Paramhansa Yogananda, Autobiography of a Yogi
[If this here entry don't finish ya all off, it will make you...longer!]
Bon Noiche, my side-saddling pen-guinos! I'm at least a dozen hours ahead of you, and believe me when I say: you have no idea what's on the way toward you, even this millisecond! But I digress (or do I?) from my overplanned digressions...(don't y'all wanna scream at people who overuse the mighty elipsis?!)
As you know by now, in this less-than-linear part of the globe, each ending a-wake-ns the next country, and each wake is the backward glance of the way previous countries cycle through the hippocampus in the center of our b-rain.
Par exemplo, I'm thinking about our old pal from Ronda in in Spain, Rilke again, as he did declare that the goal of poetry was to help us change our lives. If you go to the online collection of his letters, you may find, however dated, a few thangs of interest. The "Intro" says this of him: "One of the most significant indications of Rilke's maturity is the growth of his capacity to learn and be nourished from a wider variety of experience." This includes his travel.
Here's the 10,000-lb. URL to his letters:
http://74.125.47.132/search?q=cache:FtisEKtwTJIJ:www.archive.org/stream/lettersofrainerm030825mbp/lettersofrainerm030825mbp_djvu.txt+Werner+Maria+Rilke%27s+%22Almonds&cd=4&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us&client=firefox-a
If you follow de scroll down, you'll run into his contradictory letter from Cairo to the Prince of Thurn and Taxis (the Medieval family who owned the first private mail system in Europe, and who Tommy-Gun Pynchon scopes out in his novel, The Crying of Lot 49). It turns out that Rilke and the Prince and Princess of Thurn and Taxis were in a seance circle, and here's the way the aging Rilke handles a long-distance sermon for Our Lady of Perpetual Ambiguity that makes me look like a sprinter on the road-o-words (some of you are yawning and jumping down: that's okay, my restless Mexican jumping beans: I'll catch you below the fine print):
"I was for a while inclined, as you now seem to be, to assume"external" influences at these experiments; I am no longer so to the same degree. Extensive as the "external" is, it scarcely bearscomparison, for all its sidereal distances, with the dimensions, 'with the depth dimensions of our inner being, which does not even need the spaciousness of the universe to be in itself almost immeasurable. If then the dead, if then those to come are in need of an abode, what refuge should be more pleasant and more proffered to them than this imaginary space? It appears to me more and more as if our customary consciousness inhabited the apex of a pyramid whose base in us (and in a sense beneath us) spreads to such breadth that, the farther we find ourselves capable of letting ourselves down in it, the more generally do we appear to be included in the given facts, not dependent on time and space, of terrestrial, of, in the broadest sense, worldly existence. Since my earliest youth I have entertained the conjecture (and have also, as far as I sufficed, lived by it) that at some deeper cross-section of this pyramid of consciousness mere being could become an event for us, that inviolable presentness and simultaneity of all that which, at the upper "normal" apex of self-consciousness, it is granted us to experience as mere "sequence". To suggest a personality that would be capable of perceiving what is past and what has not yet come into being simply as presentness to the last degree was, even then, in the time of the "Make", a necessity to me, and I am persuaded that this conception corresponds to a state which is real though it may be retracted by all the terms of life as we practice it.
