I made with the prana bindu, the deep yoga, which isn’t easy with your head in a sack. I sprang up from the earth like a mud baby, fully cognisant of my contradictions, fully aware of my anachronism. The deep thing was, and this is the killer, the deep thing was; I’d never been born – I just was.
The whole birth thing was a load. I arranged my own birthing at the age of sixteen with a microdot of sunshine and a faulty map supplied by Timothy Leary. I baked the whole scheme with Crazy George and the downtown crew in a moment of pure elucidation one Saturday morn. I posted bulletins on the whole scenario to keep the crew informed and delved into the deep for the gratuitous gratification of all. I was on the cusp of the big wave, riding with the ergonauts of ecstasy and the deep thing was I’d never been born – I just was.