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Postcards From God by Victor J. Paul Sathya Sai Baba Om Sai Ram I’ve shared the following with several people in my life. Once, someone suggested I write it down so that I might leave it as part of my "legacy." Here goes: It was in the early 70’s, New York City, Greenwich Village, that I received my first "Postcard" from God. Music is magic, It’s not just a game. It can heal up your body, and heal down your name. Regeneration is the place to be. Would that I could swim within my alchemy. Oh, backstroke, and breaststroke, and ol’ butterfly. Life it just flows, through you and I. The Bhaghavad Gita, had told me a tale, Of how my head was the warden while my heart was in jail!
At the time, I was busily occupied in reassembling my life. Having survived The 60’s, three Hospitalizations from drug/exhaustion induced nervous-breakdowns, 16 shock treatments, parents getting divorced after 27 years of marriage, dropping out of Law School with one year remaining, and the mother of all screwed-up relationships becoming a rapidly receding ghost of a memory--at least the shock treatments had some redeeming value--I was now embarking upon a Spiritual Journey of sorts, and was actively engaged in a process of desperate Self-Discovery and frenzied Soul-Searching. Attending the University of Life and majoring in the School of Hard-Knocks, I had both feet planted firmly in mid-air! Now here is my body, and here is my heart, And here comes my head who ripped them so far apart, When he said, "Listen to reason. Now don’t be a fool." I wish I could’ve dropped out sooner from his school. ‘Cause now I’m attending the University, Of Life, my friends, and it’s really no pity. "Cause nothing is right here, but nothing is wrong. I guess it all depends on how you wanna sing your song. I guess it all depends on how you write your song. And I hope that you can dig upon The Yin-Yang Gong! Having at first somewhat timidly drawn back the curtains, and daring to steal but a furtive glance at the moon’s darkside of Consciousness, I eventually became enamored of it. No!… Intoxicated by it, is closer! And throwing all caution to the wind, I jumped in headfirst, headlong and full-tilt boogie, tripping merrily into the Mystic only to emerge from the revolving "Doors of Perception" spinning like an ever accelerating top, humming atonally, and careening madly out of control. After all, I was Jesus!!! (Not bad for a Jewish boy Barmitzvahed in Boro Park, Brooklyn) Wasn’t I??? Wasn’t everyone? Or, at least for a period, hadn’t I intimately believed I was. I mean, hadn’t I actually heard the Sound--the swelling, slowly crescendoing major-key Organ chord emerge from out of the Ether until it filled the entire room? Simultaneously, hadn’t I really seen the White-Light? Didn’t it suddenly appear in the air, pulsating gently, just above my head? Hadn’t I genuinely felt with every fiber of my Being like exclaiming, "Thank you, for letting me come here, today!"? [Hadn’t I recently taken Acid, and wasn’t I really tripping my brains out?!?] Yeah, but that’s beside the point. After all, wasn’t this a whole ‘nother level? Didn’t the quality of this event completely differ from, and go way beyond, any previously experienced psychedelically inspired hallucination I had ever before encountered? I mean, I can still see it so clearly…My friend Freddie’s house up in Rockland County…Maggie and me…We had dropped some very potent, barrel-shaped, orange Sunshine Acid only a couple of hours before, and were now peaking with an intensity which was startling to behold… "Oh,… Victor…" "Yes Maggie?" "Shall I tell you what I’m seeing…" "Yes Maggie." "I’m on a mountain…I’m nearly at the top…Everything is still… The sky is so beautiful… The stars are all around… I can almost reach out and touch them… but… I’m afraid!…" "Afraid?… Afraid of what?" "I don’t know… Of falling?… What should I do?…" "Don’t do anything…" "What?" "Just let go!" "What?" "Let…Go…" "That’s all?" "That’s all!" "Its that simple?… That easy?…" "Yep… That’s all… Just… Let... Go!…" "Okay…" --Organ Chord-- "Oh,… Victor!… Oh, God!… Oh, my God!…" "Are you okay, Maggie?" "Oh… Yes, Victor… Oh yes!… Now I see!… For the first time… I understand!… Everything you’ve been saying! Everything you’ve been trying to tell me… I understand!" --White Light— The White Light, well it blinded me, And the Churchbells made me deaf. Why Jesus was unkind to me, Is anybody’s guess. The Second Coming, came at me,
And a psychedelic gyroscope It buzzed away inside my head!
The previous scene was played out during the early summer of 1970…just prior to my second nervous breakdown, and just before I entered into Hillside Hospital where I was graced with the extraordinary blessing of meeting my wife to be…my best friend, my soulmate and comrade in arms in the Nutzi-Wars…my beloved Karen. My shrink he lives in silence, And his eyes they never look. He received his Child-Guidance From a Marvel Comic Book. But I think that all of my suffering Must have put him through a change, ‘Cause he saddled up his head last night, And rode away on the oven range!
Flash Forward! Somewhere around 1973. I had actually realized my life-long dream of recording an album of original material for a major record label in New York City. Unfortunately, due to an uncontrollable series of circumstances, I was unable to enjoy the fruits of my labor for any length of time. For in typical Record Business fashion, the label’s A.& R. head, who had also been the driving force and the behind-the-scenes-champion of my endeavors, was "let-go", and alas, each one of his projects rapidly became only so much ceremonial cannon fodder. Like sacrificial lambs, unshepherded and alone in the wilderness, these abandoned orphans, these bastard redheaded stepchildren, soon became yet one more collective burnt offering to the Gods of Vengeance and Greed. Awaiting their turn for slaughter upon the Altar of Prevailing Ambition, these once formidable but now forgotten entities either submitted meekly to their fate and quietly entered the Ancient Burialground of Archival-Afterlife, or, choosing instead to end it all in one final whimper/hurrah, they were driven up the slopes by the shrill and icy winds of Ego. Finally, buffeted and beaten, they lost their footing and tumbled head over heels, cursing and screaming all the way, and crashed at long last into the raging Seas of Misfortune. They were then met and dragged under by violent riptides and various shifting political agendas.
My Manager, he lied to me, When he told me of a thousand golden plans, Like working in some Detroit bars, For some broken-down Motor City fans. And if my situation looks slightly out of hand, Well, that’s because the only gig I ever got, Was playing second fiddle in a rubberband!
They say a drowning man will wildly reach out and cling to any passing straw in a desperate attempt to survive. Not so with these defiant and noble creatures. In fact, it is said even today that if one walks along the shore at twilight, he can still hear the faintest echoes of each and every song as they rear their heads above the waves and, instead of inhaling, joyously succumb to Apnea’s ravenous embrace and, shaking a barnacled fist against the sky, willingly go down for the third and final time!
