The important thing about stories is that the miasma of hazy accusations, the horrific predictions the government has been hiding, the seething complexity of our private experience, all point to the fact that our mental inventions can be turned into a new universe for the so-called reading public.

Effort is necessary, of course.

Your stories must be published.

But, don’t worry: there is a wide spectrum of definitions of success.

The principles of inner work must be applied. They are important since we form judgments of others. Judgment, like gossip, takes the form of a primitive religion.

We learn in our early training that there is a moral authority.  Our mental baggage makes the passage more difficult. Packing light is essential. So is knowing when to get off the train.

I say that as a metaphor. God is a metaphor for that which transcends all levels of intellectual thought.

My teacher walked through the door. The door was mahogany.

“I can’t guide you reliably,” he said. “I’m at a panicked standstill. My career has disappeared. By the time there’s work I will have forgotten all the details which made me a candidate for employment in the first place.”

I once was beautiful. Until the institution. But I never cared about clothes or maintaining my body as an object.

They arrested me for drunk driving, for assaulting my hairdresser, that idiot. They gave me shock treatment and said I was cured of whatever disease they invented me for. I puked my guts out.

I had the stamina to hitchhike inspite of it and, yes, they arrested me. They forced me to eat my own feces. I was raped by orderlies. I was a sex slave for male doctors.

I said to my lazy teacher: go fuck yourself!

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