the Art of Love

"laughter probably is the best medicine," Bastante muttered under his breath, "but good hygiene takes a close second." He hadn't showered in weeks. Stranded in Babylon, he didn't have the kind of connections that got a man work, or got a man laid, or even kept a man from falling in the streets. And truthfully, he didn't care.

In a world full of hypocrites, he preferred to sit it out. But Bastante shook his head. Times had changed. Being in the world, not being of the world - tricky situation. Most folks in Babylon wrote him off as wasted talent, selfish, self-absorbed, and lazy. They were right, of course, but it was only half the story.

Bastante was an aghori - a left-handed tantrik. He was a gigolo sannyasin, an ascetic devotee of the Goddess, who had renounced all attachment, even attachment to renunciation. His was the path of Tantra - no teacher, no student, no self, only relationship. There was no destination, and the celebration of the journey was both his job and his religion.

Tantrik sannyasins were a dime a dozen, of course, and Bastante was more irresponsible than most, but it didn't change things any. It was his calling, and he had no recourse but to improve his game.

Hence the comparison between humor and hygiene. Without a dakini, he got no shower, but without a shower, he got no dakini. He shook his head. He would have smoked a cigarette, but he'd quit, which infuriated him. Most things did, these days. He had a lot of built up angst; it made his pants bulge.

Life embarrassed him a great deal; he was a yogi and an ascetic and had a reputation of being a great renunciate, when in fact he found himself to be terribly bourgeois and too coddled to ever effectively stand up for himself. The whole argument was pointless: the art of love always attracts attention...