Wanda sits upon the Wheel And watches from the distance, Through her eyes. Me, I roll the ball around, And shake an angry fist, Against the sky! "I Am That I Am" she says, And simply standing back, It all goes by! After a five-year intensive, self-consuming, heartrending, and one-pointed focused pursuit of a career as an "Artist", I at long last came to grips with the fact that, yes indeed, I just might actually be Karmically challenged after all. Nodding to the raging realities of satisfying Mazloff’s lower-based Hierarchy of Needs (Gotta-Eat!), I reluctantly accepted a position with the New York City Department of Health as a "Public Health Advisor", and thereby learned one of Life’s most valuable lessons…The basic nature of Personal Responsibility…The essence of "Adulthood"… The secret core of what it really means to "Grow-up"…
Do What You Gotta Do Before You Do What You Wanna Do!!!
As a P. H. A., my job over the next eight years would essentially consist of quietly and discreetly locating, notifying, and securing for treatment all those wayward souls who had the misfortune of poor karmic timing--that of unknowingly having had sexual contact with diagnosed cases of Syphilis and Gonorrhea. Yes, I was the guy who rang their doorbells saying, "Psst!… You’ve come in contact with V.D… But don’t worry, I won’t tell your Mom… Just come with me to the Clinic and we’ll get your butt treated!... Oh!… And while we’re at it, why don’t you give me the names and numbers of all the people you’ve had sex with over this last half-year?" Man! Eight years at it! Day in, day out! Pounding the streets! Fort Greene, Brooklyn… Central Harlem… East Harlem… Staten Island… Chelsea… and, my own personal favorite, the Belly of the Monster--666 Incarnate, Ground Zero itself-- The South Bronx! Yahoo!!! Now this, was a town! No!--A fucking War Zone, is more like it! Walking through its streets was like being on a nonstop Personal Survival Mission. It consisted of nothing less than constantly keeping your guard up and remaining ever vigilant in the face of an unrelenting and all-out assault on your senses. Visually, it called to mind what something like Salvador Dali’s discarded palette must have resembled upon the completion of his "Guernica" masterpiece. Five-story, "bombed-out" tenement buildings stretching out on both sides of the street, as far as the eye could see--the majority of them in some stage of active collapse. Like vacant, giant orange zombies whose Spirit had decided to get up and leave while the getting-out was still good--these ghostly edifices were the perfect external shells for, and testament to, its entombed human carnage huddled within. Running in between each, instead of adjoining gardens, there were rolling hills of rubble, strewn with trash, and broken glass. Once thriving community playgrounds were now nothing more than vacant lots--Hood "connection" points. Like some frenzied advancing army executing a Scorched-Earth Offensive, the great God Graffiti took root and sprang up everywhere. Aurally, its landscape consisted of a richly varied and multi-textured assemblage--an incessant symphony of the streets. A tremendous cacophony of sound. At its core--its primal Heartbeat--lay a pulsating and percussive patchwork, a rhythm-track of never-ending Bongo and Congo drums… Ba-Ca, Choong! Ca-Ca, Ba-Ca, Ba-Ca, Ba-Ca, Choong! Ba-Ca, Choong! Ca-Ca, Ba-Ca, Ba-Ca, Ba-Ca, Boom! Then in what seemed like ten-minute intervals, a forlorn volley of plaintive siren wails could be heard rising and falling as they emerged from, and returned to this embedded mixture. Although, to the untrained ear, a group of hastily arriving Emergency Vehicles might normally sound like nothing more than a hodgepodge of horns, if you learned to listen carefully and paid close attention, you could actually begin to distinguish their unique timbres and vibrations, so that each one stood alone and resembled nothing less than a finely tuned, and masterly crafted rare instrument. Of course, the musicians playing them were all on great quantities of psychotropic drugs, as each held his instrument wrong end up and, instead of engaging in nimble fingering exercises, each one wore the best pair of thick woolen mittens his money could buy! First, there were the deep and sonorous, rasping-blaring tones of the Fire Engines, as they throbbed and blasted their way through the streets. Then there were the latest model Police Cars, whose sirens sounded like only so many shrill and madly-mounted Moog Synthesizers--their "notes", almost becoming audible words of warning to any approaching vehicle or person: GET THE HELL OUT OF MAAIIIIEEEEE WOOOUUAAAAAAAAIIIYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!! And best of all, last but certainly not least--you know how they say that if you learn how to play the piano, that you can understand every instrument in the orchestra? Well, I guess the same thing can be said about listening to the one and only, that undisputed King of the Hill; my own personal favorite: The Ambulance! Man! That cat could Blow! It could play in the clean but raspy lower basso-range of the Fire Engine, and then, just as easily, it could turn right around and ascending to previously unattainable heights, wail away like some damn Police Car on Steroids! I mean, if you can imagine starting out with a little Miles Davis, adding some John Coltrane, stirring in equal portions of Cannonball Adderly mixed together with Sun Ra and his Solar Archestra, and then, just as this Bitches Brew is coming to a boil, for the grand finale, the Piece-de-Resistance, throw in a little--no, a lot, --of Jimi Hendrix! Perhaps then you can begin to appreciate this howling behemoth, this raging Stradivarius of the Streets!!! As for the smells: although it would be easy enough to fill up an entire book with them, for right now, suffice it to say that however pleasantly diverting the fried cuchifritos and plantanos were, unfortunately they paled in comparison to the overwhelming stench of death and decay which permeated almost everything else. Throughout this continuous parade of negativity, there were also some good, positive, and life-affirming moments which every so often managed to surface and survive. And yes, there were even some humorous occasions as well. While the following may have little to do with my intended tale, I’d still like to share one of these instances with you now, because: a) it did happen, and b) every time I think of it, it either brings a smile to my face, or cracks me up outright! I call it: "The ‘Dewey-Day’ Debacle" During one of my earlier "tours of duty" while stationed at the Fort Greene Clinic, situated in Brooklyn’s notorious Bedford/Stuyvesant area, some co-caseworkers and I decided to go and grab some lunch. The three of us--myself, Bob Finkel, and Jim McGurn--piled into one of our City vehicles, and immediately proceeded to get shitfaced-stoned on some excellent Colombian weed which Jim always seemed to be able to come by. In a desperate attempt at scrubbing our psyches clean, we made our way over to Brooklyn’s famed Botanical Gardens, where we entered and sat on a ledge overlooking a beautiful, and immaculately kept exhibit--a Japanese Meditational Rock Garden. Now this was something else! A stunning, 5 X 20 yard, rectangular enclosure, whose entire area was completely filled with what must have been hundreds of thousands