success would go in the end to the victim) and I learned that he, and I suspect others, thought I was RB Ouspensky (and he RB Crowley). He tried hard to be helpful and was the first to have a falling out with Mr. Gold. His warnings were the source of my later anger at this man, but in the end, what can I complain: I had expected some sufi path but was booted out of one asap by the sheik himself. Perhaps the logic of that would be clear later.
The Gemini stuff is pure bullshit, but it is important to be wary of Crowley idiots and their superstitions.
This was the beginning of my wanderings from the East to the West Coast to finally living in the wilds of Colorado. But I was to have a very fruitful spell in New York, this time in the Bowery, where I had discovered the secrets of cheap lodging, and the chance to begin a course of study with a spell outside the economic machine in a bibliographical spree with free room and board. You would think that the interaction with spiritual sufis would result in reverent respect but in reality this was period from which I began to refer to sufis as the biggest bums in spiritual history. You would think they would sue for slander, along with Mr. Gold who I charged with eating little children in a fit of wrath. In such cases, the charged should sue if the charge is unjust. But he never did.
(I should note this is too fair to Mr. Gold: the real mischief starts after you leave his circle.)

But Mr Gold was to end up a victim of the Internet, all those things you thought
hidden ending up now on the Internet…
And in a strange irony I simply bypassed ‘sufism’, that is, stupid sufism. Is there any other brand? Sure! and very deadly. In case the point is unclear, I am not, never was, and never will be a sufi. And that’s official, but a sufi Sheik. So ass front and fart to sufis….

A mysterious darshan on-rajneesh/Full disclosure (amounting to not much): I said I have had no contact with the Rajneessh orgs: not quite true. First I was one of the first to start reading Rajneesh in
1975 (in the general public in USA), met and lived briefly with one of his sannyasins in
New York (who pressured me to join, in vain). I often visited the various centers in their

public aspects, and saw sannyasins in New York, on the East Side (in their flowing robes). But I was always on the outside. Then in the eighties I lived in the Ashram in Oregon for three weeks in their homeless persons program.
A spectacular moment when outsiders could gain access to the Oregan chaos. I had heard of this new program in Colorado and took a set of freight trains to the Oregon spot (no mean feat). To get to the nearest town you had to ride a train from Klamath Falls to Washington State, and get a train back that would stop in the little town near Rajneeshpuram in Oregon. I will always remember the miraculous moment when the freight train stopped in that town, unpexpectedly. From there I walked the twenty/thirty miles to the ashram, where they admitted me. I stayed a few weeks, but couldn’t last, the homeless program being suddenly marginalized, a pity, since a month later Rajneesh started speaking again and produced his classic ‘Rajneesh Bible’ series. Then everything blew up and that was the end of it. The whole experience was downright spooky.

Small wonder the CIA et al. were absolutely terrified. The experiment was genuinely revolutionary, until it derailed. The powers that be had to destroy it asap. That leaves me suspcious of all accounts. I do not exhonerate anyone here, not Rajneesh’s group, and certainly not the army of hidden goverhment agents out to destroy it.
It is hard to get to the bottom of what happened, and I was there!
But from its ideal aspect, as I noted, it was a genuine and cleverly disguised revolution: if a group of people could produce a social structure at that level of cooperation and justice in a mere three years, the status quo was in deep trouble. The whole thing, like any revolution I guess, suddenly went off its rails;

Then a few years later when Rajneesh died I thought it sad he had died so soon, and applied for sannyas via mail order and was duly sent a mala and name.
With this I attended a large something/what? in upstate New York at the famous New
Age center there. I bombed on the first day and disappeared in the woods losing my hard earned money shelled out for the various group dingdangs. I coulnt’ handle being a member and panicked. Further, an Indian sannyasin there told me my sannyas name got by mail order was a Sanskrit mistake and had a double entendre in Hindi and said I shouldn’t use it, which made some of the org people furious. i was so put out by that I invented my own sannyasin name and took off on my own. The name I gave mysefl was Swami Anand Purusha, but none of the sannyasins would acknowledge it. So on I got the message I was in the wrong place and skulked off in disgust/disarray. But that was me: the tone and vigor of the Rajnessh movement was something elemental, whatever the case with what is left.
That’s why I am wary of the vicious and hysterical anger of many of his critics. It is a strange phenomenon, all around.

