Home > American Culture, My life, Personal, Siddha Yoga > Letter to My Center

Letter to My Center

Haven’t heard back from you. How’s Jane doing finding a new place. Was that for real or was that – philosophy. There is no other place, of course. Practical reality tells us different. If I can’t get $500 up by Monday I’ll be evicted. And no legal stuff just tough talk. That’s the country conservative way, you know. so is this somebody’s seva? Tim’s? I still have his phone number. Suzanne’s email is deactivated, Leonora’s too. Nice of them to be there when mom died. You know I went to Maharaji and knowledge then, in 2007. I received knowledge. He had these things called the keys that were really cool. I missed Mayi’s DARSHAN video series back then.

I was rich back then, you know? I was alone in the house with mom – so when mom died imagine how alone I felt. Should I mention my handicapped brother? He didn’t come by. The southern farmer family, they didn’t want to renew old ties. I remember when people called me Kennedy, the sense that I would find the political belief so much more important than ordinary people. The shoe’s on the other foot now, I suppose. But nobody comes to me. Nobody hangs out with anybody anymore. I remember one Easter, Suzanne, Analise and someone else, was it Stephanie or Mary, or was it no one else, just me. We had bagels and Analise had some foul. I had never eaten there before, the Bagel Factory or something. It was Easter and nothing was doing. Nothing really unusual about that.

We yearn to see God in each other, but we are not even talking to each other. I have, I’m sure you have so many pictures of Gurumayi, statues likely, I remember Draupadi’s Nityananda, that Golden Nityananda and this is his Golden Punyatithi. We have those common memories of people and things. We have realizations to reveal to each other. I have been looking through my old DARSHAN magazines. I found a Siddha Path then from 1985. There was a story by Peter Namdev Hayes who is a Facebook friend of mine about Beginner’s Mind. He wrote about wondering what he could give to Baba after Baba awakened him. He wondered how he could serve. I remembered when I first got to go to the center after losing it for a while. It had moved from down on Depot to out Newberry Road way. All that chanting with the videos, singing together and then meditating. I wondered what that feeling was when I left the Sticco house out on 42nd Ave. I got in that car which was a great blessing to me and drove home. You know for a long time I couldn’t use the car. My dad used to fix it and he was kept inside by skin cancer. There may have been other reasons I couldn’t get my little ’64 Falcon working, but I don’t know them. Suddenly the mechanics had disappeared and there was no way to push or tow the car to the mechanic. My dad, a master mechanic on the railroad, a position nobody went into very far in explaining to me as a child, couldn’t fix it because he couldn’t go outside. I couldn’t much believe that. I had been expelled by my “informal commune.”  Apparently I acted inappropriately around my ex-girlfriend. Maybe it was that I was Gay interested or that I was violent in responding to violence. I had been struck on the head with nungchukas by a friend I had a disagreement with. He had had an arrangement with his girlfriend that they would only be lovers for 4 years, until she graduated college. That day had come and I thought myself a good candidate to be her new lover. He ignores that side of our relationship and just thinks I’m his friend, but when we go out one night in my car, he didn’t have a car and I gave him rides, we went to this place he didn’t like, Lillians, and when we came out he hits me in my right side. He was a bug about musical tastes and I had played He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother on the Jukebox. He didn’t seem to like that. I didn’t like karate. He was a karate enthusiast. We didn’t have a real good relationship. He played guitar and I had suffered guitar lessons for 3 years as a kid. I just had too much baseball in me, I guess, too much sport in general. Guitar lessons for me were awful. I took them from 9 -12 years old and I lied, lied, lied about how much I practiced to my guitar teachers. They gave you a little soap statue if you did so many hours of practice. The first for 500 credits was Brahms. I lied enough to get that.

They didn’t teach rock. Rock was my love.

