Forty Immutable Parables

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And it happened here at Bodnath where every conceivable kind of psychic boundary was created with every known and possible shade of darkness, and you know, it was just this enormous mind flush, and Dilgo was obsessed with these stellar crabs, and I thought, could this be a message from sunken Atlantis? And I could smell rich Japanese incense and Dilgo was shaking his piggy bank. So was Atlantis flipping its wings in the cold wind now? Dilgo said, "It's just you and I now…." and this was the OFFERING of offerings because if enough synchronicities just converged then you finally got your miracle.

And I was now finally back at the gates of Swyambunath, and it was just like Constantinople in those old days, the psychic stress and the constant flipping circulating within these shifting winds, and this was all just this big global showcase with these silent prying eyes seeing the diminishing returns of our industrial age, seeing how these Christians and Angra Manyu were just tripping out on these Persian conspiracies and not just in Mugabian Zimbabwe, but in ancient Memphis too. And I could see these Buddhist pyramids, I could see all history, I could hear Sylvia Plath, and the insane music of those MTV priests was now blaring away, and these pigeons whispered to me some ancient Tibetan chants, and I could hear the Rabbi's sweet voice and the shouts of those Shiites, and also all of the billions of baby boomers and those X-generation kids, now spaced out and locked in; and there was a sound-track for everything in this post-Cold War world now caught in the middle of a vicious struggle between this scary cultural fragmentation and this impending global unity.

And this earthly film had these stunningly weird flash-backs, and it could sometimes flash-forward, and it could spin out all kinds of twilight episodes filled with their atmospheric turbulence. It was just like an intense e.e. cummings poem, filled with these immense cyclones; and strange tribal histories with their contracting space-time, all which could then be seen in these mean streets of Kathmandu, here in the swirling Third Vortex and in this thirsty sacrificial pit with its dust and black fire; where I could see the gangster priests killing these chickens; and there were also now rose petals strewn on the sacrificial floor.

You see, Swyambu was just this little universe, and it had this strange magic, it was filled with all these leisurely beings and with all these fucked up karmas; and it was just this mercurial border zone where all psychic powers just got absorbed, and it was this keen and intelligent place that attracted magicians and witches; and all kinds of monks and nuns, and it was just a superb place indeed for all these strong mind practices; and for all these yabyums and big mama consorts; and for all kinds of demons and spirits just tripped out and bugged down.

And you know, Swyambu was this huge recycling zone for the mind wind coming now from just every conceivable kind of realm, and Mahakala said if you operate on this stupa, well then you now operate on the entire Universe, and it was great to see Chimyi again, and she was fully grown up now; and you see, we were just friends simply enjoying our new voyages into this global Third Eye; and even as the mind-flip was furiously surging with these demons and with all these flipped out animals; and inside all these cruel and subtle spaces, and also circulating near these cruel stingy kids, and the hungry ghosts, and the nasty demons who were just looking for any kind of stillness here in Swyambu. Where the veil freaks were now being challenged by the emerging global mind with all its potential light.

And this was my offering to the fluttering dakinis and to Cambodia and to this sinister clash of shady veils and to the victims of all the blown-up holocausts; and the silent camps somewhere on the surface of the moon; and to all those flapping nukes and the disappearing Kabbalists; and also those drunk Christians and all those crusty smoky Tibetans; and for every gulag shining under the sun; and also those feverish Hiroshimas and all the cancerous Auschwitzes; and every bloody Bosnia; and to all the boys trying to sell you a shoe-shine on the filthy streets of Kathmandu.

So listen now, it's these psychic twinkles from Mohenjodaro, and those chods for the tantric sweethearts; and these greasy koras done in the freezing morning; and you know, it's just spiritual oxygen, and it's this releasing drink from East Germany, and this feverish thing called the World Wide Web, and Bhutan is getting nearer now with it's fucking bureaucracy; and it's just really getting on my nerves after all these dumb faxes and these idiotic phone calls, it's just a real drag. You know, there was just no way to e-mail anybody in Bhutan; and the Buddhas were just everywhere in the ancient squares and inside the smoggy air; and they were even waiting for their breakfasts at the Pumpernickel Hotel. It was this journey through clashing psychic fields which simply hinted of this urgent need for the quick surrender of some personal boundaries.

And I saw this half-dried blood squeezed into the streets and the dingy fires, and the whistling smoke; and those babes in heat stirring the pots at wicked Dakshinkali. And yeah, really this was the hopeless Himalyan vortex with Vajrayogini and Shakyamuni just living here in this big psychic reactor; and it was just fact and simply no more.

And finally, Namgyal called, and he told me that the new visa was ready, but the flight to Bhutan was cancelled for one more night as I took this badly needed bath at the airport hotel. While these stiffs continued to burn slowly at the cold ghats near Pashupatinath.


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