of the most dazzlingly brilliant, small white pebble-like stones, each one no larger in diameter than a common U.S. Quarter. On either side, centered and approximately 2-3 yards in from the exhibit’s smaller left and right borders, rested two "boulder-like" rocks, each one appearing to be about two-and-a-half feet in diameter. From left to right, in impeccably manicured horizontal rows, ran the smaller stones, until, like a current of living water, they came upon the massive boulders at either end and in a graceful ripple-like dance, broke outward, gently encircling and caressing the larger stones in an everlasting petrified embrace. To say that tremendous and painstaking care went into the assembly and daily upkeep of this spectacularly maintained exhibit, this breathtaking gift of Stillness and Serenity designed to ease Mankind’s jangled nerves and soothe the bruised and collectively battered Brooklyn Psyche, would be akin to calling Hell’s fires "hot", and Satan, a "very bad guy"! For no sooner did we sit upon the ledge, than a wonderful sensation of peace and tranquility fell over us. Together, we closed our eyes and, relaxing deeply, entered into a blissful state of quiet reflection. Just how long we sat there in this fashion I don’t recall. What I do remember is becoming suddenly aware that something had changed. Subtly at first, and then with ever increasing urgency, silent alarm bells were going off in my mind. At last, reluctantly, as if someone had thrown some great Cosmic switch, the three of us were now sitting open-eyed and attending to a family of uninvited interlopers who had dared intrude themselves into our pristine oasis and invade our undisturbed repose. What I saw next unfold before me, I’ll never forget till my dying day. A man and his wife, with 10 year-old child in tow, had come in to check out the exhibit. Nothing wrong with that, Kimosabe. But, upon closer examination, what we saw was disturbing indeed. Closely resembling a family of cartoon creatures who had escaped the pages of a Don Martin "Mad Magazine" comic strip, they each had almost Neanderthal-like features, and, weirder still, when they moved their posture was eerily reminiscent of apes at play. With bodies bent slightly forward at the waist, they sort of hopped/shuffled along in front of us, limply dragging the backs of their hands along the ground. But then again, maybe it was their clothing that gave them away. The child’s outfit was actually kind of unremarkable, but Mom and Dad--Whew! They were in their glory! Like a group of inpatients who had been notified at the very last minute that the bus for their long awaited field trip was leaving, they each had on their very best terrycloth bathrobe, complete with a thick, rope-like chord tied loosely around their waists. Pops wore a nice white Tee shirt; I really don’t remember what the hell Moms had on. But, lo and behold!--the strangest sight of all--their "shoes"!!! Oh- My-God! These paper, sandal-like concoctions, which looked as if they had been stapled together during some Group-Art- Therapy session for wayward schizophrenics, were holding up surprisingly well, considering just how much bulk they had to support. They continued their shuffle-hop, halting finally when they reached the Rock Garden’s outer perimeter. Jim, Bob, and I began giving one another the old "raised-hairy-eyeball" and started giggling under our breaths, as we couldn’t help but be captivated by this unfolding episode. I mean, it was as if a bus, carrying a contingent of Carnival SideShow freaks from a travelling Circus had broken down, and these three, the star performers, had wandered off while it was being repaired. What happened next boggled our minds and caused us to make a maddened rush to the nearest exit, all the while fighting a desperate losing battle, trying with all our might not to burst out in loud hoots and hollers and collapse on the ground in paroxysms of laughter! You see, Mom, Dad and Junior, were standing there, hovering over the perimeter of the exhibit, when Pops pulls out from one of his pockets a small camera and, like a high-diver whose moment of truth has at last arrived, he jumps into the Rock Garden and shuffles off toward the boulder on the left, atop of which he takes a seat and beckons Mom and Junior to follow. Like a pack of good little lemmings, they each enter the inviolable terrain and traipse off, all the while strewing rocks in their wake, till at last they reach dear old Dad, and proceed with taking a couple of snapshots for posterity. At this point, we bolted! Once ensconced safely within our vehicle, we began howling uncontrollably as we beat a hasty retreat back to the Clinic. Jim, deciding the occasion warranted it, rolled another number, and passed it around. Now I should have known better, but we were all so buzzed by the preceding incident that, in a devil-may-care attitude, I took a few hits, figuring, what the hell, "fuck-em if they cant take a joke"! Fuck them?… Fuck ME, is a little more like it! By the time we returned, I was flying! Oh well, been there before. Now, if I could just keep a low profile and do my work uninterrupted and in peace…hell, I could do the job with my eyes closed. But, alas! This was not to be. For no sooner did I sit at my desk, than my Supervisor, Steve Someone-or-Other--a hyper little twerp with a harelip--called me into his office for an impromptu, "pop-quiz" case- review. The next thing I know, he’s pacing back and forth in front of me, madly flapping his arms about, and spouting off a rapid-fire volley of questions, laced with the latest statistics from the current issue of "Monthly Morbidity and Mortality Report". Now, I don’t mean to be unkind, but his harelip had left him with some type of speech impediment, which really did interfere with being easily able to decipher what he was saying, and, when you couple this with me floating away and looking down from the ceiling every now and then, you can begin to see just how challenging this was becoming. Taking a few deep breaths and forcing myself to relax, I attempted to center myself, and from whatever degree of stillness I could muster, I tried my level best to listen, and hopefully respond appropriately. It was thus, that I inadvertently discovered another of Life’s invaluable truths -- Attention is the Platform from which Listening Occurs! For try as I might, with each flickering light, or subtle change of pitch in the continuously droning building’s electrical system, first my attention would be captured, and then my listening abilities would docilely follow. Also, because of the periodically repeating paranoid tape-loop that ran ad nauseum through my overheated brain, I found it nearly impossible to concentrate. On and on the magic mantra intoned: "Gee, I hope he doesn’t pin me!!!"… "Gee, I hope he doesn’t pin me!!!"… "Gee, I hope he doesn’t pin me!!!"… Next, I found myself being dragged away and held hostage by the following inner conversation: "Hi there, Vic. This is the voice of your conscience speaking…" "Voice of my conscience, huh…You sound more like Jimminy Cricket on drugs!" "Go ahead…make fun…but I’ve got an important message for you." "Okay, but make it fast. I’m kind of busy right now." "As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted…" "C’mon already! Cut to the chase, will ya!" "Okay. Look…We’ve got a major opportunity here…I mean, it would be a real shame if you didn’t take advantage of it…" "Opportunity… What opportunity? You mean, like me not getting my ass fired?!" "No, no…Relax…The way I see it, the two of you are now on equal footing… You can both find some kind of common ground … I mean, after all, he’s got a busted lip…you’ve got a broken brain… who knows?