Free The Stoned Apocalypse by Marco Vassi Page B

they let themselves be swayed, and soon sighs of rapture and moans of pleasure began to erupt. They were beginning to let it all hang out.
    The music I used that night was from the Stones, which perfectly took the amorphous sexual flow and coagulated it into a driving hard rhythm. At the end of the first side of the album, everyone had blood in their eyes. I took the vibes down again, and ended with a large circle, with everyone’s arms around everyone else’s shoulders. Of course, with all that kundalini running free, the circle became electric, and soon, eyes closed, they were swaying in the single most beautiful jellyfish I had ever seen. I asked them to let sounds out, and within a minute the room was filled with all those different voices, each in a different pitch, with the whole blending into a giant sound of praise. My eyes began tearing, and I couldn’t absorb any more, so before they finished, I quietly left.
    I learned later that they stayed for a half hour after the class, not wanting to leave one another’s physical presence, and talking about the mysterious man who comes to perform miracles and then leaves before anyone can speak to him.
    During the next week, the thing with Leah and Rita fell totally apart. We reached the point where we were criticizing one another’s method of washing dishes. The viciousness was barely ameliorated by its pettiness. We were all heartbroken, because we all loved the hurting moments when we sat at the kitchen table, holding hands before dinner, listening to the silence of the house. But the scene was beyond our ability to manage, and we knew it, and now had to do the deadly business of getting to hate one another before we could garner the energy to split.
    I took refuge, as I often did in those days, in The Tibetan Book of the Great Liberation. Between the heavy blows dealt my mind by that book, and the emotional upheaval I was experiencing, and the growing unreality of my scene at the college, I freaked. It suddenly occurred to me that I was gathering hubris at a rapid rate. The underbelly of megalomania showed its greenish light, and all of a sudden I saw myself as a charlatan, a breaker of hearts, and agreed with Evan that I was a black magician.
    My mind turned around. I remembered that I had forgotten God, and had fallen into the modem heresy of thinking that man was the supreme entity in the universe, that I had forgotten my own limitations. I decided that I was leading the people astray, and during the next class, would call for a spiritual regeneration. That this fell in with the image they were forming of me as a spiritual leader was the type of coincidence that would have delighted Jung.
    I got to the campus very early the next morning. To my surprise, strangers kept approaching me, asking me if they might join the class. One girl came up to me, and after some preliminary small talk, suddenly grabbed my hand and said urgently, “I can’t come. Please help me. I know you can.” I gave her my phone number and told her to call me in a few days. The scene was too much out of Feiffer to be erotic. Members of my class, as they recognized me sitting on the grass, would come up and sit silently in front of me for long periods of time and then, reverentially, get up and leave without saying a word. Without doing a single thing but following the inner logic of my madness to its most baroque extension, I was becoming a guru to an entire generation.
    The third week’s class was a masterpiece of metatheater. I very humbly cleaned up the Lounge this time, picking up every cigarette butt by hand. I found that four or five women were helping me, and I realized that my first group of inner disciples was forming. Then I sat on a piano bench in full lotus, and waited for the throngs to arrive. They came slowly and made a giant crowd at my feet. One thin blond girl came up and laid a bouquet of flowers before me. Here and there, joss sticks were lit.
    And, in a phosphorescent