By Wes Hansen
“In every life there are these defining episodes, like chaotic attractors that suck you in and determine your entire trajectory. Due to consciousness, humans, and sometimes animals, can escape, but it requires a heroic act; some people call it Turning the Witches Wheel. You see, I am a curioso.”
“What does that mean, a curioso? Can you put this in psychological terms, terms that I can understand?”
“Probably not, at least not without convincing you that I am mad! If you’re not convinced already. A curioso is someone who has an actual and deep or subtle sense of the other than ordinary, where I use sense in the context of sensory. We see patterns, we sense patterns that normally go undetected. Scientists and medical professionals such as you, define pattern statistically; pattern is synonymous with repeatability. But Gregory Bateson described it better: pattern is a difference that makes a difference. It need not repeat; patterns can definitely be one-off. But to folks living in your world view, the scientific worldview, this is madness!”
“Okay, so give me some examples, examples related to why you and I are here in this interrogation room.”
“Well, we’re here in this interrogation room because the Beast doesn’t like curiosos! It really is that simple. Curiosos are impossible to control, simply BECAUSE we take the long view, the heroic view. People like you think I am the crazy one, but I refuse to serve the Black Emperor, while you do so willfully, if somewhat ignorantly. I refuse to serve the Black Emperor because doing so is truly crazy!”
“This Beast, or Black Emperor, that you speak of, this is our society?”
“No, the Beast is the ordinary, the illusion that refuses to acknowledge its own illusory nature. Society tends to serve the Beast, but it is not identical to, not even equivalent to; you serve society – and a very corrupt one at that, hence, you serve the Beast.”
“Hmm, science seeks objective knowledge, hence, our dependence on statistical convergence. But, assuming this is true for the moment, can you tell me about any of these “defining episodes” from your own life, maybe those that have resulted in us being here, in this situation, shall we say.”
“Certainly, I can tell you about two episodes that have seemingly become threads, they still course through my sensorium, wreaking havoc; I have not yet committed to the heroism necessary to thwart them. The first involves bestiality and the second suicide. These are patterns, but they are not necessarily statistical patterns, being correlated but not repetitions of the same. Objective knowledge, you see, is an illusion. Ignoring that for the moment, both of these threads were placed in my path by an entity called Dorje Shugden, but that would probably take us too far afield.”
“Dorje Shugden, you mean from Vajrayana Buddhism?”
“Oh, you have a familiarity with Dorje Shugden and Tibetan Buddhism?”
“Yes, well, strictly superficial, but yes, I am familiar. How did you manage to get on Dorje Shugden’s radar?”
“Well, by becoming a curioso, of course!?!”
“I see. Okay, back to these episodes which brought you here, shackled and seated across from me.”
“Okay, bestiality, how does it relate to zoophilia? Because the very first episode was bestial, but the continuity of the thread relies on zoophilia, perhaps. These are not the same, although they both involve sex acts between humans and animals. Bestiality is purely physical, but zoophilia involves actual affection; this is my unprofessional understanding.”
“Yes, this, too, is my professional understanding.”
“Have you seen the documentary, Zoo, then?”
“I haven’t seen it, but I have heard of it, read about it.”
“Yes, I am the same, I read about it, and this, reading about Zoo, technically a documentary about zoophilia, is an episode in the thread. The actual thread began when I was just a kid, nineteen years old. I grew up on a farm and ranch and had left home after high school. My father had employed a young, local boy, from a disadvantaged family, on a part-time basis, after school and week-ends primarily, this boy being a replacement for myself. My father raised hogs and, at the time, had a state-of-the-art farrowing barn, a barn filled with crates that tremendously restricted the movement of sows placed therein. Pregnant sows would be placed in these crates to give birth. In this manner, they were much less likely to lie on and, hence, kill their piglets. My father had set this boy up with a power-washer, spraying down the farrowing barn, this being necessary to prevent communicable disease. While the boy was so occupied, my father was hauling corn he had recently sold from the grain bin to the elevator some miles away. At one point, my father, having situated the truck under the auger and began the process of filling said truck with corn, decided to walk down and check on the boy, to see how he was coming on the power-wash. When he opened the door and walked in, he was immediately confronted with the sight of the boy engaged in sexual intercourse with a sow, the sow being trapped in one of these crates. He hollered at him, but I don’t really know what he did after that.”
