Eighteen: Indigo Light Child -The Golden Spirit Newsletter of Swami Daniel Pleasant
Blessed Morn to you all, silvery spirits of shimmering sweetness! May the Great Goddess Shiva take you each under her elephant's tusks and bear you off to enlightenment! It is I, your everflowing spiritual sweetwater spring, Daniel Pleasant, Guru, Swami, Life Artist, Voyager Between Worlds, and Defeater of Death. My missives have become more and more infrequent as of late, but I assure you, soul children, my work has finally born fruit! The milk of wisdom flows from the bountiful breasts of Mother Earth, and she has lain back and borne me a gifted child of pure and pulsating life in the fragrant, fecund floodwaters of her glorious, grunting labor! I simply cannot contain my joy in mere, simple words on flimsy, transient paper!
For this reason, all future ILC newsletters will be on vegan, pseudo-lambskin, vat-grown parchment. The subscription cost will be adjusted accordingly. THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT.
On to the incredible news!!!!
As my sweet soul children already know, the great gods of the Earthenrealm have long denied me a son. I have soldiered on, as we all do, but my girl offspring have lacked my inextinguishable, indefinable spark. I fear to leave this world, children, for none would ever take my place if I were to part from you. BUT NO LONGER! For Glorious Father Kali has ridden unto me on his stripeless tiger and turned every one of his sixteen eyes upon me, granting me an heir! (Thank you for the funds that make these miracles possible, soul children!)
As I have said in past newsletters, my many, many research trips to Mumbai and Calcutta required frequent visits to the brothel districts, where I spread my teachings to the low and spiritually ignorant, as was commanded of me by Volcano Goddess Ganesha in one of her terrible dream-rages. But my last trip was unlike any of the others. For I discovered a modern Mary, A current and living mother of an avatar of the gods! THANK YOU FOR YOUR DONATIONS!!!!
Namrata Yadav is a true being of light, in a way the Decadent West could never understand. I found her living with many other unmarried women of similar age in a charming, shabby-chic, womyn-centered community deep in the heart of Mumbai, and I came to know her when she and her spiritual sisters hung out of their windows, calling down to me and hauling their saris up past their shoulders as I strolled by. I was charmed by this innocent, pure rejection of my culture's prudish sociosexual taboos, and knew I had to meet her and bathe in her glorious, glorious light.
Manju Yadav is Namrata's daughter, or possibly her sister. Perhaps her niece? I'm not sure. My Indianese is poor. But she was shoved towards me in that womynspace as Namrata and her sisters playfully rifled my billfold, educating me on the foolishness of material wealth. The dear, sweet spirit immediately attempted to climb me, as if I were a tree. Such beautiful innocence.
But that, children, was not why I spirited these amazing, powerful goddesses away from their tenements. Why I have ensconced them in my own poor, rough home, which can only dream of containing their perfection. I have taken them into my house as the Holy Family, the carers of our One True Prophet.
Please make all checks out to Swami Daniel, c/o Swami-Tastic Enterprises, LLC.
I was being forced into a buckwheat cot in Namrata's room when I saw a small, spasming twitch from beneath a cookpot by the window. It was then that I uncovered him. My true son. The one meant to be my child, the avatar of a god.
His appearance is striking, is it not? Luminous. And I assure you, the effect is even more spectacular when you are bodily in his presence. The raspy, congested bubbling of each breath. The right eye, occasionally snapping to and fro independently. And the heartwarming charm of watching clumps of masticated food dribble from his nose with each swallow. He is a special child.
And even more special than might know.
No, your third eye is not decieving you! It is a TAIL! What doctors and nurses have been so blind as to label a "hideously disfiguring syndrome" is, in truth, irrefutable evidence of his divine paternity!
The child has been named HANUMAN, after his holy, true father, a hermaphroditic gorilla-god, a fire-blenching cleanser of worlds!
And so, too, shall Hanuman be. When raised properly.
My astral-mortal lifepartner Kaylynn is very eager to begin. Imagine the joy she must have felt when these three messangers of cosmic and divine salvation appeared on her doorstep! In truth, in the excitement I had neglected to inform her in my first weeks home from India that our happy little family had grown by three!
Three more mouths to feed, and divine mouths at that. We prefer organic produce. All major credit cards accepted, sweet spirits.
My Kaylynn is a sweet, gentle, and darling soul, children. Her naivete is one of her greatest charms. When informed that Namrata, Manju, and little Hanuman were "untouchables," she even began to keep her distance. So respectful! No doubt, she was terrbily afraid of offending her new spiritual sisters. To this day, she won't share a room with any of them, or so much as eat a bit of their cooking. We in the spirtually numb West have much to learn about the ethereal beauty of the Indian caste system.
Namrata and Manju have settled in nicely, despite Kaylynn's friendly little misunderstandings. They've charmed me utterly with their gentle, rustic ways. Little Manju, especially. Such a free spirit, she won't allow herself to be confined by the four walls of any school, but prefers to spend her days in the home, nibbling bits of herbage out of the garden and ferreting shiny bits of foil and jewelry away under her futon.
Namrata, for her part, has developed a taste for playing the shrieking, mildly loathsome music of her homeland at ear-splitting levels on the stereo, while Manju blasts whimsical, Pay-per-View Bollywood musicals on the flatscreen. Our home's shingles rain down into the garden with the gentle pinging of a soft summer rain. It assists my meditations on the most profound of levels.
And constant, costly roof repair is a small, small price to pay or the priviliege of fathering a prophet and god, I think you would agree. Perhaps some of you might assist me in the matter? The included self-addressed stamped envelope will funnel all donations to the Blazing Light of Perfect Truth Fund. These Carribean banking systems are so understanding.
The child shall be reared in what I have affectionally been calling The Shack of Truth. I have situated it next to the swimming pool, and installed secruity portals. Not to worry, sweet spirits, as the child will be subjected to NO CORRUPTING INFLUENCES to speak of! As he spent the better part of the journey from India in a small, padlocked duffel bag, my little spirit remains unregistered, and unsubjected to the prying eyes of the state. The spiritually withering public school system, poisonous vaccination regimes, and confused socialization requirements of our soulblind society will not mar his perfect, golden energy.
As I triple-locked the doors to the Shack of Truth Hanuman's first night home and read him a bedtime story from my personal memoirs, TRIUMPH OVER MORTALITY, I felt very much like Joseph and Mariah fleeing the Egyptians, or the great Buddha, wandering the streets of Tokyo in search of enlightenment. To be part of history, children! To gaze down the gleaming, white path of Things To Come and see your name writ large! Preferably on the base of a golden statue! With an impeccable physique, flanked by sacrificial cauldrons bubbling over with the tender, buttery flesh of the nonbelievers and pefumed with the last spasming bowel evacuations of the obstinate and purposeless, as they TOO SHALL BE TORN BY LIONS OF LIGHT AND PULLED ASUNDER SOUL AND BODY, BROKEN AND BLED FOR THE PLEASURE OF THE PROPHET WHO DID SLAY THEM ON THE ALTAR OF MERCY, DRUG UNTO ONE ANOTHER BY THE FAITHFUL, AND THE TWELVE-HEADED BEAST SHALL KNOW THEM, AND THE WORLD SHALL KNOW THEM, AND I SHALL KNOW THEM, AND THEY SHALL WANT FOR MERCY AND RECEIVE IT NOT, NOR SHALL THEIR CHILDREN, OR THEIR CHILDREN'S CHILDREN, BOILED IN OIL FOR THEIR TRESPASSES.
But I can't do it without your help.
Thank you for your donations!