That’s the grand total of my Rajneesh interactions, a sorry tale. But it has made me observe it from, well, not a distance, but relatively close up.
What I saw doesn’t really correspond to the desperate and hysterical denunciations from some quarters.

Thieves of baraka

I once met a sufi called Mustapha, with a tattoo on his arm, who was a baraka thief. I should know I saw how he did it. Imagine that, stealing baraka from pious and helpless fakirs! One minute in blisss, the next, hellish depressions. It takes esoteric knowhow to be a thief ofbaraka, so I am dumbfounded.
He disappeared into the shadows, and all I remember is his tattoo.

In general then this pack of thieves, as to their public meettings, private powows and general ratpack shenanigans, are so untrustworthy as to make any statements about when they might have met, you are right, dubious.
So, I don’t know.
Keep researching the matter.

See more at:
baraka/#sthash.Boj9 Jo4U.dpuf


I am sorry I missed this comment.
It is an unknowable situation, and the moral can only to be wary of those who ply spiritual energies. It is finally not the real issue, and it is better to ‘travel light’ without trying to get involved in ‘spiritual materialism’.
If one were to ‘come back’ then it would be important to be less naive about spiritual illusions that are pressed against material illusions.

5 Darwiniana »An old post: thieves ofbaraka // Jull, 2011 at 11:48 am

[…] http:/ / [ …]

The issue of ‘baraka’ is complex. The ‘soul game’ of the sufis, with its ‘belly pack’ or soul seed is one of the hidden mysteries of sufism. I was merely pointing to the way it can all get ripped off.
the ‘belly pack’ seed is a higher dimensional object that lurks near the bottom of the
stomach. How it develops and interacts with the regular body is not clear to me since I am not a sufi, but I did pass through this zone briefly. After being robbed, one obviously exits the experiment. So who knows.
The vast majority of ‘sufis’ never encounter the real thing, as Idries Shah warned.
I think my experience shows the reason. Frankly I am glad I have nothing further to do with the matter.

I hesitate to speak of this, but all in all I think it is a unique documentation/(rumor?) that can help people steer clear of the cruel world of sufism where you can be mislead ad infinitum. This is unique and rare information. And a reminder of what Gurdjieff hinted at (important even though I am totally critical of him): there are unknown sides hiding behind all these outer historical forms.
But you won’t likely find them. Be done with all of it and move on. Almost all sufis are dupes. How dreadful.

I am sometime asked why given a general critique of scientism and evolution I don’t make with Jesus and become born again. I have a definite answer to that: in the seventies I covered a lot of ground in the emerging new age movement and was pressed to study xtianity at close range. At one point in downtown Los Angeles I began to frequent a Gospel Mission in the fall of 1976. I used to watch the Born Again phenomenon preached, exploited and pressed on the homeless in the lead up to a meal. The ritual of staging a decision for Christ in the daily sermons is a mechanical conversion machine that operates across the whole of the US in every skidrow known to capitalist downtowns. In a mood of sufistic experimentation the utterly boring and wretchedly parsed doom and damnation sermons to sniggering alcoholics began to spring to life and I decided to take the born again plunge. I recall the time: the year 1977 was to gain one second on the new year (if i recall) and I took the pledge on New Year’s Eve. Taken back to the sacristy as per the ritual I recall the look of the minister and his doubts. But something remarkable was afoot. I suddenly became energized to return to New York, hitched from LA to Odessa Texas for a few days work as a roustabout paid out from wads of cash from the agents of the work. I was in New York with a week, and everything worked. I walked by a Deli in the midtown and there was a sign, Help Wanted, Dishwasher (you don’t see that anymore) and in a few hours I had a grubstake for the paid fee labor pools in the downtown area a mile up from Wall Street: three bucks would get you a day’s work as as D/W, five a day as a waiter if you could speak the lingo and pass a test, over easy whiskey down: two eggs flipped with rye toast, and a lot more. Within a week I graduated via the D/W circuit to a full time job as a waiter ($50, plus the lingo spiel, pass). I was suddenly in gravy train mode with a full time job in the Deli/coffee shop circuit, soon an apartment, girl friend, the works…But by the end of summer the born again effect was fading and I suddenly felt like I was visited by a Jesus cop on angelic wings writing out a ticket through a scowl: Faustian moving violation (“How dare you exploit Jesus as a mephistopheles..). By September it all fell apart and I was back in the streets, wondering how to hitchhike to California, a last goodbye flipping the bird at the girl friend, ‘loser’…yeah yeah, girls….
I recalled the preacher weird look in the sacristy: born again dud.

