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by Charles Carreon
I'm a connoisseur of
silly little buttons that say things like, "You must be from the shallow
end of the gene pool." One of my favorites is "Never judge a client by his
lawyer." It might also be said, "Don't judge a guru by his cultists."
Ramana Maharshi is a
classic example. All of the bootstrap self-enlightened bozos like Bubba
Fuck Job and Andrew Cohen, who need an authority to hang their hat on, try
to say, "We're self-enlightened like Ramana Maharshi." And they'll hasten
to add, "We're actually even better than Ramana, because blah blah blah."
Well hate to tell ya
guys, but Ramana didn't cite any authority for his Realization. He didn't
induct his Mama into the cult (she showed up willingly after she got old),
or marinate in quality drugs and top-shelf booty. (Well, says Fuck Job, it
may not be enlightenment, but it's a better ride than you got. Which,
minus the insanity, is probably right.)
But Ramana has
attracted parasites like any huge being. Remoras and lampreys clinging to
his enormous spiritual bulk, then dispersing themselves through the
spiritual seas, where they feed rapaciously. Instead of spreading the
immense serenity of Ramana, who was a mountain of spiritual stillness,
these fools spread irritation and anxiety. Ramana made one trip in his
entire life -- from his home town to Tiruvannamalai, to abide at
Arunachala, the mountain sacred to Shiva. He discovered a being, himself,
who really needed nothing. So he sought nothing. Not disciples, or
recognition, or an offering. His self-abandonment was complete, and would
have ended in death had his new friend, Palani Swami, not intervened with
food and shelter, pulling him out from under the Shiva temple where the
young God-struck sadhu had taken up residence to avoid the rocks thrown by
the naughty little Indian boys.
The modern day
emulators of Ramana are quite different. They travel the world like
Spiritual CEOs, administering a sacred fiefdom that adopts the legal
firepower of an international business behemoth, operating under a code of
secrecy and a freedom to abuse adherents that even Wal Mart managers would
envy. Bubba Fuck Job has flown around the world at least eighty times,
visiting his victims, and encouraging them to blow their minds and wallets
on a God Jones. No wonder he called himself Jones.
I'll tell you who Jones
is, if you don't already know. There's a book called "The Lotus Crew,"
about Harlem heroin dealers moving Triad heroin. It's beautiful if you
want to taste the thoughtstream of addiction. In drug dialect, Jones is
the addicted being himself. There is only one Jones. Jones is who you see
in your friend's eyes when you know he's doing the product. You know when
you're talking to Jones, not your friend. Because Jones lies. Lies like a
mother fucker.
Ramana emulators are
really some of the worst, most dangerous cult leaders. But you can't blame
Ramana. He discovered the knife. They cut themselves.
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