they’ll shoot anybody that appeals to them—he’s behind a curved plexiglas shield that makes him even harder to focus on. But on TV you can see exactly the way his slightly chubby cheeks kind of tense up when he’s speaking on an allegorical level, and the beautiful way his mouth moves in his beard, especially that amazing “s” he makes, his front teeth not quite together like he’s holding something between the back ones, and his really incredible eyes—they seem absolutely to have no reflected highlights, just this smooth dark bulgy inky brown that goes in and in. I love his lids, too—they’re so
sculp
tural somehow, and how the lower ones get this funny bunchy extra wrinkle when he’s said something sly, that you can take two ways. And his hair, the kinky energetic grayish bits you can see at the edge of the turban. It’s hard to know how old he is. He might be our age. Or ten years older or younger. There’s a new videotape, made since the one on ego-negation and prapatti we used to watchtogether—on sachchidananda and moksha, it’s really wonderful, for $39.90, and if you order it direct from us never mind about the five-percent Arizona-state sales tax, nobody pays it around here because we’re a religious organization.
Do
let me know if you don’t adore it as much as I do.
Anyway, Durga comes up with this same icy face she had the day I pretended to have no credit card, and told me to join the typing pool. I said to her I had the impression she hated my guts—you learn to say such things here, everybody does it, it gets the garbage out and clears the air—and she said her feelings and mine were of no consequence, all that mattered here was our service to the Arhat, though she
had
observed that women of my social class tended to play at enlightenment for a few weeks and then go on to some other style of vacation, and once we were out tended to be very cozy with both the press and the law-enforcement authorities—she has these phobias about the FBI, the IRS, the CIA, and the Immigration Service, not to mention the local sheriff. She said the Master had become aware of my presence, and the executive committee had concluded I had the requisite energy and karmic potential to serve at a higher level than skimming concrete or even operating a backhoe. My heart sank. I loved that big sweet sleepy yellow thing, a brand-new diesel John Deere. But, softhearted me, I said O.K. and have been working in the Uma Room for three days now. It’s all little cubicles. They give you these form responses and after a while you can elaborate on them to suit your own style, within limits, but even so it’s not really en
larg
ing labor like the other was, the outdoor work. One advantage, it brings you quite close to the Arhat, though I haven’t seen him yet—he lives in the original ranch hacienda, which has been remodelled and connected to these fitted-together trailers by a kind ofbreezeway. They say Durga is always slipping in to consult with him, and some of the others. The executive committee is mostly all women—the Arhat has this theory that women are stronger in selflessness than men, which may be a nice way of saying they’re subservient. I couldn’t wear my ratty muddy work clothes to the Uma Room, and the other typists wear saris, so I’ve gone and bought myself a couple at the Varuna Emporium and spend about a half-hour every morning trying to fold it so it doesn’t fall off or get all sloppy whenever you lift your arm. They offer quite a line actually of clothes in these sunset shades of purple and violet and dusky lavender and even burgundy and magenta and a very attractive rosy brown. The Emporium puts out a catalogue I’d be happy to send you, along with the order form for the moksha videotape if you and the girls want to get it.
I keep waiting for
this
tape to run out, since my Puritan conscience, it must be, won’t let me send it off to you until I’ve filled every inch. You and Irving and
sculp
tural somehow, and how the lower ones get this funny bunchy extra wrinkle when he’s said something sly, that you can take two ways. And his hair, the kinky energetic grayish bits you can see at the edge of the turban. It’s hard to know how old he is. He might be our age. Or ten years older or younger. There’s a new videotape, made since the one on ego-negation and prapatti we used to watchtogether—on sachchidananda and moksha, it’s really wonderful, for $39.90, and if you order it direct from us never mind about the five-percent Arizona-state sales tax, nobody pays it around here because we’re a religious organization.
Do
let me know if you don’t adore it as much as I do.
Anyway, Durga comes up with this same icy face she had the day I pretended to have no credit card, and told me to join the typing pool. I said to her I had the impression she hated my guts—you learn to say such things here, everybody does it, it gets the garbage out and clears the air—and she said her feelings and mine were of no consequence, all that mattered here was our service to the Arhat, though she
had
observed that women of my social class tended to play at enlightenment for a few weeks and then go on to some other style of vacation, and once we were out tended to be very cozy with both the press and the law-enforcement authorities—she has these phobias about the FBI, the IRS, the CIA, and the Immigration Service, not to mention the local sheriff. She said the Master had become aware of my presence, and the executive committee had concluded I had the requisite energy and karmic potential to serve at a higher level than skimming concrete or even operating a backhoe. My heart sank. I loved that big sweet sleepy yellow thing, a brand-new diesel John Deere. But, softhearted me, I said O.K. and have been working in the Uma Room for three days now. It’s all little cubicles. They give you these form responses and after a while you can elaborate on them to suit your own style, within limits, but even so it’s not really en
larg
ing labor like the other was, the outdoor work. One advantage, it brings you quite close to the Arhat, though I haven’t seen him yet—he lives in the original ranch hacienda, which has been remodelled and connected to these fitted-together trailers by a kind ofbreezeway. They say Durga is always slipping in to consult with him, and some of the others. The executive committee is mostly all women—the Arhat has this theory that women are stronger in selflessness than men, which may be a nice way of saying they’re subservient. I couldn’t wear my ratty muddy work clothes to the Uma Room, and the other typists wear saris, so I’ve gone and bought myself a couple at the Varuna Emporium and spend about a half-hour every morning trying to fold it so it doesn’t fall off or get all sloppy whenever you lift your arm. They offer quite a line actually of clothes in these sunset shades of purple and violet and dusky lavender and even burgundy and magenta and a very attractive rosy brown. The Emporium puts out a catalogue I’d be happy to send you, along with the order form for the moksha videotape if you and the girls want to get it.
I keep waiting for
this
tape to run out, since my Puritan conscience, it must be, won’t let me send it off to you until I’ve filled every inch. You and Irving and
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