The Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh
My Aunt Laura, residing in The Dalles, was rather high in rank with the Thousand Friends of Oregon at the time.
She had stories.
Matter of fact, she was a recipient of the Rajneeshee food poisoning terrorist program.
Hospitalized.
‘Almost died.’
Thing is, I genrly don’t believe all I read, or even hear, even from my Aunt.
I mean, here’s a buncha folk, w-a-a-a-y out in the Eastern Oregon desert, doin’ whatever they did, not really messing with other folk.
Sure, kids from families of old money, spoiled kids, kids with no direction,
gathering at the feet of this phony guru, laying out their parent’s bucks, buying a fleet of Rolls Royces, Phantoms, Silver Clouds, Benzes parading thru the desert, was a bit disconcerting.
Disconcerting to the parents that their hard earned wealth, hard earned from the sweat of their employee’s backs, was being squandered on a goofy little guy that looked like Charles Manson’s grampa.
So, the rich got pissed.
And, when people of political influence, with bulging back pockets from these rich geezers go against you, you’re pretty much screwed.
My Aunt, bless her retched soul, was somewhat of a hypochondriac, so I’m thinkin’ she imagined ingesting a lethal elixir from Ma Anand herself…even though my Aunt would never be caught dead in the eating establishments of which they were purported to have poisoned.
She was quite the character.
Had the rare ability to talk thru her mouth and nose at the same time,
emitting an engaging (Fran Drescher) nasal twang that always gave me the endearing feeling of a cheese grater traveling down my spine.
Funny, years later, right before she went back to the dirt we all come from, I chatted with my Aunt Laura.
She’d just wrecked her beloved Caddy, the irreplaceable one.
So her zest for living was no longer a fire in her eye.
She was all bent over.
Not from the accident, but from some kinda degenerative thing.
So, I put my beer on the back of her head and leaned down….
OK, OK, I just leaned down.
‘What really happened, Laura?’
‘The wealthy get their way, don’t we, Gary.’
That was enough for me.
I had no inner urgings to suppress those folks.
I have enough of my own demons, enough enemies comin’ my way to aim at to last a lifetime.
The rich can do whatever they do.
Don’t matter.
I’ll attend the town halls.
Initiate petitions.
Vote.
And do whatever I do, whenever.
Let Bhagwans be Bhagwans.
…now Ma Anand…..I could put a bead on that money grubbing bat.
My Aunt Laura, residing in The Dalles, was rather high in rank with the Thousand Friends of Oregon at the time.
She had stories.
Matter of fact, she was a recipient of the Rajneeshee food poisoning terrorist program.
Hospitalized.
‘Almost died.’
Thing is, I genrly don’t believe all I read, or even hear, even from my Aunt.
I mean, here’s a buncha folk, w-a-a-a-y out in the Eastern Oregon desert, doin’ whatever they did, not really messing with other folk.
Sure, kids from families of old money, spoiled kids, kids with no direction,
gathering at the feet of this phony guru, laying out their parent’s bucks, buying a fleet of Rolls Royces, Phantoms, Silver Clouds, Benzes parading thru the desert, was a bit disconcerting.
Disconcerting to the parents that their hard earned wealth, hard earned from the sweat of their employee’s backs, was being squandered on a goofy little guy that looked like Charles Manson’s grampa.
So, the rich got pissed.
And, when people of political influence, with bulging back pockets from these rich geezers go against you, you’re pretty much screwed.
My Aunt, bless her retched soul, was somewhat of a hypochondriac, so I’m thinkin’ she imagined ingesting a lethal elixir from Ma Anand herself…even though my Aunt would never be caught dead in the eating establishments of which they were purported to have poisoned.
She was quite the character.
Had the rare ability to talk thru her mouth and nose at the same time,
emitting an engaging (Fran Drescher) nasal twang that always gave me the endearing feeling of a cheese grater traveling down my spine.
Funny, years later, right before she went back to the dirt we all come from, I chatted with my Aunt Laura.
She’d just wrecked her beloved Caddy, the irreplaceable one.
So her zest for living was no longer a fire in her eye.
She was all bent over.
Not from the accident, but from some kinda degenerative thing.
So, I put my beer on the back of her head and leaned down….
OK, OK, I just leaned down.
‘What really happened, Laura?’
‘The wealthy get their way, don’t we, Gary.’
That was enough for me.
I had no inner urgings to suppress those folks.
I have enough of my own demons, enough enemies comin’ my way to aim at to last a lifetime.
The rich can do whatever they do.
Don’t matter.
I’ll attend the town halls.
Initiate petitions.
Vote.
And do whatever I do, whenever.
Let Bhagwans be Bhagwans.
…now Ma Anand…..I could put a bead on that money grubbing bat.
