JIM

"You go through men like a gay man." My brother and his boyfriend had said of me. They were right. Losing my father and brother kept me funny and fucked up. I would lie in bed and yearn to have a protector and provider spooned up with me, someone in my corner 100%, but my subconscious heckled: Yeah, right lady. How does that turn out for ya?

So, I drank and looked for love in all the wrong ashrams.

Outside the ranch doors, a circle of wooden benches punctuated by galvanized buckets became 'the smoking circle.' After standing in a long line to register for a Ramtha event, people gathered there to fill the air with smoke, the sounds of camaraderie and Australian accents. JZ's books were reaching down under and many of those scrappy outlaws had decided to drop everything and move.

One day, while sitting on those benches in my rain gear, I noticed a tall dude with a slightly pock-marked face holding court with five others, laughing and asking questions. Socrates in a poncho.

.

I listened in surreptitiously. Jim had an admirable 'regular guy' way of taking thick material and making it accessible that I found sexy. He seemed smart but humble. He later told me he was grateful for having had acne as a kid, because without it, he would have been an asshole.

Our 'guru' had us reading about quantum physics, brain science, aliens, conspiracies, and assorted esoterica. She would invite the authors to speak at the ranch. I met Robert F. Kennedy Jr. who wrote Crimes Against Nature and John Perkins who wrote Confessions of an Economic Hitman. So at least we weren't a stupid cult.