So, I got hit in the side by this friend of 4 and 1/2 years. He was a year younger than me, too, but tall, 4 inches taller than me. We went to another bar of alternative fancy, The Melody Club, after Lil’s. He, who had never been to this bar, told me there were no women there, but he seemed to have found one by the time to leave. While he was making out with this woman in the Gay bar, I took off in my car. I stopped and called out to him to ask if he wanted a ride home. A pretty stupid thing I guess since he was making out with a woman there. I found nobody and was lonely but he got mad and came to the car and when I asked him again about a ride he kicked me in the groin. I was in the drivers seat and he got his leg through the door and across the seat to kick me in the groin. Didn’t hurt so bad. He couldn’t place it with the steering wheel and all. So I took off for his home, an apartment a few blocks back from Publix on Main. I had loaned him my stereo as he had none. He didn’t like my stereo. It wasn’t the “best.” It was a Realistic, a brand he believe to be “cheap,” and unacceptable. He accepted it because I was such a good friend, having been his acquaintance since 1972. This was 1977. So his door was open and I went in and started to get my stereo together and he and the woman at the Gay bar come home in her, I suppose, little Volkswagen. He takes the pose that I am a thief and he enters, goes past me to his room and gets his nung chukas. First he kicked me in the side as I was bent and holding a speaker and then as I sat on his couch aiming toward his door to get out, the chukas hit my head. He had worked hard on his chukas to make them heavy and sharp. He was into how much pain he could inflict. He had claimed in was for his own protection and the protection of the fair sex who so loved him. He was quite proficient at getting laid I had learned and he could take all kinds of drugs without losing it, as the saying went. We had our differences. You know how we speak without words. I spoke without words to Mark in the Melody Club. I said that he sucked as I involved myself in an act that his not so highly thought of among polite people. I figure that was what got him. The hit in the side he gave me , that may have just been an invitation to study karate. Sure. The songs had nothing to do with it. He was the last word in all music as long as I knew. He replaced a nice, funny fellow at the apartment where the freshman or first yr. college student party went on. It became a second yr. college students’ party when he came along. I was cut out from a second year of this good fellow when he found a pretty woman to sleep with. Being that it was not comfortable for man and woman to “sleep” together on a single bed, the original renter of 1/4 of that Landmark apartment, costing $100.00, had to go. I had been a candidate for a place in that apt. but my father was so dirty cheap that I dared not press and I was leery myself of the libations and drugs. I was a little uncomfortable sharing a room with another boy. Even my best friend from Hawthorne High School made me feel that way. I had tried it with him and things went quite awry but that’s another story.

After being hit on the head I got out to my car but I was not to think that Mark Bennett was going to leave it there. No, he went out of his house and when he could not get into my car, he took the chukas and swung at the windshield. I was able to get out of there. I went to this “informal commune” where my ex-girlfriend lived with one of her girlfriends and the husband of that girl. My girlfriend’s girlfriend had just had a baby and that was the center of their consciousness. I got out to the “Farm” out on Hawthorne Road and it was not past their bedtime. They took a look at my wound and were aghast. The took me to the Emergency Room, the husband at the request of the wife, and I got stitches in my head. I’m sure Mark Leighton Bennett, III who was originally from Orange Park got a real kick out of that. He was always talking about putting someone in Shands.

The Center is not far from where the now defunct Melody Club did its business. Part of it is now called Spikes. There was a real big deal that followed all that about non-violence. I even heard my name spoken on the radio as being a “victim of violence.” I had it in me to do the whole Mahatma Ghandi posed and feinted at it for a while but in the end I sought the services of an elder cousin of mine who also loved rock and could defend himself very well. I had gotten a job that sort of made me a sitting duck. I was a courier for the Gainesville Sun. I delivered papers out Hawthorne Rd. and through Windsor and into my own town of Melrose. It was now 1978. The storm had been brewing throughout the year. The commune had lured me up to somewhere in Arkansas near Fayetteville, host of Arkansas University. My ex-girlfriend and her new girlfriend, the old girlfriend with the husband and their baby, Raina. I was lured up by sexual suggestion and taken as a derelict or pedophile when I got up there. I ended up in jail as they did not want my company.

I had left a job to go up to see them. Relationships are so difficult. Cathy and I had had an open relationship. I was always thinking it was still open as I saw her naked at the “Farm” often. We also swum in the waters of Gay defense. We believed in Gay people’s rights and defended them when men sneered the word Gay at us. I had had a Gay experience even though it was not me who had all the David Bowie records ever made. That was my friend Mark whose girlfriend was called Carol, or Jew if you were Mark. Funny they thought. I didn’t care but it kind of bothered me that what mattered about Bob Dylan was that he was “a Jew.” Maybe from a history student concerned with the Holocaust but my friend Mark never wrote a single paper in all the years that I knew him. So, I was up in Arkansas and good friend were not being nice to me anymore. A lot like now.

