GURU CAT'S ASHRAM

A Personal Mythos

Born of the ineffability of my own inner world, I have been developing a physical vocabulary. At the intersection of cheeky whimsy and profound spiritual wisdom lies Guru Cats Ashram. 
Guru Cat’s Ashram is a floating world within worlds. Here the mangy and the gluttonous, the scrappy and the imbecile all find open doors and vacant sun patches, are welcomed home to the buttery soft freedom of the deep and undulating purr within themselves. Here time and self are suspended, the temple cats need only to rest in the endlessly cleansing sea of purrs permeating every space and form within the ashram.
And Guru Cat sits perched upon a tree limb in the temple. We watches his beloved temple cats come and go, lured away by the seductions of duality, knowing they will return in whatever haggard, depleted state the earth spits them out. Spite cat, Spliff Cat, Cookie Cat, Claw Cat, Upper Cat, Vain Cat, Salty Cat, and Avoidant Relationship Patterns Cat all feel the world pull at their raw and empty dopamine receptors. Their meditations are haunted by sweet shops and first date butterfly emporiums and the rank, dirty alleyways and aglow with neon signs and the occasional gas fire. Sometimes they pierce through the temptations, and sometimes they follow them right back down the little bridge to the earth.
And while the earth continues to fluxuate between its roundness and flatness and wonder and horror, Guru Cats Ashram floats, self-suspended, a mere rope bridge between it and the tumultuous planet it ports at. So still you’d forget it’s there, off traipsing about in your little dramas and seductions of pain and pleasure. Sometimes it is hard for the cats to find the bridge to Guru Cats ashram. Either the rapidly flattening and globe-ifying planet has discombobulated them, or a hurricane of caffeine has started it spinning so fast it’s impossible to catch the exit. Sometimes they intentionally get lost, building false bridges out of cake fondant and intricately woven bills of currency. 
But when they make that sweet sweet trek through the rolling hills to the bridge, they know they have arrived because they see the slow turning of themselves into a lightness of suspension. And everything around them begins to float and suddenly they are purring once more, the feathers beneath the bones of their little cat skulls begin to ooze with the sound of liquid sandpaper kisses. 
And they lick away the pain and peppered reluctance. And they bathe their tender hearts in a peach champagne.