“Your father told you about this?”
“Yes, one evening, right after I had arrived home for a visit. He told me and a couple of friends who had accompanied me. My mother had demanded the boy be exiled from the farm. But this, you must agree, was a rather extraordinary event, something you don’t immediately forget. It was a difference that makes a difference.”
“Yes, I can accept and understand that.”
“Good. So, several years later, after I was discharged from the military, I am in enrolled in an industrial arts program with a guy I knew while in the military. This guy has a wife and, hence, a somewhat normal apartment, which included a television. One day, he and I leave the school and go to his apartment for lunch, his wife being at work. This guy – not a friend, turns on the television and puts it on the Jerry Springer show, which is featuring formerly married couples and the pets who came in-between them. There was a woman on the show with a rather large Irish wolfhound, and this wolfhound had seemingly been the cause of her separation from her husband. Her husband was also on the show and they were going back and forth at one another, as guests on Jerry Springer’s show tended to do. At one point the woman, provoked by her former husband, retorts, “Well, at least he likes to cuddle after sex!” Everyone just kind of froze for a moment, including myself. It was quite clear that the lady had just admitted on national television to having sexual intercourse with her dog; now, knowing a bit more about the subject, I would consider this a clear case of zoophilia. I mean, they were cuddling after sex.”
“Yes, I would concur, and, having access to your record, I’m interested in where this is going?”
“You should already be able to connect the dots, truthfully?”
“Well, sure, but flesh it out for me if you would.”
“Okay, so, eventually I end up on the Beast’s radar, having refused to succumb once or twice too often, and I end up arrested for crimes that don’t even exist, a somewhat normal occurrence in the corrupted society you serve. I spend a copious amount of time locked up in jail, which is, in some ways, worse than prison. Of course, we all know about the snitch rings maintained in these jails, in spite of denials made by the Sheriffs and District Attorneys. At any rate, I make the mistake of telling a couple of people I’m locked up with about these episodes, the boy having sex with the sow and the lady having sex with her dog. This, of course, gets back to the people in charge of the snitch ring, because, as you must know, for reasons intimately related to the corruption you serve, these entities had me in their sights, so to speak. Being hell bent on destruction, they had to isolate me from any support structure I might be able to utilize. Of course, the only support structure I had available was my family, and they are even more corrupt than the Sheriffs and District Attorneys. At any rate, this thread had primed the propaganda machine, so these corrupt people concoct a story, and relay it to my family, about me having sex with my dog! Of course, my family believes it because they WANT to believe it, because IT IS CONVENIENT for them to believe it. But this is ultimately coming from Dorje Shugden, so it doesn’t stop there.
I get kicked completely out of society, out to the fringes; homeless, jobless, but not hopeless, because I am a curioso. I’m digging through the trash generated by others for a subsistence livelihood and one day I find a weekly magazine which covers art, music, and things of this nature. I am reading about a new album from some “noise” group and they reveal that they have dedicated this album to some engineer for Boeing who died while being anally penetrated by a stallion. When I read this, it made me sick to my stomach, because sex between a mare and a stallion is an extremely violent affair. I just could not fathom why someone would willingly involve themselves in such an act. The lead singer of the band says in the interview that they dedicated the album to the guy because he wanted something so badly that he was willing to die for it. Well, yeah, I mean, death was pretty certain, or so it seemed to me; more like suicide, right? I thought about it, and decided that it must be false, that no one would willingly submit to such an act. So, I Google a few choice words and find the Wikipedia page for the documentary Zoo. And, naturally, I start to wonder, why is this thread in my sensorium?”