… With any kind of luck, this might turn out to be some fun, after all!?!?" "Ha, Ha! Thank you very much. I do appreciate your help. Now, since I’m trying to pay attention to him and not you, why don’t you just shut the fuck up, and get out of town! Okay?"… "Sure, Sure…Sorry…Look, I was only trying to help…" "Okay…Just Shut Up, already!" "Okay, will do… Oh…Just one last thing…" "NO!" "It’s important…" "NO!!!" "Okay, but you’ll be sorry!" "Oh, all right, already, WHAT!?" "Well, I hate to be the barer of bad tidings, but you’ve just missed the last 5 minutes of what Stevie-boy here has been saying!!! Ha, Ha! So long sucker. See Ya!" Oh well, at least I was back in the room now…No more crazy voices in my head…Just me and little Stevie Wonder. Yep, I wonder just what Stevie boy had been trying to tell me during this previous interlude. Humph! Just some more water under the bridge I guess. The real question was, what the hell was he talking about now!?! Oh well, at least I could take some comfort in the fact that I knew my cases, inside and out. For example, there was Bill, last name "Unk", as in "Unknown", the "Scourge of Coney Island"--a 32 year old, white male; diagnosis: "G-10", penile Gonorrhea; onset of symptoms: 3 days previous. He had given me 5 contacts--3 females, 2 males-- Judy, Barbara, and Jennifer, last names all unknown--the "Unk" sisters, naturally, and Bob and Jose, last names also "Unk" (can you imagine that!?). Don’t worry, I’m not going to bore you with anymore details but, suffice it to say, I was prepared for almost any question he could throw my way--any question, that is, except for the curveball one he lisped in my direction. In retrospect, I really don’t know what he said, all I know is what I heard; and what I heard, sounded something like this: "Blah-blah, blah-di-blah-blah. Blah-blah-blah-blah… Dewey!" There it was. One little name…what’s in a name, anyway? Only 5 little letters, that’s all. Yep, just 5 little letters, which, while it might crack me up today, at the time sent nothing but shivers and absolute bolts of fear running up and down my spine. I mean, stoned or not, how could I possibly completely forget the name of one of my cases? Was I so ripped, that I totally blocked out this "Mr. Dewey", whoever he was. Or was it Dewey, "Unk"? "Hmmmm…" I said stalling for time. "Let me see…" I then set what at the time must have been a new mental land-speed record as I franticly rifled through my mind’s roller-deck, unfortunately drawing nothing but blanks at every turn. "Dewey"… I said it again, slowly and aloud, as if the sound of my own voice could somehow conjure up the forgotten case-name. However, try as I might, I remained 100 percent clueless. On and on we went, like two people with Altzheimers Disease engaged in a passionate debate, each of us mirroring the other, as we echoed back and forth the lonely and haunting refrain of… "Dewey! " We carried on thusly for what at the time seemed like an eternity. In reality, this exchange lasted only slightly longer than five minutes--five of the longest, most intense, fear-filled and anxious moments I can ever recall experiencing--when suddenly: Tah-Dah! The clouds parted and the sun shone with the brilliant light of recognition. Hallelujah, Little Children! The truth really shall set you free, after all! You see, it had all been just a simple case--no pun intended--of homonyms at war…Just an honest little misunderstanding… That’s right! All the time, while I thought that Stevie boy was ranting on and on about this Dewey fellow, what he had actually been saying was… "Do We?" Yep! Just two little words. Two simple little words any first-grader could easily understand--yet if a fly could have been hidden in a fold of my clothing, he certainly would have agreed with me that our conversation actually sounded something like this: "Blah-blah, blah-di-blah-blah. Blah-blah-blah-blah…"Do we?" "Hmmmmmm …Let me see…Dewey…" "Do we? "Dewey…?" (Pause)… "Do we?" (Longer pause)… "Dewey…?" (A longer pause still)… "DO WE???" (My turn)… "DEWEY?!?!?!" Oh well. I guess they must be right, after all, when they say that God watches out for fools and drunks, because the next thing I know, Steve is looking closely at my face and staring into my eyes. Slowly, in disbelief, he starts to shake his head and then bursts into laughter and dismisses me back to the safety of my own little work area. Oh, well…Enough of this! I’m sure you get the point. In retrospect, all I can say is, "Yeah, it was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it!" and, as it’s been nearly 20 years since my last "encounter of these 4th kinds", and as I’m now somewhat more capable of dispassionate reflection upon my life, I can actually discern a kind of Cosmic Justice at work--a subtle shifting in balance, a repositioning of the scales--and acknowledge that, yes, the sentence did indeed fit the crime! For to say I was a "womanizer" is like calling Mother Theresa a saint, and although while hoping this analogy conveys observable reality equating to patent obviousness, to make sense out of juggling the two of us in the same sentence, let alone the same book, is like asking an Oxymoron to stand on its head, somehow see through the mirror to the Ying-Yang symbol hidden behind it, and then, after a period of intense internal reflection coupled with reliance upon the latest version of Sparky’s Secret Magic Decoder Ring, discover that, "Gee whiz! Life really is just a riddle, surrounded by an enigma, and embedded within a conundrum after all!!!"
The Karmic Highway’s cryptic signpost Points unto itself! It says, "Here is where you’re at, my dear, So don’t go and be nowhere else. Learning how to sit so still, And do nothing at all, Is like learning how to try not to try, It’s like learning how to free-fall!
While today, at age 53, I have attained a certain perspective born of distance and time, back there, in ’73, at age 28, all I knew was that if I put one foot in front of the other, hopefully I’d be able to progress through the wilderness and eventually find my way home. Travelling in like fashion, discerning signposts along the way, I stumbled upon another of Life’s valuable lessons: Go With The Flow… Don’t Rush With The Flush! So, there I was, flowing along, when I found myself in the basement of a Church on St. Marks Place in Greenwich Village. In the company of about 150 or so other hapless hippies, vagrants, and vagabonds, each one of us was searching for his own elusive Sense of Self. Banding together out of a desperate need for collective camaraderie, like moths, fearful and frail yet daring and determined, we, the seekers of Truth and Justice, began our fragile flight toward Faith’s flickering flame. Like a lighthouse’s offer of safe harbor to a shipwrecked crew of stormstruck sailors, and with the hope and promise of Spiritual Redemption looming at last before us, we held on tightly and clung to one another with a communal fist as, borne on waves of incense, laden with the aroma of bliss and joy, we cut through our Soul’s dark night.
