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pm 8:11 Monday 4 August 2003

Thirty-one years later Patty's breasts are my fuel. I sit across from her at a meeting marveling at the whiteness of her blouse, the contours of her bosoms.

My entire emotional system is quiet, I'm hardly breathing,. Except for Patty's breasts, my mind is quiet.

I'm sensing the right-side-back of my neck.

We're sitting in a circle on stackable white plastic chairs and folding lawn chairs in a carpenters' loft space in Berkeley. Ten of us tonight.

Turning my head away from Patty, I become almost unconsciously absorbed in the facial expression of Marlyn, exhibiting a frozen coarseness.

It's then that I feel my teacher withdraw, hear the light sound as he releases his breath, a slight exhalation. I scan my immediate memory and realize his mind touched mine with the lightness of a mosquito, and I never felt him enter.

Now as he withdraws, I sense, and actually detect with my optic nerve, a silver thread reaching from my Adam's apple over to his body, just a slim connection, which as he exhales, suddenly vanishes.

My emotional system is still absolutely quiet (because I keep it that way), I'm still sensing the right-side-back of my neck, and the sexual fuel I had been generating gazing at Patty's breasts seems to have been transmuted into a finer substance.

My energy level is slightly, almost imperceptibly, higher, and I can detect a slight shift, or variation, in the course of my life.

Of the two forms of telepathy, the sneaky form is far superior to the overbearing form, which simply replaces one tyrant for another. The sneaky form, or subtle form, is like a silver thread, a communication with the part of you that dreams at night, boosting its intelligence.

 
 
 

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