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19 Krishnamurti Remarkable in July 1975 to find Think on These Things on the “Religion” shelf in the Landis Avenue shop now a pay-day loans storefront. Autobiography of a Yogi & Be Here Now, too. In the post-industrial way of things, Landis Avenue has vanished except for the street signs, churches & Wainwright Funeral Home. I’m sorry to say this is America, so the only bookstore in fifty miles sells multicolored bibles, bad novels & trinkets not just tacky but idolatrous. Paramahansa Yogananda could fly. He talked with Jesus. In great excitement, I told Kathy & Lois about his astral exploits though each had taken Christ as her personal savior, Lois by far the more pious, Kathy doing our sociopathic boss on lunch break, saying God knows my flesh is weak as she dabbed each ear with perfume. Jesus had always awed & infuriated me, but no one knew. He seemed everyone’s excitement or quiet friend, but a yogi who not only flew but chatted with God the Son? How could you not marvel? We manipulated Royal manual typewriters, none of us fast or cowed enough for Walt, though I came closest. In the karmic way of things, that vast plant has long since vanished, too, dust to dust, pride goeth, lilies of the field. I found Krishnamurti dry. Better the drenched bhakti adoration Ram Dass spread like a Bosch banquet. Sitting in full lotus feels like flying, but the severe Krishnamurti wore business suits. He had Kafka eyes. Sitting in my red brocade armchair, I’d read a few pages at a time & try not to think in my ticky-tacky home on Cedarville Road. ...

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