To all the strangers Who drink alone tonight, I lift up my cup And I sing you my song. Darkness is nothing But natural silence, A mother expecting Her yet unborn dawn. We are the children Whose sunlight was stolen, By thieves of the Spirit In bodily Hell. Our eyelids are weary, Our Souls, they are sleeping, But anything worth Being, Is worth Being well!
I can still see it so clearly. Like it was yesterday. The Church basement… The candles… The incense… Our throng--huddled masses yearning to be free--all sitting in our best approximation of the Lotus Position, hoping that the great god Kundalini, lying dormant within, might at last uncoil and, in serpentine fashion, launch himself from the base of our spines until he sprang, newborn yet fully developed, up and out through the tops of our heads, and there, in a rapturous dance of the ether, entwine momentarily with each undulating wisp of incense. This unleashed torrent of fine energy would then seep through the building’s roof, and radiate outward into the Cosmos, pulsating all the while until eventually it would catch the eye of some downward glancing highly evolved Life-Form and fulfill its ultimate purpose, serving as strobelit guideposts for Wayward Angels and other errant astral entities lost in flight.
So Waltz with me Liza Once round the garden Sing to my Angels So they’ll sing to me Here we stand being Naked as children Watching our rivers Return to the Sea! I can almost still audibly hear the singing/chanting in unison: Jai Ram Sri Ram Jai, Jai, Ram, Ram!
The sensation of Joy, as it pervaded the room… The sense of Peace and Love, at once so ephemeral and yet so palpable and substantial you could almost reach out and touch it--reach out and break off your own little piece of Bliss, and gently unfurl it before your heart like a banner heralding the coming of spring. Like an uninvited guest, cautiously approaching a hastily cast welcome mat abutting a previously fallow yet potentially fertile garden, we took great pains so as not to upset the delicate balance of Hope being born anew. Tender and resurrected, this Phoenix rose from the ashes of betrayal and selfishness, and daring to inhale deeply from a freshly emerging current of Trust, stretched out its glorious wings and flew off into a bright new world--a world free from doubt and fear; a world no longer contaminated by the poisonous atmosphere of heartbreak and pain. I remember the people. Some clearer than others, yet each of us engaged nevertheless, in the common pursuit of one magnificent mission. Together we joined hands, individually and collectively, and participated--God’s Footsoldiers, marching towards the Gates of Heaven! Some of us marched in one direction. Some of us marched in another. Some strode upright and confident, while some, burdened by guilt, shame and memory, hobbled along on faltering footsteps of doubt and fear. Some of us were golden. Some of us were tarnished. Some were proud. Some were pure. Some knew "The Way". Some knew they knew it. Some wanted others to know they knew it. Some made straight the way, while some went in circles. Yet however much of a rag-tag assembly of orphans and waifs we were, one thing we did all share in common--we were each blessed with the extraordinary Grace of at least desiring to seek the Truth. And, we were all marching! There was Wanda--purple skirts flowing, psychic persuasion glowing. There was Danny Goldberg, who had recently visited India, and who was attempting to--and later did--carve out quite a career for himself in the Music Industry. There was Brother Bob Finkel--a good man, co-worker, and good friend. There was longhaired Stanley, the Pied Piper of Prospect Park--a man on a self-imposed relentless recruiting mission to gather every lost soul he came upon and steer them into the hallowed portals of the Practical Philosophy Foundation. There was the whole "Baba Gill" Crowd--an assorted assemblage of spirits and sprites who congregated at the West 86th Street entrance to Central Park. Wow!!! [Phhhhhhhuuttttttzzzzz! %#&&-+?<>!!!] What a Group! In fact, the first time I met them, I had just gotten out of an evening-class at the Practical Philosophy Foundation (P.P.F.), and was heading home. It was one of those rare and beautiful New York spring nights, where the air was somewhat fresh and clear. It was really so lovely, that I decided to cut through the park along the 86th Street passageway. No sooner did I emerge at Central Park West than I became aware of what appeared to be a ragtag band of gypsy/hippies sitting on, and spilling out from, one of those dark green wooden park benches, the backs of which, at equidistant intervals, abutted the entire western stone-wall bordering the park. There were probably 15, to 20 people in all. Holding court, from a position of prominence at the center of the bench, sat "Baba Gill", gesticulating madly, but uttering not a sound. His tightly coiled raven hair cascaded into wiry shoulder-length ringlets, as his main "interpreter", seated directly to his right, picked up on his silent rhythms and, transforming them into audible sounds, began spouting out the wisdom of the ages. Two or three others were perched on either side, and then on various blankets strewn haphazardly about the sidewalk, like waves lapping at his feet, sat the rest of his raptly enthralled assembly. Such was the scene I came upon when I exited the park. With a couple of companions at my side, and a soft covered book of 8X10, black-and-white photographs with accompanying verse, rolled up like a tube and tucked neatly under my arm, I hesitantly neared the group. It seemed that no sooner did they become aware of my presence, than they ceased their activities, and, as if in response to some unspoken command, one of them, smiling broadly yet remaining silent, approached. I returned this courtesy with one of my best beaming grins, when "Baba Gill" resumed his pantomime. The person standing in front of me stretched out her arm, pointed at my face, and said… "This one, knows the way!" Not quite knowing how to respond, I, in turn, reached out and opened my mouth to reply when my book, a copy of Lao Tsu’s The Tao, (Chinese translation for "The Way") dropped, face up, upon the sidewalk for all to see. "Baba Gill" immediately held up a hand and, in a gesture any three year old could interpret, slowly curled the tip of his index finger until it came to rest upon the tip of his thumb, simultaneously extending his three remaining fingers straight into the air. "Perfect!" said the near one. Thus, with the awkwardness of introductions behind us, I took an offered seat on one of the blankets, and remained there for the next couple of hours, thoroughly captivated by, and, indeed, sometimes even participating in this ensuing, "Magic Theatre of the Street". You can imagine my amazement and chagrin when some days later, upon discovering that they too belonged to our celestial army, I went over to say hello to the one I had called "Baba Gill". Giving him a hug, I was stunned when he hugged me back and said… "Hello!" He then went on to explain that while there really was a "Baba Gill", it wasn’t he, and that their group often met with him, and occasionally each of their members would take turns "filling in" for him on various evenings. The reason the particular role-player wouldn’t speak, he continued, was so that if a genuine need arose, there would be no opportunity for "Ego to get in the way of Truth!" And that, "Oh yes… By the way…" His name… was… "Sam"!!! Oh, Sam! Oh, Damn! Oh, Sam, you dirty Sham! I do like green eggs and ham! But, I do not like green eggs and