I got lost and stumbled across a lawn full of hippies. As if they were pigeons and someone threw seeds on the grass. As if the farmer filled the trough with LSD
A Man Of Destiny
A good looking lady hands me a white pamphlet, as if she is standing out the front of a nightclub on the Gold Coast.
It reads:
Tantric Class
3 day course to unlock
your sexual energy and
use your power.
Free first meeting.
I folded it up and put it in my pocket. Can you imagine? A group of travellers getting horny through meditation in a class together. How easy it would be. Knowing my fat ass id get too worked up and start dry humping my yoga mat. It would be a good experience, fun to learn, a good inlet to meeting new people, but having to be at a set place at a set time just requires too much energy. So, I'm sorry.
Instead I walk to the river and plunge myself seven times in the morning. Waking up with a dry mouth and sluggish movements from the night before. Then today I set foot for The Secret Waterfall. It was a 5km walk and most of it was uphill. I walked on, listening to David Icke talk about all the inconsistencies with the accepted story of 9/11, until reception was lost. Then I listened to the running creek fall down the mountain I climbed. Arriving, it was a little lacklustre but exercise at least. Then I walked a further 100m up a dirt track and found the haven. I passed the main watering hole. The pulsating pure blue that had happy Indians standing beneath the waterfall that only fell from a few metres above. The Indians are brave, they swim in their jocks. You can see their little penis bobbing like a grape with the currents. With gravity. Even my big Australian dick would look like a pebble in the frozen snow of the Himalayas. I found a nice spot, over and up the creek a little while. Crossed the rocks as if I was James Bond, stiff statured but graceful. Sat with my bag and decided to have just a tiny bit of hash to settle into the terrain. A man bounced over the rocks id came from and as I sat I watched him hop like a hobbit against the flow. He sat near me and pulled out his own hash.
“You smoke?” he asked,
“Yeah”.
He came and sat next to me. He loaded a ceramic cylinder that replicated the shape of a cigar, about the same length too. Filled it with his mix and put a cloth where the mouth goes.
“I've never smoked from one of these” I said.
“Chillum? This is what babas use. When you hit, just take it with your stomach, like smoking a bong”.
I knew how to hit a bong, me and my best friend spent the last year sitting on the couch watching YouTube and movies, eating uber eats and passing one between us. Those days are cherished and I had the obvious foresight it wasn’t sustainable. Although, I could have lived like that forever. With writing, all you need is a good page every few days to enable any habits. But things were taking too long, a good page every few days wasn’t enough. And they weren’t even that good.
I took a hit of the Chillum. Went straight to my fat bonce after hiking on an empty stomach. I didn’t know where to go to next. Nepal or Dharamshala. I will go to both but Rishikesh sits in the middle of them. My new friend, Vishnu, told me to go to Dharamshala, so I will.
“Why do you touch it on your head before you take a hit?” I asked,
“You know Shiva?”
“Yeah”
“Well, I just like to bring him into it, otherwise you get lost in the drug you know?”
“Yep, and it can make you restless!”
“Exactly”
I got his number before he left and he danced back down the rocks. After not long I followed. Now there were 5 Israelies in the main watering hole. I think Israel has the hottest women in the world. As if they’ve been made in a lab. I sat on a rock, overlooking the painting of life and loaded up my pipe. Now this time, touching it to my forehead, but not for Shiva, id just think of love, which inevitably made me think of my mother. So each hit was for you Mum. Afterwards I felt light headed, like this skull was going to float away from my shoulders. I closed my eyes and crossed my legs and tried to give it all up. Give it to Shiva if he will take it. I opened my eyes after 2 minutes or 35. A little brown haired Israelite and her friend were looking at me. As if their stare was the reason my eyes opened. She copied my position. Legs crossed on a rock with my fingers on the knees in that meditation pose you're aware of.
I put my palms together and sent her a blessing.
“Namaste” she said,
“Namaste” I replied,
From then on I fell in love with all of them. They were a little plump like my well-fed self. But their skin; so smooth and tanned it would make a Cannibal drool. I wasn’t far behind. That anxiety of mine still lingered, even in paradise. I was worried of snapping my ankle in half when walking into the rockpool. Then id look like a real idiot, trying to keep it cool as they panicked. After going in and out of the water I sensed they were fond of me. Eventually one came over to talk. Her eyes a brown filled with sun. I got her Instagram and left that place, cold, nervous and excited.
Walking home I got lost and stumbled across a lawn full of hippies. As if they were pigeons and someone threw seeds on the grass. As if the farmer filled the trough with LSD. I didn’t stop, I don’t know why, they scare me. Could I go a conversation about Ram Dass and Terence Mckenna? Someone telling me to just take it easy man… But my own prejudice beams like glisten of a wet rock.