Now those seances, with all their disturbing or confusing attendant manifestations, with their fatal clumsinesses, halfnesses and (there can be no doubt about it) their countless misunder standings . . . , lie on the road to such insights, and could not pass me by as, intuitively, these insights were already prefigured in me; they have not, since I always inclined to assume a totality of the possible, in any way altered my conception of the world: it is just that I would simply have missed things of that sort not occurring. But just because, in a sense, the naturalness of this tremendous thing was already included in my inner assents and concessions, I also declined to side with such disclosures more than with any other mysteries of existence; they are to me one mystery among countless mysteries, all of which have more share in us than we in them. Whoever, within poetic creation, is initiated into the fabulous wonders of our depths, or at least is, like a blind and pure tool, somehow used by them, must arrive at developing for himself in marveling one of the most essential applications of his spirit. And there I must confess my greatest, my most passionate marveling goes to my own achievement, to certain activities in Nature, even more than to any mediumistic happenings, deeply as they have now and again stirred me. But regarding precisely these, while accepting them obediently, seriously and reverently, it is my strange instinct, when they pass over and into me, at once to waken counterweights to them in my consciousness: nothing would be more foreign to me than a world in which such powers and interferences had the upper hand. And strangely: the more I act thus (at pains after every nocturnal session, for example, immediately to hold the sight of the starry, still night just as grandiose and valid . . .), the more I believe myself in agreement with what is essential in those happenings. They want, it seems to me, rather to be tolerated than recognized; rather not rejected than summoned; rather admitted and loved than questioned and exploited. I am, luckily, quite unusable as a medium, but I do not doubt for a moment that in my own way I keep myself opened to the influences of those often homeless forces and that I never cease enjoying or enduring their association. How many words, how many decisions or hesitations may be laid to the score of their influence! Moreover, it is one of the original inclinations of my disposition to accept the mysterious as such, not as something to be unmasked, but rather as the mystery that, to its innermost being, and everywhere, is thus mysterious, as a lump of sugar is sugar throughout. Possibly, thus conceived, the mysterious on occasion dissolves in our existence or in our love, while otherwise we achieve only a mechanical breaking up of the most mysterious, without its actually passing over into us. I am (that would perhaps be the only spot in me where a slow wisdom could begin) completely without curiosity toward life, my own future, the gods . . . What do we know of the seasons of eternity and whether it just happens to be harvest time! How many fruits that were meant for us or whose weight would simply have entailed their falling to our share, how many such fruits have inquisitive spirits interrupted in their ripening, bearing off a premature, untimely knowledge, often a misunderstanding, at the price of a (later) edification, or nourishment destroyed. But I must close, dear and valued friends, after attempting to describe so wide an orbit. Take from it something that is yours and, if circumstances allow, always communicate with me about the particular jolts and movements that translate themselves to you from the unknown. You too will not manage without the awakening of counterweights: which luckily you do not lack, since artistic work, house, family, Nature and, not least, the animals fervently occupy your heart and your interest. These indeed, who are privy to the whole, animals, which have their self-evidentness in a broader cross-section of consciousness, are again the most apt to lead yonder and are close to the medial state . . ."
But I hear some of you saying, "Green Hombre, what be this-hyere blather?" It's several things, of course. Partly a stand-in for me, seeking to achieve a more open stance—kind of like learning to use just a pitching wedge for the back nine of my life, with no more strokes added to the game, just some new kinds of swinging. So ambiguity is acceptance of the important role of mystery and the power of choice; we have to CHOOSE or be chosen when we don't know the answer. And if we're, say, having a teeny Shango ceremony on Grenada, it means we choose to be ridden by the Voudoun loas, including him ownself, mighty Shango.
It's also sometimes wondering if I'm still being dogged by Ishmael Reed. For instance (and here Peter N may have to take my side, if he's reading this serpentine thang), here are the boats waiting in the harbor in the port near Bangkok when we arrived, as if they were sent from Reed's novel, Mumbo Jumbo (where the character, Thor Wintergreen, may also be, "by Jupiter!" [a slave in another novel], a god). Can you read the words on the ships? ("Thor Jupiter" and "Jumbo Shipping"):
But to turn to a third (in Rilke's word) counterweight, there's that psychic's words in South Africa (what did you get me into there, Patti?!). As I like to say, the gods/goddesses speak to us, but in Klingon! What did her predictions mean, exactly? Were they only a guess at my predilections, or a "tuning in," David Antin style, as in his book of talk performances, Tunings? That great jazz pianist, Fats Waller, might once again proclaim, "One never know, do one!"
Okay, if you're not saddle-sore already my fine po-mo, post-colonials, lets exchange our jod-purrs for some sweatshop Nikes and get on with this here entry.