SHAMS! (Forgive me good Doctor) But I do like "Sam the Sham"… I mean, "Wooley-Booley" was cool… He did not play me for a fool… So Wham-Bam! No thank you, Sam! Oh well, while the messenger may have been a little bent, I guess you couldn’t argue with his essential message. I mean, if you’re ever going to become any kind of true Cosmic Music critic, you really cant go around shooting every piano player that comes along just because he plays The Music of the Spheres a little out of tune. Next, I remember Mira--the dark haired, lovely and golden throated, song writing, guitar playing diva from Texas. She borrowed her name from an Indian Saint named Mirabai. What a voice. What music! Oh Angel, I love you. Oh Angel, I adore you. Doo, Doo, Doo… Listen, To the Sound, Of Love Newly found. And take my hand. You’re an Angel of gold. Man, I defy anyone to really listen to that song and not be moved to tears! Ah, lovely Mira… I wonder what’s become of you? I can still hear her playing that song at my wedding in the U.N. Chapel, on March 22, 1975. Incredible! Not a dry eye, including and especially ours, in the Chapel. Talk about "magic in the air"! I still remember a then stockbroker friend of mine, Alan Blumenfeld, coming up to me after the ceremony and being a little overwhelmed when he tried to share how he had seen "things shooting through the air" when she played that tune! Ahhh… Mira!… May God be with you, sweetheart! And, last, but certainly not least… When I think back upon that group… Most of all… I remember Hilda! Hilda Charltan! Hilda… Without whose presence, guidance, leadership and love, there would have been no group at all. It was, after all, to "Hilda’s" that we would go in the evenings. Yes, physically the meetings may have been held in the Saint Mark’s Church basement, but in truth, in our hearts, minds and souls, it was always to Hilda’s that we would run. As to exactly who, or what, this creature was, I knew only what I saw from the periphery. With a kind of cosmic agelessness exuding from her soft, porcelain skin, she was at one and the same time, both ancient and young. Always sheathed in flowing Saris, from her hair and skin there emanated the sweetest scent of incense mixed with flowers. A subtle babhutti-like perfumed aromatic essence encircled her. And, from somewhere deep within her Soul, and reflecting through her eyes, there arose such a dazzling radiance--at once so soft, and yet also so powerful, that one gaze from them could shed light upon the Universe’s eternal mysteries, and unlock the timeless treasures of Creation itself. Yes, this Vision… This Apparition… This Angel of Light and Mercy… She was all this and one thing more… For today… When I shut my eyes and try to conjure her face in my mind, I am left, ultimately, with an image of nothing more than the embodiment of Love Itself! "Okay, Vic", you may say…"All this is good and well, but what about the ‘Postcards’ already?"…Well my friends, if I could but beg your indulgence for just a moment or two longer, I promise you your patience will soon be amply rewarded. Let’s see now… Where was I?… Oh yes… Sitting cross legged on the basement floor of the Saint Mark’s Place Church … Recalling Hilda… There she was… Standing in front, facing us. I believe we had finished chanting, and Mira had just finished singing with and accompanying us on guitar on some incredibly joyous and devotional tunes… "Kids…" Hilda began--she always called us kids. No matter that there were some ninety-plus-year-olds in the crowd, we were her kids! Exactly what the evening’s topic was I honestly don’t recall. In due time however, it encompassed a tremendous range of subjects--everything from eyewitness accounts of Divine Healing and Miracles, to several of us kids’ personal experiences while on visits to India. Each one of these tales was replete with references to various and sundry Holy Men, Saints and Gurus. It was on this very occasion that I first came to hear about one such Holy Man in particular--an Indian Guru with a following of some several million people by the name of… Sai Baba! Om Sai Ram Sai Baba--whose name in Hindi means, "Mother-Father"… Sai Baba--whom most of the kids had often visited, and then returned to again and again, while sojourning through India… Sai Baba--who was the self-announced reincarnation of a former famous Indian Saint by the name of Shirdi Sai Baba… Sai Baba--a Teacher of Truth who, to me personally, upon reflection over the years, has been absolutely the most shining example of a Messenger not getting himself in the way of his Message… Sai Baba--whose "trademark", if you will, was the countless number of miraculous manifestations of solid objects--rings, garlands, alabaster eggs, candies and sweets, and yes, even once to a visiting Priest, the gift of a wooden splinter from the very Cross upon which Jesus Himself was crucified. All this out of "thin air" and while in plain view of thousands of his devotees and witnesses… "I give them what they want, so that later I may give them what they need." Sai Baba--from whose open palms rained a steady stream of Babhutti, the wonderfully aromatic gray ash-like powder which, when either rubbed on the body or mixed with water and drunk, could heal anything… Sai Baba--who when the occasion warranted, would appear simultaneously in several different locations in order to minister to his followers’ various urgent needs… Sai Baba--who graced me with the blessing of his entry into my life that evening… And… Sai Baba--who, as you will soon discover, not only filled my empty life with an abundant shower of blessings and joy, but who also gave me a gift I truly treasure the most--an intimate and real connection to, indeed a personal relationship with God! For over the past quarter century of my life, Baba has been not only the Spiritual Cornerstone of my Life, he has been its entire Foundation as well! More about this in a moment… For now, there’s just one remaining piece of information which needs to be shared… The table with the pictures. To Hilda’s immediate right was a plain brown rectangular table, the kind which you might expect to find at any wedding. It would normally be draped in a white linen tablecloth, and bear silver trays laden with varieties of hors d’oeuvres. Get the picture? Good. Now, scrap the tablecloth and dump the hors d’oeuvres, and Voila!… There it was. A plain brown rectangular table. On top, stood three simply framed 8X10 photographs. The one on the extreme left, was a black and white picture of an Indian gentleman by the name of Neem Karoli Baba. Also affectionately known as Guru Maharajji, or "the fat man in the blanket", he happened to be the personal Guru of a gentleman with whom I, and thousands of others, had become very familiar--an American gentleman and former Harvard University Sociology Professor by the name of Richard Alpert. Perhaps the reason why Dr. Alpert was so familiar to us, indeed just why he had such an explosively powerful impact on our lives, is because, in perspective, he was the Original Pioneer--the Lone Ranger--who had personally blazed the trail over which an entire generation of Hippies would soon travel. In the early 60’s, and while still at Harvard, he and a colleague--a Psychology Professor by the name of Timothy Leary--had experimented with a little known and then still legal substance, called LSD. The rest, as they say, is history. For after taking literally several hundreds of trips, they not only followed their own advice of "Turning On… Tuning In… and Dropping Out", but they also became "role-models" and very powerful influences on what seemed like an entire generation--a generation of lost souls who might best be epitomized by something Arlo Guthrie once declared while filming "Alice’s Restaurant": "I may not always know what’s right, but I sure know what’s not!" Now, if you’ll allow me to digress for a moment, it’s kind of fascinating really, but, if you stop and think about it, the raw ingredients comprising the dough out of which my generation’s substance would eventually rise, was really a kind of crazy blend of most parts tragedy, some parts comedy, and then some very heavy doses of irony sprinkled liberally throughout the mix. Go on… Think about it!