But this experience was a valuable lesson. I could see how the Xtian system worked and the way it quietly subsumes the mephisto effect with a Christ override and in the process lifts thousands out of poverty, etc…
But the born again dud is a strange reality, as is the born again experience real mccoy. The full potential of Xtianity is almost never realized. Its hidden work remains to challenge those who challenge its effects.


Around the age of seventeen I began writing poetry and this one in French was extant in the old issues of The Grotonian.

Et alors, que sauf la rnernoire
De tutoiements sans desespoir

Avec pouliche printemps parmi les du labas sainfoins, Demoiselle mignonne croissante dans mes mains,

Ou Ies sapins qui bavardent avec la brise si lointaine, Qui chasse qui peigne ses cheveux qui verts,
Tout cela pour rnemoire et alors je me perds.

Car perdu parmi le maintenanr, elle est vermoulue; Vient la rnemoire comme billets-doux qu’ai de la recu, Billets-doux comme feuilles a travers la plaine,

Feuilles de l’automne galopent avec la brise si lointaine. Oui, j’ai oui la mernoire de la poesie;

Mais on me dit que Ie suicide est vain, recoin, folie, Que si I’on descend vers qu les Heurs malades S’egarent parmi Ie deluge en promenade,
Alors que-mais cela ne vaut pas la peine.

Car je m’ennuie parmi la nuir, la pluie, la haine, Parmi le nuire le languir la nuitre,
Je suis Ia d’ou jamais l’exode ou le fuire,

//the next to last line has the word nuitre, a misprint, and the original I can’t recall, maybe a Joycean pun (nuit)re, on ‘nuire’? The printer left out the parentheses…
//the verb ‘ouir’ has a tense form ‘oui’….

The renewed period of writing poetry in the eighties was an odd development. I had long since left the identity of poet, and the period of writing poetry when I was seventeen was very brief, and the clue to this I should have better sensed was the theme of the death of the poet. At the very start of the song of the poet was the farewell to the poet. It made sense later to think of a mousehole visit to the chambers of Rimbaud for a crumb of poetic sonnetry…le poete maudit.
Apart from a few sonnts in my freshman year at Columbia I have more or less gone through the death of the poet, if I could understand that. The idea of disembodied poetics much later in the realm of Boulder buddhism, seems apt in retrospect.
But the second period of writing poetry then was perhaps some spiritual prompt to make some use of a clear gift that had gone to waste and which was mindful of the way the ‘spiritual path’ claptrap could only destroy such talent. and so it was. A slew of sonnets in a backpack ended up in an old cabin in montauk, untouched until decades later.

But as usual whenever I came into a conscious energy state the sufi vampires weren’t far behind. I got something done before the breeze passed.

There was another side to this, beside the prejudice of the gurus, and that was the experimental realization of what had happened to T.S.Eliot. My interest in his Wasteland, and I was warned of this, was a conservative theme of antimodernism. I was quite taken by that, but my basically radical nature collided with my talents and the rest is silence.
The latter reference is a key to the real issue: writing sonnets and blank verse was a way to study Shakespeare, and the idea of tragedy. Scanning numberless lines of blank verse was a contemplation in itself. And an idea for a blank verse epic, however outlandish, in the wilds of Colorado/Utah was a remarkable wild goose chase. Within a few years the whole thing was over and I was on my way to the work of WHEE.
But the experience was fruitful in the way it brought home the mystery of the tragic genre, and works like George Steiner’s The Death of Tragedy and many other works try to grapple with that enigma.
And that enigma is a deep clue to world history itself, as I began to gradually


Vying with Shakespeare then was a useful bit of bravura and fine nonsense. I thus

never at risk from the ‘anxiety of influence’, another mouse visit. And the Frogs will pay
Shakesbeard a visit one day. Then the Groundlings will speak in blank verse while the

hobnobs will speak prose, Aye and more to come… A splendid introduction to the coming understanding of the macro effect, starting with the Greek Axial Age.