I am getting better. I have learnt you should never deny your own joy for anyone, especially because the ones who truly love you will be rewarded the most. I have always felt the need to deny being light and happy. As if I wont be able to relate to my friends, or the world for that matter. Give up your path to enlightenment to friends who don’t care either way. The world that will not give you income protection because your broken back wasn’t deemed as an accident. So, I'm trying to bring a bit of mindfulness to things. Give it all up. Try not to identify as a writer, a Bukowski type figure who needs to live a tortured existence to pry grease from the machine and pen pretty letters. If you identify as a writer, if I am a writer, then what would I write about? writing. Guess that’s what I'm doing now. I shouldn’t even talk about writing, its too sacred. The flow of where it comes from shouldn’t be crystalized and frozen over by the attempt to capture it. It will always be Man v Nature and a story of them two fighting and fucking. I sit in a bamboo café now. Waiting for a polish girl to come and ‘chill’ with, a lady I met the other night.
Light. Discipline to my religion I orchestrate by the ability to write. I give it all up to Shiva. I give it all up to that thing you know is there. The one that is remembering instead of learning. The government cant get me. The past cant. The future cant. No attachments and no desires. Tonight I am fasted with 20,000 steps to my name, tonight I am a man who spoke to a beautiful lady like he wasn’t petrified, tonight I am nothing. I may even finish a perfect day with a naked wrestle beneath the sheets.
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I write this now, almost 24 hours later. Wounded and drained like a bird covered in oil. As if god, or whatever you want to call it saw my arrogance. Without knowledge you're just worshipping a word. Without knowledge even knowledge is just a word. God is what we use to make sense of what we don’t know and the creator of everything we do.
The Polish lady sent me a text,
‘I met a friend so he is going to come too, if that’s okay’
‘Worse news ever, but fine haha’ I replied.
I thought about messaging her and just saying don’t worry about it, but then who would I be? The only reason you wanted to see her was to try and fuck her? Yes.
Do you ever speak to women without the intention of fucking them? That’s what men are for.
So I laughed at the irony at the quick chess move by the higher power to humble me. I put the computer away and awaited my duo, which turned out to be a trio.
“Riley from Australia” said Luka, the Italian/German with a small unthreatening stature and smile.
I introduced myself,
“Hi I'm sky” said a bloke with long hair in an American accent,
“Riley” I replied,
“Oh its so nice to speak to another Australian”
“You sound American” I said,
Turns out he was just putting on a gay accent and it hid his bodies origins. The night was good, I just gave up all control and smoked away. Listening in, talking every 65th sentence, which often went unheard.
Luka was a good bloke. Sky was my worst nightmare. I say that with love, sure, why not?
“I spent most of my time in India just sleeping on the street. I'm used to it, in Australia I am homeless too. Tonight I'm just going to get my sleeping bag and sleep under the stars”, he said.
Cool. And then they spoke about the course they’ve all been doing. The tantric sexual energy course. Jo, the pole, had told me about it, and that’s why I had the inkling I might be able to put her away. They started to talk about their ‘contractions’ and how the teacher told them to do 300 a day,
“What's a contraction?” I asked,
“You squeeze your anus. You have energy coming through you from the top of your head and out of this area. Squeezing your anus holds in the energy” Luka explained with his thumb and pointing finger shaped as a little asshole. I then sat there and watch the two blokes faces go to a gaze with concentration. They were contracting.
I expend a lot of energy to be around people. I always have and I know its my own issue. But sitting there in silence, my mind races. Not because I'm a writer, I'm a writer because of it. I also do not wish to partake judgment. Sky was a know it all and for me to think he was wrong about everything id only be the same. But he did tell them that every third dog in Australia gets killed by a snake. I didn’t say anything, but they don’t.
That crowd really scares me, because my own path towards spiritual liberation is so fragile. I listen to some things people say and I'm conservative like those who frustrate me at home. It just becomes too fragile to talk about. Too sacred to preach. Writing and god alike. But its nice. I feel better for having written this, I hope you feel better for reading it.
I walked home
after 12
beneath the full moon
listening to Runaway
by Kanye
and the werewolves
watched me
in disbelief that I hadn’t changed.
All the hard
times id
given myself
to be social
had been silenced
and I turned
to the past discomfort
and asked if they were happy?
They didn’t reply
cause
they’re long since gone.
The man
of destiny,
requires routine
and a conversation
every 8 weeks
to remind himself
you aren’t missing out
on much.
