15. Too F*****g Serene
A photograph was sent to me last week by a Dakini goddess. She didn’t know I was writing this memoir, could not have known that the photo would arrive precisely at the point where the story and image coincide. Isn’t that beautiful? This process brushes with magic. Such is the way of digging and time travel. On the day it was taken I’m drifting arm in arm with my friend through the Harvest Fair, it’s Lamas 1994, already I divide the year into pagan eighths. I’m returned from India and losing my mind. I’m back from twenty-four hours in Tel Aviv. The note that my mother never opened is thrown…
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