Material scanned from thirty years ago, mostly written in hobo jungles in Oregon, Colorado…one a day and never revised. Here are a few that can be rescued:
Here are a few that can be rescued:

What could will be if choice is barren wish
That asks the parrot’s cracker for its sup.
I have self bounds, no oozer like the fish, My plans are set, my projects up and up.

What could will be if futures cast the dice, That this plusperfect live as one possessed? We zoom these eyes, to jig a small device, It woofers all our songs in love obsessed.

What might will be if thrust and action feud, And rust the finish in the upstart plan?
We could be choiceless in a trackless mood
That is tack-sail if blow oppose the man.

I am the crew and helm, gale from a cat™s paw,
No pirate save to self, where seas inherit law.

Who finds a loved one in the clash of pairs, so fond of apposition as this face?
It blinks one ego that a lifetime spares,
There is more substance to enchanted grace. Tell me some secret of galactic fire
Whose beep and redshift tell departing news scrounging (?poor~) in its expanding gyre.
I watch the stars, nearby a feline mews. Am I some pathogen to feed me more,
where several sizes plane all baubled thought. It is such burden as an unfired ore.
Infinity to hide, yet I seem caught.
I am the worldline to a meeting place,
The cat’s gone off, cruel sphinx, I’d grab its tail…

The put about your vessel from its journ, It is the search itself for your man jack,
he is still there tho none if you should turn
to face your coming hence from your past lack. Then to another presence incalesce,
It must have means to be all where and when, more locate yet where suns will incandesce common stray gas to light the fairs of men.
It is a fugue where entry by the second is your reflection yet arriving first,
enduring temp and temple art rehearsed. ??? Last couplet lost…

The music plays, it seems no evening doom, There could be dance, a feast of bodies, lose each separate sinew in the shuffling oompah… Take him to creature where remembrance waits, They have gardens for the twist of love,
still otherworldly by eternal gates
whose point of entry is no sky, above…??? Some octave puts all color to desire,
that flaunts a blossom to productive tease,
my memories call, brought to this conscious hire whose task is joy

As to a sufi ancient whose each breath speaks mantram or allah to his exhale airing some fire, as life to m ,ment death,
I would stand vlatchman to this selving tale. Am I the doer to this farcist clown
Whose sad routine is ~KapR is evening to the moon? In search of joy my facescape paints frown
sketched in brief stroke, as one de~ft~ng soon.
1 shall be glad, here is pagnificence, Entire \’JOrlds , potential to god-feasts.
Dancers are limbs, taut, reckoned, all too tense, showing slow gods enrhythmed iniheir beatS. Breathe on, this oxygen is ovehead,
free to such steed, \vhose \tJill is heaven I s lead.

The wind done blew blew blew our faces flat
And all across the prairie loomed the rain
In clouds that tumbled like a blown-off hat.
We grabbed our gear and ran down toward the train, Come northbound through the Amarillo yarA.
We had been heading down to Old Fort Worth, But since the rain would soon be falling hard, So what the hell, weIll go the other way,
And caught out on the fly our boxcar berth. VJe huddled in our bedrolls from the spray,
One cracked a jug and passed as grey werrt black, And s)read a night of flash and thundercrack.
Not much despair these esperadoes had,
Fresh hopes for Colorado made them glad •

Though water find the sea, these terrans roam
Beneath high cirrus to a clouded fate

Given suoh draught that few envision home Where shouting children rush the opened gate. Some say the ages bend and circumturn Bringing all ends to futile ruined starts,
They were advised to love, though most still yearn
,!pe hub and barter of their loaded carts. Man feeds a cycle in his toward and fro —- and love’s reunion find them always there Whirling four seasons as the bloomers grow
or eve~lasting in summer’s fair Dreqms root in sleep , sleep ekes the meagre I will awake,

Industrial Age Spawns Frankenstein t’Iyth

‘Eeter fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay’ Tennyson
The recreations of these Frankensteins sideshow the art-facts of our industries. No I, but I will issue foolish sheens, This I, someone to shoe~I opposies. Alas, the deeper octaves of these tones
were all, who knows, exvented in the smog. The stitch-assGmbly of still fleshy bones falls dismally short of species fully hog.
We thus emerge in these emergencies, created ghoul stands forth from voltage gri~ We end by chasing all these lunacies
across the arctic waste, to seethe a kid. The factory that can give art to life creaketh eternal like a bullock cart.

