Also weeks ago but a bit shorter, during a Santo Daime ritual the suggestion came from ‘the cosmos’ to go for more direct expressing.
How? asked something in me. In writing, maybe in drawing.
It translated in me as another invitation to be more direct.
I realized that the past ten years I have often been more direct than nowadays. It was the decade of the yahoogroups and I have written there, although in the open, without much hindrance of withholding.
The thought occurred that one easy way of doing this would be republishing from this older messages in yahoogroups at moments that this seems relevant. Or fun. Or painfull. Or whatever. There are a few thousand of those mails out there.
Because it suits me, (that’s the fun of this being my own website: I can write on in myself, whatever, whenever), I will republish message 3652 from N0by’s yahoogroup.
The subject line was Re: FIFTH KOAN FOR HANS and it is dated Jan 11, 2004.
— In firstname.lastname@example.org, “MASTER Ivan LIKEYOU”
> WITHOUT OUR GURUS, WERE WE UNITED?
Yes, we were united. But there was identification running with part
of One, so the rest appeared.
Now we know and I am still puzzled, feeling cryish.
From my history book:
In 1984 I did a tantra training with Ted and others in the Dordrecht
Sannyass commune in Dordrecht/Holland. For some reason he told me at
the end of the training that he couldn’t help me any further, better
I should contact Veeresh.
Then one of his assistents invited me into her bed and basicly that
explains why I ended up at the summerfestival in Rajneesh Puram.
[One of this crazy things that sometimes happen: when I found out
about all this people from Dordrecht going to this festival and also
wanting this, they told me that it would be impossible to find
another ticket: I found one and that was for the plane they were in].
This were two crazy weeks. Imagine a party in a Hollywood movie
version of a concentration camp before they made everything look old.
With sexy sannyas ladies rehearsing there roles as sherif, mayor and
citizens in there normal orange juice outfits. Nothing was for real,
except for the bullets.
And the hatred and the fear that I started to sense.
Covered with the cramped laughter and joy of maybe 20.000 oranges.
(I was basicly dressed in blue, like a Rorschach inkblot on the
back of an albino).
In this 2 weeks I went thru a lot of different states/layers.
I attended a hilarious cremation of a sannyasin and I could join the
celebration of (natural?) death.
I attended the shortest highway of Oregon and saw also the eyes of
Baghwan through the windows of an expensive car that he was wearing
for sunglasses. Still remember that when he passed I had some inner
image (very rare) that I described as yellowish/mummyish.What my mind
interpreted as: for me its something from the past, he is not my
Yet I also fell in love with the place for a few days, even
considering to go home and back to stay for long. For me that had to
do with a thought like: wauw, building an oases in Amerika without
wiping out the existing population. How naieve.
Then there was this big celebration in this oversized building with
enormous loud music. For a friend of mine so scary that she left the
place crying. As I was very close to the open side of the building I
walked over to her and after 2 minutes walked back. At least that was
my intention. I was hindered by some actors, dressed as sannyasins,
who explained to me that there was a rule that you were not allowed
to go back in satsang after leaving. I refused to obey them and went
back in (scary action, I can tell you). From then on I had an escort
in satsang and I was waited for at the end and kind of arrested.
My sannyas lover passed and they just laughed and left me there.
I made a scene and insisted to speak to Veeresh, pretending that I
knew him. Finally some sannyas actor with authority came over and
asked what was going on and she convinced my guards to let me go.
And there where of course the sound cassettes with Baghwan speaking
and the messages that Sheela told the crowd on behalf of her master.
I told my sannyas lover and some other people from Dordrecht that I
could not imagine certain messages to be from someone enlightened.
I even said that I wouldn’t be surprised that even the cassettes were
manipulated. The way of the heart laughed of course fullheartedly.
And I attended a training with this small cowboy, Santosh?
On my way home, in the sannyas hotel in Portland, suddenly I found
myself almost face to face with Sheela. Without thinking I adressed
her and asked her the question that puzzled me: Sheela, why do you
call your frightened neighbours fascists?
And she, also without thinking, hissed: because they are fascists!
Then two things happended simultaniously. She was called away for a
phone call. And something in me concluded: this lady is mentally ill.
So I took care that I did not see her again.
‘Rasjneesh Puram’ has bothered me for more than 15 years. It took
years and years for tits and bits of information to reach me. For me
this experience helped to withdraw for a long time from anything that
had to do with spirituality.
Between 1 and 2 years ago I attended a satsang with Rani and thought
that it was time to talk with an insider about ‘Rasjneesh Puram’.
She contacted me with Ojas, who lived there in that time. We had a
few hours chat in ‘De ijsbreker’ in Amsterdam over some capucinos.
And miraculously the Puram knot disappeared in the weeks thereafter.
Only last week I found this link where I could read that Baghwan was
from the very first day clear and open on what happened.
What puzzles me is that a year before I sensed what was happening
there and he didn’t (or didn’t act on it).
Then why the f*ck do we want to be enlightened.
This last sentence is the cover up for a mess, clearer it is not yet.
So, back to today, Tuesday May 27 2014.
Not so long ago, Ojas wrote his story about being with Osho:
The ‘Orange Papers’ met de Nederlandse titel Kan een gekooide vogel zingen?
It’s in Dutch, its over 200 pages and a great read. And it is online.
Go to ‘ORANGE PAPERS’.” for the pdf to download.