I would make it thru half hour after half hour with scarcely a letup, with the sea far off running over the second largest barrier reef in the world, quarter of a mile out, breeze blowing the curtain to and fro...then I dedicated any accumulated merit to the furtherance of joy human awakening, for all those billions of others, to all those enlightened before me in the midst of death and dilation...Once through I rose and went to the desk and to the task of writing down details of any reach towards Samadhi, and any other particular piercing or appreciable motion towards true seeing...Usually a paragraph of such lines and then, depending on what particular grievous situation was hanging over me, I would ask for guidance concerning it...Ask the unknown for the monologue preludes and etudes, and my fateful mistakes and impatient moves in regards...and at this moment in serial time, I was wont to ask for every possible insight into Ramona, to the point where I would ask for nothing else from this life, if I could just have my seven spice chocolate Ecuadorian cake, and the bill paid by chance Gods and Demi-gods...
The entire one hour episodes were saving my life...At some point usually, say, right in the first few minutes of yet-hot concentration, the mother would wake from white sheet quietude and begin clamor and move-about, matronly activity, a comfort to any man, signaling memory of early morning care-taking when before school I felt completely dependent and safe, when there was snow in the offing, promise of an escape from school...So I would sit through her making of breakfast and coffee, through the noise and silly talk of the New York local news--because that was where the cable was pirated from-- sometimes I wore no shirt when I sat, preferring to wear only pajama bottoms for the heat, as opposed to frigid Frisco or frost at dawn Colorado where I needed socks and a shirt to be equal...not to say that there weren’t adepts who could sit naked in snow and arctic temps when mind-control was powerful and strange...
But Ramona...there was something wrong with the way all this was happening... I had a foreboding feeling, a feeling histrionic, layered, replete with past, and a guidance somehow universal, telling me, much against every forward intention of my body and mind, to pull back, actually, to end all relations, and if for nothing else than the pleasure of watching things fall apart all around me I would continue on despite...with my poetic ideals of a chieftain acting like I was the first to penetrate Arizona, like the stupidest lout on earth...
-Michael Price
