by Nin Andrews
At last I understand my problem. And after all these years. I have been
meditating incorrectly. I have been chanting Om to calm the vast ocean of
my mind. Only men who wish to leave the world of lust and lawn mowers
forever can say Om in peace. Om, I only just discovered, lacks the
sumptuous sounds and multi–syllabic soft centers appropriate for females of
my specific social class. A blonde, freckled woman from Suburban, Ohio must
never say Om. The Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, his holiness himself, phoned me
from New Delhi to express his sincerest concerns for my health. Om, he
sighed, can never be kept awash with light. In Himalayan caves male
devotees chant Om until they levitate and hover upside down like bats. They
breathe only through their left nostrils, and in their spare time, they
balance cinder blocks on their cocks. Such performances are said to be
reminiscent of the seal acts at Sea World in Aurora, Ohio.
Alas. What happens to the women of Om? Women whose perfect silence is
unpetaled by a tiny scrap of sound?
Woe is me. For too many days, Om is all I have known. Om is all I can
think. Already my breasts are rising like the heads of seals beneath my
blouse and growing stiff with excitement.
Last updated May 21, 2013