How will they tend the spirit if this force fret them between the beggar and one rich? The economic puzzle sets him his course
til he take deed to palace or a ditch.
How will he tend this business if the spirit is made to dog his hatred or more greed.
His coin and ledger will have bank on merit or mix damnation to a poor man’s feed.
How will one spirit-matter pass the state
or find self-action from conspiring priests? Great Ceasar’s ghost will guise a pope-like fate, and bring bad gov8rnment to sacred feastS. Barbaric times warrt fusion in a soul,
we will prove sveti-slav, to crovm a pole ••• tragical-richards/

http://www.gurdjieff- particularly-biased/

The long goodbye…rogue sufis and their prey…

It is very odd to produce such a negative biography of failure, but the reality looking back was far different. The losers aren’t the failures. Perhaps it is the new age success stories that are…who? Or perhaps not. Success or failure are meaningless here. In India one can drop out and go to a forest. In the US or a capitalist economy the experience is different. There is no forest. But after a while it is all forest, so it makes no difference.
Apart from the need to assist in the debriefing the of rogue sufi world of Gurdjieff and Gold, I was freed from the whole question of sufis, with a funny laugh that I was acquainted with the great secret of the sufis, but unsure if I could ever make use of it. You cannot do the ‘sufi development’ number with any confidence or safety. Is it paranoia to fear that rogue sufi gangsters aware of the hidden sufi tech have purloined it to create soul monsters doomed to immortal terror and suffering, the drone of the ‘work’ destined to provide torture baraka for figures he has never. I think the seed should simply be dumped to allow one to move on. Man as he is has a soul, all that he needs. Anything
more needs a review by the creators, the mysterious demiurgic powers who need to return to review their ancient creation.

I think via the route of interaction with Rajneesh I passed by the obvious buddhist way out. From there one can achieve some degree of realization among sane people who are not occultists trying to line up marks for human sacrifice. It is beyond belief.

But in a strange way my darshan is accomplished. Perhaps the Advaita folks are right: ‘enlightenment’ isn’t an experience. I am prompted by irate who’s after declaring my new age years a waste of time to realize that I have achieved enlightenment realization, if so, then in a strange form (it would be nice to get it in writing): it was rather the will waking up momentarily, and that can be short of the enlightenment finale. Strange indeed. Like the snows loosened by thunder and set to avalanche the game of ego is destined to its endgame in the realm of buddha sanity. The Osho figure is insane, also, but a close passage in the wilds of Oregon was a token of ‘nothing at all done right’. The field of a buddha seems strangely real. In retrospect the lack of a ‘dramatic’ experience of becoming enlightened was a deeper sign of being on the right track. Save that the mysteries of the miraculous are strangely hypersamsaric, illusion.
It is strange that I was drunk at the time, so the ‘experience’ of being enlightened was under suspicion and made one look beyond the experience. A strange fortune. But it was really the spectacle of the miraculous and the implied ‘will’, which is different from

‘enlightenment’, beyond will. The latter has no organ of experience. So this was ego watching a miraculous violation of physics and showing up ego by showing up the senses are misleading. The reality was a sense of something beyond ordinary consciousness, where even freight trains were toys of the mind. So it has no corresponding outer experience. The result was an inference, not an altered state of consciousness. Becoming enlightened can confuse those who ‘experience’ it, but the experience is important to stun the ego, at least momentarily, otherwise it is like a tree falling in a forest, noone heard. Nonetheless, ego realizes it is surrounded, so the end is nigh.
At this strange moment ‘enlightenment’ was not an experience, but an event in the unconscious noted in consciousness, but that evidently has no space-time connection. The spectacle of the miraculous and the mystery of will, not just consciousness, point beyond classic enlightenment to a larger realization…The key point was to see that ordinary consciousness stands in the way of something deeper, the Self or the Will, the latter being a big What? since it is not an ego or person.

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