[Unlikely or not, tonight's soundtrack is that nightstalker from Dripping Springs, Texas: Delbert McClinton, from the CD, I'm With You:
"My baby's lovin is oh-so-fine
She gonna hit me with a heart-attack!"
But here in Thailand a heart-attack could just be the price of being out in the leathery gray air of Krung Thep, the Thai name for Bangkok, which roughly translates as "City of Angels." But L.A.'s foul air can't compete with the twelve million souls here who drive their lawnmower motor tuk-tuks, cars, trucks and squillions of motorcycles through gridlock every day. There are over five million of these motorcycles gumming up your windpipes, and crossing the street is an exercise in terror. Stop lights don't mean much, and I had to just walk out into the on-coming stream and keep moving; hesitation means inevitable injury, so moving ups your chances you'll become part of the obstacle course. By contrast, here's a street in the boonies, that hasn't yet turned into the antstream of rush hour.
Originally the cycles and cheap-ass Chinese, two-stroke scooters that will end up all scraped, rusted and dull, the mufflers held on by coat-hangers, start out shiny and new, like this:
The first night I bartered for a van with four of the student film-makers. We paid $120 for a two-hour ride from the distant new port into Bangkok, and stayed in a hotel. We got lucky and heard a decent jazz group (who learned this music by ear), and I actually beat the neighborhood pool shark to commandeer the pool table for us. This area of the city had hotels, and the sex trade it attracts, nearby. A David Bowie clone my height, who weighed about as much as a Pekinese, checked me into the hotel. I watched "him" try to type in my name with three-inch-long pink fingernails.
The next day we happened on a multi art exhibit that included these boots-turned-into house:
But our main reason to be there was to shoot a documentary podcast at the place that had impressed me when I was last there in 1973—the former Pasteur Institute, now known as the Snake Farm at the Red Cross center. It's the second place in the world to be established to create anti-venin for poisonous snake bites (the first in Brazil in the early 20th century).
We had to back-sheesh the Director for $90 to be able to film, but had the ear of their main herpetologist, who did an interview with us. We watched the morning milking of the King Cobras, and the show later in the day that exhibited all the snakes. Here's the outside:
Care to see the King (one of them is 18 feet long)?:
How about a plain ol' cobra (whose venin is six times deadlier, but that rarely continues its aggressive attack and repeated bites that inject more poison, like the king)? Or maybe about another dangeroso creature, the banded krait?:
Thanks to some generous donations to this center first started by a French doctor, the Snake Farm has a newer building with exhibits, and the horses they use to develop the serum antibodies is now outside of Bangkok.
Inside there's an albino cobra:
The snakes used to be milked for venom in an old circular pit by young boys who risked their lives catching them with just their hands or a stick. Now it's inside with tongs. However, this researcher was bitten, and his arm turned black and he lost parts of fingers:
The Snake Farm now also breeds non-poisonous snakes to aid agricultural researchers in rodent control; one such rodent policeman is this snarly rat-snake:
The center also works on diseases like rabies, and I've got the sign to prove it:
As you might imagine, this was the perfect place to practice my soon-to-be-world-famous gesture of dismissal and disgust, the "Greenman Cobra Spit," demonstrated below:
Down the street from the Snake Farm (a regular subject for Red Wiley's blues in Austin, Texas), I found my new, dream transportation, and the way I can earn money from tourists under my pseudonym, Rick Shaw:
After getting back to the ship, I left on the next trip to the beach and Koh Samet. First we headed into the countryside, past herds of grazing cattle:
Eventually we got to the beach where we would catch the speedboats to the island of Koh Samet. They were...boats. Speedy ones:
At the pier where we got on them there were dreamy fishing boats:
Especially this little gem, which reminded me of the tugboats I love:
After awhile we approached the beach:
Once there, I had my own, wee, air-conditioned bungalow; seemed a shame to inhabit it alone, but that's the way I roll, these days:
I opened the door and...voila!
