ALL MY CULTS -A DRUNKEN STUMBLE TOWARD ENLIGHTENMENT

-by Vanda Mikoloski Based on a true story. Names changed.

Hello my friends. Subscribers, paid and unpaid. I am forever grateful for you and will be extra grateful when some publisher asks about my ‘platform’ and I can point to you. Those of you who give feedback and help finance this audacious urge I have to write, know it really wouldn’t have manifested without your generosity. Thank you.

Aw, fuck it. I am pressed up against the deadlines of a writing retreat in Spain like a panting teenager against a first love. I have re-edited and copy-pasted so many times that I barely remember what you have read and what you have not. Here is the manuscript so far. Intro and first 6 chapters. I am intending it is cinematic and interesting enough to be produceable, even though it is not formulaic, and even though it does not go along the sensationalized and dramatic route ‘cult’ projects usually go along.

I am off to Barcelona soon. I hope to do yoga and stand-up comedy there as well. After the retreat, I plan to travel by train to Paris, then London to see a dear friend.

I will share my adventure with you.

Warmly, Joan Didion (Absurd non-sequitur. Don’t think I’ve lost my mind.)

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1. AT THE FEET OF THE GURU

CHAPTER 2. HOLY, HOLY, HOLY

CHAPTER 3. UNCANNY

CHAPTER 4. GOING FOR IT IN NYC AND SEATTLE

CHAPTER 5. GUPPYVILLE

CHAPTER 6. RED FLAGS AND RELATIONSHIPS

CHAPTER 7. DAYS OF WINE AND BIKRAM

CHAPTER 8. DUIS AND DIXIE CHICKS

CHAPTER 9. LANDMARK AND LOVE

CHAPTER 10. WHAT THE BLEEP AND WIND DANCER

CHAPTER 11. FREE AT LAST -SOBRIETY, COMEDY AND LA

INTRODUCTION

I've been an angry girl. It started in 1959. I was safe and warm, floating inside my mother, enjoying 24/7 room service, when suddenly, she decides to end our deal. I don't even think that's legal.

Later, she says it's my job to clean my bedroom. What was wrong with the deal we had?

Then the 60s. Everyone is tuning in, turning on, and dropping out. My mother decides to stay square and fight with my father about everything, especially me.

Then my stupid, beloved brother drowns. Then my father, with whom I have a love/hate thing, dies in a car crash. I'll spare you the details right now, but let's say I got twisted. I don't even know if I can explain the impact, but I do know their legacy to me was a life-long excursion out to the edges of all sorts of esoteric and personal growth modalities and groups. I wanted to sort myself out.

Speaking of the '60s, Comedian Joe Campaiolo had a joke I love about seeing Bob Dylan in concert at Madison Square Garden: 'From where I was sitting in the cheap seats, Dylan just looked like an angry little piece of dust!' And aren't we all angry little pieces of dust at times, onstage, signifying nothing?

When George Bush invaded Iraq, I camped out at his ranch with a bunch of other peace activists. I felt like a fraud. I wasn't a peace activist at all. I couldn't even get along with my mother. I was a pissed activist. I was angry that we were at war again, enraged at the whole military-industrial complex.

This may surprise you, but the anger I gave to the military-industrial complex had no impact on them.

Then a comedian I worked with used my 'pissed activist' line in a radio interview. He also stole my MLK line: Martin Luther King had a dream. He didn't have a beef.

Pissed me off.

I've raged against the machine, my parents, my boyfriends, and the different groups I've participated in. I know people who have left cults without bitterness or blame. A sense of having been betrayed followed me for decades long after leaving my various cults, even after gaining a lot from them.

In the cost/benefit analysis, anger can win. I once had a writing mentor who loved when I ranted.

"Don't lose your snark!" she coached. Imagine that on my gravestone: She never lost her snark.

As a comedian, ranting about some universal irritation can be a bonding experience with the audience. It's delicious. But at some point, I became aware that the rebellious strategy that had me survive childhood could also kill me.

I heard they trap monkeys by putting a banana in a cage with a hole that fits the monkey's arm. The monkey reaches in, grabs the banana, and won't let go of the treat to free himself. I'm sure you get it; the banana is our narrative.

It takes effort to let go of the banana. It takes effort to rise above the skirmish to see perfection, to choose who to be in the face of insults.

So what's possible? What would it be like to be grander than my reactive mind? To demonstrate mercy, peace, freedom, and creativity? I feel we all have a Grand Wizard inside who can raise us over the pinball game of life. We can be forces of nature instead of victimized metal balls batted about by the rubber flippers of adversity.

Grand Wizards are capable of love amidst hate. We are capable of mercy and forgiveness amidst an ocean of cynicism.

I write this book with a spirit of acceptance, of holding my ideas lightly to access compassion. If my stumble through cult-land left me hoodwinked, I gained the fruit of grace. There may be nothing wrong with any of it.

I leave you with a prayer that makes me cry. Without context, it will not make sense. But know that some soul wrote it on wrapping paper found near the body of a dead child during the Holocaust.

Ravensbruck Prayer

O Lord, remember not only the men and women of goodwill

but also those of evil will.

But do not remember all the suffering they have inflicted upon us;

remember the fruits we have borne thanks to this suffering –

our comradeship,

our loyalty,

our humility,

our courage,

our generosity,

the greatness of heart which has grown out of all this;

and when they come to the judgment,

let all the fruits that we have borne be their forgiveness.

Amen.

CHAPTER 1. AT THE FEET OF THE GURU

PASCO, WASHINGTON STATE, USA. 1995

Captivation, then intoxication, deep-down hope of liberation

At the feet of the guru, I feel his juju.

Feels like love and emancipation -Made-up rap artist