… Here were our parents, whose own parents before them, in order to escape the dark forces of Malevolence and Persecution, had been forced to flee from their very homes and families--abandoning everything they had once known and held dear and familiar. Born together with our century, and carried by a great tidal wave of hope for something better, they surrendered everything and settled upon our shores. Such was the crucible of sacrifice from which was forged the mindset of our parents’ generation. Can you begin to imagine what their lives must have been like--our parents! These children of immigrants… These strangers in a strange and forbidding land who had to claw their way up and out, climbing rung over excruciating rung, overcoming all kinds of adversity--Zap!… The Great Depression… Bang!… World War II…--until finally, they carved out something which was uniquely theirs… Something which could never be taken from them again… Something which they had fought, bled, and in some cases, even died for… And something which they could tangibly pass on to their children… To Us… The promise of a better way of life having at last become reality! And then, finally, WE arrived… En Masse!… "The War Babies"!… A "generation lost in space"… A generation, lost indeed!… I mean, isn’t it a riot? Don’t you get it? It may have taken me a lifetime, but I finally do get the joke. No, I don’t appreciate the fact that "the joke was on me", but I’m glad I finally got it nonetheless! I mean, can you appreciate the depths of irony here? While I don’t know that I really have enough perspective to make valid observations, it seems to me that here we were, the first generation of people ever--I don’t know, possibly the only generation in the history of Modern-day Mankind--who were simultaneously blessed and cursed by being in the position of having the luxury of exerting some measure of Choice over our daily lives. But wait!… Actually, there is one other such generation which now comes to mind. One which also seemingly fared quite poorly… Another generation who also were quite literally handed everything on a silver--no, make that a "Golden" platter--indeed, they were provided for by none other than The Creator Himself! And, guess what else? This generation’s hallmark was also all about choice, only they referred to it as "Free Will". How ‘bout that? Good Old Adam & Eve! They had it all! They lost it all! "Ahhh… But what about the serpent?" you shout! "Wasn’t it his fault?… That snake in the grass!" Serpent Schmerpent! Can’t you see that the serpent is nothing more than a symbol for--indeed, nothing more than the very embodiment of the concept of "wiggle-room"? And what is this "Wiggle-room"? Only a measurement of energy--the energy which exists in, and arises out of, the space created when any two polar opposite positions from which a being can, and must choose come into proximity with one another. And so, wiggling with an intensity born from a reckless running, not so much toward, as away from, everything we regarded as dishonest, hypocritical, and corrupt, my generation--a-la-"Arlo"--largely became a radiant and impotent bunch of Flower Children. Reflecting the adage that "Any strength overused is a weakness", we continually abused the hell out of our abilities to choose, and fell victim to rampant indulgence, self-delusion, analysis-paralysis, and a thousand and one other similarly sophomoric mind-games until, adopting the path of least resistance, we embraced every trite and tiresome battlecry of the 60’s: "So long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else… If it feels good… Do it!" "Sex, Drugs, and Rock ‘n’ Roll!" "We can change the World!" And, that personal Life-changer… Our estranged generation’s very own seductive and Mantric Anthem: "Turn On!… Tune In!… Drop Out!…" Led by our two Psychedelic Pied Pipers, we became more and more royally lost as we proceeded to explore the outermost boundaries of Inner Space. Leary, to my mind, sort of remained stuck, until the end of his life. Speaking of that, he recently invited everyone to attend his very own "Passing-Away-Party" by clicking on his website and viewing his death as, doped up to his gills, he shuffled off the mortal coil and drifted peacefully off into Cyberspace. I detect a kind of Cosmic Humor at play here as, in the end, instead of LSD, it was his website which recorded thousands of "hits". Alpert, on the other hand, sensing that something was still missing, traveled to India and met his Guru, Maharajji, who, among other things, insisted that he change his name to "Baba Ram Das." Obeying his Teacher, Ram Das changed not only his name, but also his entire way of life. It was soon thereafter that he wrote a book which, when I had my first nervous breakdown, was one of the few things I could relate to or felt made any degree of "Sense" whatsoever. The work was entitled, "Be Here Now", and believe me, I was there then! As for the second picture on the table, the one in the middle, it was simply an artist’s portrait of Jesus. What more can you say? Nearest to Hilda, the third and final photograph was a color head and shoulder shot of a broadly smiling Indian gentleman with a very large and very bushy deep black afro. He was clothed in a brilliant orange robe which clung to and apparently draped downward over his entire body. This was the first time I ever laid my eyes on the likeness of Sathya Sai Baba. Aside from engendering feelings of instant likeability and positive acceptance--actually, I think the sound in my mind went something like, "Yeah…Nice smile…"-- in every other way, the picture appeared not the least bit remarkable. However, although I really can’t pinpoint the exact moment of visual epiphany, what I do know is that at some point while Hilda was talking, --Cha-Chinnng! There it was! The Celestial Mailman, in all His Glory, had at long last arrived, and dropped His "Postcard" right into my lap… A very "Special Delivery", indeed! While only a moment before, the room and its entire contents had appeared in precisely the fashion I have described, now, there was one additional element. A new, and visual component--a superimposition, an overlay--had suddenly taken form. A component which, at one and the same time, was both subtle and ephemeral, as well as brilliantly striking and almost hauntingly compelling in power. For encircling both Hilda’s head, and Sai Baba’s picture--right there in front of me--were two radiant auras of exactly the same most brilliant, and deeply rich, shade of purple I had ever seen. Then, linking the two, and running diagonally from Baba to Hilda, was a beam of colored light, the substance of which was exactly the same in shade, quality, and luminous intensity, as that which comprised the auras. I remember my jaw dropping to my chest, as I shook my head vigorously back and forth, and blinked my eyes in rapid succession. In an attempt to clear them of whatever combination of tears and trace particles of stray dust motes might be causing this unsolicited apparition, I shut my eyes tightly, and proceeded to rub them with both hands. While I may have been quite successful indeed, in ridding them of any unwanted or foreign physical impediments, when I reopened them and dared again refocus, aside from a few seconds of time having elapsed, everything else remained precisely the same! So! This vision wasn’t going away…. Okay! Well then, I guess I might just as well sit back and enjoy the ride. But wait a second!