I never did get together with Carol, Mark’s girlfriend. So hippy, so cool, being possessive as hell. Don’t you think. Well, he didn’t have a car, did he, and his job was just a pizza maker at Leonardo’s. He quit that job and took one at Winn-Dixie, but he did that after. Hope this isn’t boring you. Hard to take in , isn’t it. It’s hard to say that was the beginning of my hardship but it really seems like that. People being like you did not know them to be. How does that relate to Siddha Yoga? Is the world acting as we do not know it to be. Have we got the world wrong? And yet, the world acts as our friends that we don’t understand act. Baba tells us God is within everyone but we don’t see it. I think my God would be KINDNESS. I don’t see the kindness in people. All this money that I had, the car that I owned, what good did that do to me. I was still lonely. My kick was not even meditation it was looking at TV and now I’ve come to where I can’t pay for TV and am trying to sell my TV, the big plasma that I bought, my addiction or affection for TV at its height I guess. I tried to get Siddha Yoga to make blu-ray.

Anyway,  I hope you are reading this. If you are not I can post it to Edsaves77, my blog as they call it. It goes back, you know, way back. There are archives that link it to my postings at Yahoo! before and after my mom died. It’s this computer thing and my education. Current Events. Is that where it all began? I have been hearing that my favorite Current Events teacher, the Current

Events teacher of the Draft and the Vietnam War Protests, has cancer. She is retired and I’m so sorry to hear of her condition. She had moved. She has grandchildren. She’s moved to another place in Florida. Maybe Jane would be interested in this, she, my Lu LaFontaine who taught American History and English at Hawthorne and later at Gainesville High School has moved to Marrianna, Florida. Is that the name, Marrianna. It’s up near Pensacola.

So, who else was in that Siddha Path, Swami Shantananda. He wrote about Mahalaksmi, whose song I have been singing as regularly as I can. I received another  song, via Swami Vivekananda and Pankaj Bhole, both Facebook friends of mine, called Kanakadhara Stotram. You can hear the Kanakadhara Stotram, a story of Mahalakshmi’s kindness to a follower of Shankaracharya’s at YouTube. I’m just too lazy right now to link. My friend wanted to see what the Pawn Broker in Keystone would give us for the TV, mount, credenza and surge protector. It was not even rent. He wanted us to bring it down so he could see it and we did. Just the TV and boy is it heavy. Supposed to be 100 lbs. approximately. 54″ plasma. Panasonic Viera. Would the center like it? I can’t just give it to you, sorry. And the Ganesha statue, out here? No way!!! I had to go into town about food stamps. I got some money last month and they needed some proof of that. I had canceled my Life Insurance Policy and received 197 dollars. Before they approved my stamps I had to get a copy of the check and take it to the office there on 16th Ave. Nice people there today, so Black. Nice woman took care of me. She spoke english nicely and processed the data well. She clearly knew what she was doing. I didn’t feel used or anything. Had the TV in the van all the way. My friend who had the Pawn Broker idea paid another visit and she offered to help bring the TV up from the van. I live in an upstairs apartment on Main Street across from a PC Repair shop. I wish he would give me a job but he says he can’t.

I was going to bring the statue and the 100 or so DARSHAN magazines I have over last night but I just couldn’t pick up the vibe. Doing business with you? It’s controversial. You’re holy, you don’t exchange currency for things. Maybe I didn’t want to drive down Melody Club Lane or maybe it was my gas problem. This van guzzles the gas. I wonder that it’s previous owned didn’t take advantage of the clunker program, but it cost me about 1,000 dollars and then I needed a transmission. Boy. I am such a BOY. I just can’t take care of myself. I need my mommy. I am so stressed out that the other night I just started crying and saying, mommy, mommy,mommy. She was my savior or as the song in Siddha Yoga goes, “my sole support.” Of course we know the Guru exist in the blade of grass or the leaves that fall. It’s a metaphysical concept. I’m a simple person, I just need my mom.

Love you all and I was glad to be able to give you all of this. I feel like maybe I cheat you when I write you. I have written Pankaj who by the way was part of an installation of a Ganesha in Ganeshpuri, I think, on Ganesha’s birthday. How about you, are you meeting Siddha people on the Net?

Oh, this article by Swami Shantananda, it was bout these statues. As a young man he loved the Catholic statues of of the angels and saints and then that fell away, but later when he came to yoga he saw these forms differently. Not creations of the mind, he says but experiences of the deep within. Excuse me getting kind of Clockwork Orange or Australian or something.

I need to send. Love you.

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