TO MAKE HIM HAPPY AGAIN, Osho tells me to write something different. One that will generate good vibes. Something about setting the spirit free... from all the sham and drudgery and what-not. And until I am able to present him with one, his depression will fill him and he will be as distant and stiff as the cold stone figures of the Khajuraho Temple. Endearments are canceled until further notice. A moratorium on any contact – worldly or other.
So for him, I’m writing something different. I’m too much of a sucker for my Osho that I’d write anything, do anything, even sit anything for him.
I would sit and scribble mental notes in silence as he reads while we’re feeding pigeons in the park. Sit and prune my wits in silence as he reads while we’re on a trip to God-knows-where. Sit and will my flatulence to silence as he reads while in the john. Come to think of it, now that I’ve mentioned sitting any effing thing for him, sitting is how we like doing it best.
Reading, of course.
So for him, I’m writing something different. I’m too much of a sucker for my Osho that I’d write anything, do anything, even sit anything for him.
I would sit and scribble mental notes in silence as he reads while we’re feeding pigeons in the park. Sit and prune my wits in silence as he reads while we’re on a trip to God-knows-where. Sit and will my flatulence to silence as he reads while in the john. Come to think of it, now that I’ve mentioned sitting any effing thing for him, sitting is how we like doing it best.
Reading, of course.
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