… What about everyone else in the room?… Were they all seeing this too?… Or… Was it just me?… Don’t ask me how, but I soon came to realize that this vision was mine, and mine alone. I also realized that while these connected beams of purple light may have existed only in my mind, nevertheless, I was seeing them made manifest in the physical plain. Like a potent sign of union--a living luminous linkage between Guru and Disciple--this subtle manifestation took on a reality rivaling, and indeed even surpassing, any other formed or physically embodied object present in that room. For, in the same way in which, when you watch a person, you "see" just their body and not their mind, heart and Spirit, so too, this phenomenon was every bit as real! Every bit as present! I remember tuning in to Hilda, the living link in this unfolding Cosmic Shadow Show, and hearing her speak of some of the many miracles attributed to Sai Baba, of her visits to him, and of the ring she wore which he manifested and gave to her and, that if any of us kids needed to, we could call upon His Name, and He would certainly respond. I remember several of the kids sharing stories then, of how Baba had appeared before them, materializing in their homes, places of work, hospital rooms, and so on, and how he had given each one some urgent message, piece of information, or the like, so as to protect, guide or fulfil some deep-seated need. Then, I recall the lights being lowered, as from somewhere behind me toward the back of the room, a projector was turned on and a man who had recently visited Baba, began showing us all a film--an 8 or 16 Millimeter, obviously "home made" movie--which he had shot during his last visit there. What I witnessed next, was, to say the least, very fascinating indeed. There was Baba, moving and, due to the lack of professional film quality, in jump-cut fashion, appearing almost Groucho-Marxian in demeanor. I remember the accompanying words of the sound track, as it struck me with an intensity which was overwhelming. I recall the words, "Baba, says that The Will is manifest", and something about how when we look upon our lives, that we should "give up the need for questioning, and realize instead that everything is Perfect"--that each and every experience, event or relationship drawn into our lives, is somehow purposefully sent there, and intended for our growth and ultimate well being and, from that point of view, was a divine gift and blessing. Like a rose, which had been closed during the previous night, and now, upon being greeted by the new day’s warmth and sunlight, begins to open, so too did I experience an almost "physical sensation" --an "opening"--taking place somewhere inside my head. My mind, like the rose, began to unfold and expand, until in full blossom, it filled the entire room. On the screen before us, Baba was presiding at the wedding ceremony of one of his disciples. Actually, a "Re-Marriage-Ceremony" is closer to the heart of the matter, as this disciple, a woman whose husband had died several days earlier, had prayed to Baba. Responding to her call, He went to her deceased husband, raised him from the dead, and was now reuniting them. I remember watching Baba’s arm moving rapidly in a circular pattern through the "empty" air in front of him. Instantly, there appeared in his hand, a ring-shaped, Hawaiian Lei-like garland of flowers, which Baba then placed around the "newlyweds" necks. And then, too, I remember much footage showing Baba waving his open hand in tight circular configurations in the air, closing it, and then apparently handing whatever now was inside to almost each and every person he encountered. Upon receiving whatever this was, each person became visibly appreciative and elated. The soundtrack explained that this was Babhutti, Baba’s "trademark" holy-ash-like substance which his disciples would rub onto their foreheads, or consume in various ways. It was said to manifest in wonderful healing powers. Then, with the film ended, and the room in total darkness, save for a few candles near Hilda, we were gently led into a resonantly vibrant, yet peaceful state of Meditation. I don’t know for how long I sat in this state of restorative repose, but as if on some silent signal, Mira began playing her guitar and the room filled with the haunting refrain of her "Love Song"…
And Your touch is gentle… Like the wings of Angels in the sky… Now, like a freebird… I’m not afraid to fly… Ai-ai-ai … Ai-ai… Ai-ai-ai … Ai-ai… Oh Angel… I love you… Oh Angel… I adore you… Doo…Doo…Doo… Listen… To the sound… Of Love… Newly found… And take my hand… You’re an Angel in gold…
A few more songs, and the transition was complete. Now, we were back in the room with the lights on, the Meditation over, and the picture and Hilda’s head, no longer aglow. Where did it go? Who knows?… Who cares?… What I do know, is that if it were somehow possible to have cut me open and taken a peak inside, I’d bet every dime I’ve ever earned that you would have been able to very clearly see that purple aura, as it took up a permanent and loving residence within my heart. The meeting over, we each exited the Church and went our separate ways, as we disappeared into the waiting warmth of a New York’s summer night. Well, I’m sure you’ll agree that this was quite a "Postcard", and in many ways, although I didn’t know it at the time, it was to change my life from that moment on. As I look back upon it, I realize how truly fortunate I am. No, I may not have a lot of money or lavish material possessions--and yes, I’ll be honest, of course I’d love to have some neat "toys", who wouldn’t--hell, I don’t even own my own home--yet, you know how they say that your rewards are in Heaven? Well, my friends, this boy has actually been lucky enough to get a few glimpses of what that means… And, while still being right here on earth! And yes, since that time, I’ve received several other "Postcards" as well. Some not so "stunning" in impact, while others--one in particular, which I’ll share with you later--make this first one seem almost "anemic" in comparison. I feel like I’ve now arrived at some kind of strategic milestone in my endeavor to share these experiences. My dad, from whom I believe I inherited my creativity--may he rest in peace--used to tell me that once something is begun, it’s half done. So, using this as a measuring stick, since I’m at least "halfway through my journey", I guess this is as good a time as any for me to take a break for a while and clear my head, as it were, or clutter it up with other activities as the case may be. All I know is that this feels like a good and natural place to pause for awhile. Man, I need a drink! So, pass the Pepsi-One, and Lord, if you’re listening, please keep those cards and letters coming… I do appreciate it! And as for you, dear readers, I hope you’ve enjoyed what you’ve read so far. If not, well then, what I’m about to say wont matter anyway, but, if you have, I promise you something… "You ain’t heard nothing yet!" Until we meet again then… Happy Trails… And a great big old,… Om Sai Ram to you all! |
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