I could hear my bed calling me: "Mark! Mark! Lie down!:
The bathroom tile was another pattern for my mandala collection:
I had a good look at the spirit houses on the property. I love these shrines set up everywhere—pre-Buddhist—to insure the success of a house or business, and will make one for my yard, to match my Mayan shrine:
I wrote 48 postcards to many of you (if you didn't get one, it means I don't have your address, so email it to me to win the next postcard lottery); I needed fortification for this, so I searched out my old friend, Mr. Elephant Beer:
Is there really anything better than a pen, some blank paper, a beautiful view and a cold beer?
But beyond the ten thousand Buddha postcards, the Yogananda beckoned (I hear you laughing Buddha-Jeff). I've owned several copies over the years of The Autobiography of a Yogi, by Paramhansa Yogananda, but never finished it. After a few dozen pages, it always seemed like I'd had trip-to-pain seconds at T-Giving dinner, and I'd go to sleep. I'm sure I've even given away several more copies of the book. But in Nagarcoil, in India, our host gave me a copy, and I now feel obligated to finish it. Partly because, even though the edition looks recent, it says it's the 1946 version, and it's autographed by the author on Jan 19, 1947. Either it's an original, autographed copy, or it's a later trade copy that the Yogi sent his ethereal double back to sign?
Anyhow, after finding Koh Samet's only pool table, with perros perezosos sleeping underneath it and no pardners but the mosquitoes, I ran out of 20 Baht notes, and, tired of lying my way to the truth on postcards, decided to go back into the book, where I found this from "the perfume saint" (who could materialize odors for the Yoginanda):
"Man can understand no eternal verity until he has freed himself from pretentions. The human mind, bared to a centuried slime, is teeming with repulsive life of countless world-delusions. Struggles of the battlefields pale into insignificance here, when man first contends with inward enemies! No mortal foes these, to be overcome by harrowing array of might! Omnipresent, unresting, pursuing man even in sleep, subtly equipped with a miasmic weapon, these soldiers of ignorant lusts seek to slay us all. Thoughtless is the man who buries his ideals, surrendering to the common fate. Can he seem other than impotent, wooden , ignominious?" (43).
Amen, y'all. My (possibly anti-malarial Malarone) inspired nightmares confirm the "life of countless world-delusions." Wish I could recall the Greatest Hits of My Nightmares, but I suddenly can't remember them. More on that anon.
Part of our angst probably just occurs because reality often fails to match what we've imagined. Our old blog-sage Alain de Botton makes an important distinction in The Art of Travel:
"We are familiar with the notion that the reality of travel is not what we anticipate. The pessimistic school, of which des Esseintes might be an honorary patron, therefore argues that reality must always be disappointing. It may be truer and more rewarding to suggest that it is primarily different."
Do we, once we've been to more than half a century of countries, somehow learn, from reflection, that our happiness is—unlike the Yoginanda's steady attempts at bliss—a cyclical occurence? Again, the great Botton weighs in on this:
"It seems that unlike the continuous, enduring contentment that we anticipate, our actual happiness with, and in, a place must be a brief and, at least to the conscious mind, apparently haphazard phenomenon: an interval in which we achieve receptivity to the world around us, in which positive thought s of past and future coagulate and anxieties are allayed. The condition rarely endures for longer than ten minutes. New patterns of anxiety inevitably form on the horizon of consciousness, like thw eather fronts that mass themselves every few days off the western coasts of Ireland. the past victory ceases to seem so impressive, the future acquires complications and the beautiful view becomes as invisible as anything which is always around."
So imagine this, my John Lenons: what if we stopped imagining the future, nanny-second by nanny-second. Instead, let's try imagining the present opening up, cockroach by clock-tick. Wouldn't this foil the Disney "imagineers?" Join me now as we take a timeout to let go of all our "wor(l)d delusions." There, isn't that better? Feel free to share your delusions, however, as they may lead to a some short stories more interesting than the Kansas City phone directory.
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