Merry are the shacks and squalor of this town--ramshackle, rundown, the stray dogs, cats, children...all infused with a Roman Liberty which saves all...my eyes blue and gentle upon their pregnant contentment...all of it natural and not a trace of moralism or shame, none of my own guilt rent with bruised clock-hands and ghosts like expelled sons in secret Chinese societies--“I swear that I shall know neither father nor mother nor brother nor sister nor wife nor child.” We stumble upon the backyard broken fence and up the stairs in what became a frequent ritual of mother and son returning from the cantina...inside under the silver-tin roof that made a rousing orchestra of drumming when it monsooned, into the house of my mother, this free secret single mother between seeing and not-seeing, the real lamb...three rooms with three beds, a living room, a kitchen--the can was the only room with a ceiling--which was the only important room or the only one needing privy, for this was where one could brighten one’s bright virtue, a place of solitary confinement, starvation, torture, perversion...our birth in the bathroom is but a sleep and a forgetting...my own coming of daybreak manhood in the downstairs bathroom of my parents wooden mountain house, the house of my small flaring youth in that vapor blue-walled and tubbed seed-pod bano I had my first eruption, the rise from mystery to history, dear children it must blaze forth, the white, the white, the white! Torrential rivers from florid boys, young visions of adumbration and what would be...Jacking off in the bathroom--did we not all wrap ourselves in the fur-collared dreams of orgasm, the twisted face of lust?
Oh yes, we spilled our livelihood, our best parts into the sink and then it was done...I was 13 years old and with a few strokes and petroleum jelly, my vast and pure virtue was sliding down the hole...I was dumbstuck, saw the ignorant in the ocean of gutteral release...I remember how I smelled my occult fluid with a power vast and consummate, how I knew that this practice would be my practice for a many number of years, that I would, in the midst of all things, stroke and pull and jerk my manhood until I could see Vairochana enlightened, pervading all lands of trouble free earth-trips, high-school manic auras, music blasted, kingship egos, peace radiance nights with women lit up in multi-paged dramas, the thunder of all truths told. I would become a jag-off artiste forever turned away from the ills of the conditional, devoted to various pious observances and ascetic practices, a worshiper of bodies of water, one controlled by bad companions, thereby being delighted, uplifted, and pleased...
-Michael Price
