Sunday 7:15 p.m.
You should go to Youtube and listen to Amphetamine Annie by Canned Heat while you're reading this. I put it on before the Wild West Roadshow arrived.
About ten of my deep dear friends, folk I've known for nearly forty years, were milling about in my kitchen on Friday night. What a wonderful time I was having! When the toing and froing left me in a gap, I closed my eyes and was in such zinging bliss. I opened my eyes when engaged once more by jabbering, and jabbered back. You could think how terrible it is that they do not get the bliss. But moi is getting the bliss. What's the point of being miserable just because they're all flatheids? It's not going to help them. It's not going to do anyone any good. Oh, ra bliss, ra bliss, ra bliss!
A couple of days later, the dakini came down on a rainbow from the buddhafields, and viewing the drug paraphenalia, the pornographic books and the blown up sex dolls, said: It's empty. It does not exist in the manner of its appearance. Sublimate it. Move it upwards into even more of ra bliss. And gie's the rest of the Lou Reed! She was accompanied by RaBigGorgeousOne who was acting as a bodyguard. So all's well that ends well and no harm done. What a wonderful view I have at the moment.
Beaming with positivity, so I am! My meditations have become so much better since the lama went into the dark.
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3 comments:
But where are the photies of the deep dear friends in the kitchen? Were Albert and Steve really there, from Alma Mater?
Albert? At least, four folk who were around at that time were there. Old flatheids. Nae bliss. Another few from the later seventies. Hotboy
Flat and blissless, but surely they were at least druggies? That might explain the lack of photies.
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