Yes, I somehow got my toe in the door of an ashram in a big hot exciting American city. The American ashram boasted a bona fide Guru, a native of India, as our spiritual leader, and an American female swami as the yin to his yang. She had big bucks, and financed the operation. For so long I'd wanted to live in some sort of commune. Or said I did. But when finally accorded the opportunity, my too often critical, ungrateful, cynical attitude, like Holden Caulfield's in "Catcher in the Rye" or Christopher Isherwood's British character in "A Meeting by the River," rendered my experience more sour and unsuccessful than I'd hoped. I didn't have enough sunny, tolerant, accepting hope, in fact. Isherwood's Guru was genuinely enlightened. Mine didn't really claim to be; that highest consciousness state of unity with the Divine is very rare. He was still learned, brilliant, well-intentioned, basically kind and completely devoted to what he called "the philosophy," Vedanta Hinduism. I respected his magnificent heritage and knowledge...but not enough. Looking back on it I realize I should have bowed down more whole-heartedly, without reservation, feeling great reverence, appreciation and gratitude. Continuously. I found out that, although they advocated celibacy, he and the lady swami were secretly married. They also adhered to non-materialism, speaking frequently about the necessity of total non-attachment to material objects. Yet I discovered an enormous storeroom on their property crammed with all sorts of possessions, as though they were collectors or antiques dealers. That was disconcerting. One of my chores was to clean up their messy kitchen after their private repasts which were obviously always big feasts for the couple, featuring many sugary delights as part of the menu. And fat-filled fare , although vegetarian dishes. The lady swami behaved like a shrieking harridan and imperious harpy, and I wondered why that particular Jungian archetype pops up so frequently in my life to torment me, to the point I almost feel only nominally a feminist--That female swami would insult, harass and harangue me on occasion. But I still should have realized she was a good person. And artistically inclined, a scribe of essays, poems, stories, songs, plays. Her large polished head was bald under her fancy white turban and her huge fierce blue eyes blazed in her big beautiful face. Make-up was a big no-no there, but I noticed she used some. One oddity was her seeming obsession and oddly vehement stance about self-administration of enemas to "purify" the system. She presented me with the apparatus to do so. My body could get wracked with pains in my abdomen, always having had a sensitive stomach. And I was recovering from a major operation. I wasn't about to inflict such gratuitous violence on myself. She kept insisting, though, and finally I lied that I had done it. You had to rise at 3:30 a.m. to transcribe the guru's lectures from tapes, using headphones and old computers in the office. There was something very special about getting up then, the stars out, the golden silence and nocturnal ambience and Floridian semi-tropical aesthetics and all, but at the time I hated it. I wanted to sleep. I'd always felt extremely drowsy, almost as if in a coma or almost like I was dying, upon arising, and for a while afterward. So trying to decipher the Guru's heavy Indian accent that early in the morning irked me. They procured a job for me at Parrot World, where the sound of thousands of birds chirping and customers' requests for food could aggravate me. After work, my feet hurt, from all the walking in the restaurant. Then my ankles and feet were stung by hordes of huge red fire ants while I waited for my interminable bus ride of almost two hours to and from the ashram. The ashram did offer an artsy, creative atmosphere with all the singing, poetry recitals, plays and festive weekend banquets. I didn't like Indian cusine. Charming baby lizards skittered across the walls and delicious lush mangoes, the king of fruits, were plentiful in the steamy semi-tropics. But damp towels and wet clothes would rot quickly, and the copious teeming insects looked like Star Wars creatures. I'd never seen these kinds of bugs before. I even complained about certain uncomfortable asanas--yoga postures--and having to attend the Guru's Vedanta lectures six nights a week. (I feel I would almost cherish and treasure ashram life now. Maybe.) We were meant to be completely celibate in thoughts, emotions and actions. But an extremely handsome young man at the ashram, who was gifted in languages and from an impressive family, transported me on waves of bliss by his presence and conversation. His attention. I dreamed of him, with his perfect features and blue eyes and blonde hair, slender and tall of physique--immersed in a ludicrous secret obsession, even while noticing his apparent inappropriate attraction to our Guru.--SUSY (to be continued)