“Well, that’s something I can certainly understand; it is an interesting anomaly. Do you have any ideas?”
“Well, certainly so! I think it must be somehow related to the mahasiddha, Kukkuripa! Are you familiar with Kukkuripa?”
“No, please enlighten me.”
“Well, Kukkuripa was a tantric master, one of the original 84 Mahasiddhas of India, who consorted with a bitch he had found when she was near starved to death. He was escorted to the sensual heavens, but he had to leave the bitch behind, something he ultimately could not tolerate. He gave up the sensual heavens for the lowly bitch, but the bitch was, in actuality, a sky-walker, the Dakini, Niguma. And this always happens with Dorje Shugden, and petty tyrants in general. They throw these illusions at you in an attempt to make you suffer, but they don’t have the power to make anyone suffer. The only one who can make you suffer is you, where by “you” I mean the mindstream. The way through is to see through the illusion; to become a curioso.”
“Oh, goodness, I see, I do see how you could view this as either an element of the ordinary and, hence, suffer, or view this as other than ordinary and, hence, discover the profound! What is the other thread then? The one related to suicide.”
“Well, this is one I have yet to fully comprehend, although I imagine it has something to do with Amitabha, father of the Padma family whose element is fire, and self-immolation, but I am not yet certain. For sure there is a lesson, a profound lesson, here as well. Long ago, before I joined the military, I was on the Haight in San Francisco, near Golden Gate Park, while the Grateful Dead were in town; the Jerry Gracia Band was playing a small venue in Oakland, but I didn’t have money or a ticket. I had this pipe, an Italian pipe with ceramic bowl, silver bowl cap, and a curved, ebony stem. I was smoking a cherry tobacco with Mexican dirt weed mixed in. This Deadhead wanted that pipe really bad. He kept offering me better and better items for trade, but I was somewhat attached to the pipe. Finally, he offers me a beautiful polished amethyst, about the size of my thumb, and a quarter sheet – twenty-five hits, of LSD, and I accepted the trade. I dropped three hits of the LSD myself, I gave three hits to another Deadhead – Caveman, that I had been traveling with, a hit to an Englishman I had also been traveling with, but who had never dropped acid before, and the rest of the LSD, Caveman and I handed out to random passerby; okay, hardly random. So, it turned into a small party, you might say, at least until the police showed up and started beating hell out of folks for no apparent reason.
One of the Deadheads I had just given a hit to had also just been given a really nice camouflage jacket, of the military issue type. He was all excited because prior to this all he had was a pair of trousers and shoes. I gave him a couple of extra shirts I happened to have and he was really ecstatic. He just started telling me his life story, which was rather spectacular. He was abandoned as a baby and had been raised in Catholic orphanages until age eight. At eight years of age, while in an orphanage near Beverly Hills, he was standing at a window, wishing he could go outside, when a woman jumped from a sky-scraper across the street. He told me that he wasn’t really aware of her until she hit the pavement in front of his window and bounced. That night he ran away from the orphanage and never went back. Of course, he was picked up by the Family and raised on the streets and in the woods.
Well, I had a hard time believing the woman bounced. I mean, humans, being more than ninety percent water, are like water balloons; they don’t bounce, rather, they go splat! But I didn’t say anything to contradict the guy, I just filed it away as improbable.
Over twenty years later, I’m living in the garbage, thanks to those who you serve. I had been doing this for close to 15 years and was rather tired of it. It was physically debilitating “work” and my body was becoming wreaked. I was walking down Eighth Street in Los Angeles with this large bag full of CRV slung over my shoulder, feeling sorry for myself, and as I approached Olive Street, with the Freehand Los Angeles Hotel there on the corner in the former Commercial Exchange Building, some dude jumped off the roof of the Hotel, landing in Eighth Street, just East of Olive and right in front of me. The dude bounced!?! I immediately dedicated all of the merit, if any, I had generated with 15 years of hauling recycling out of the garbage to the guy. And I apologized to the Deadhead, whose story I had doubted.