Part Zero: Disreputable Origins and Rowdy Neighbors

      I first met the Girl in the Bone Bikini 17 years ago; she came on like a hurricane wrapped in Christmas, a Tasmanian angel  shattering every color we'd ever mistaken for light.   At first I thought she was goddess Kali, but the curve of her hip was more Nataraja than Little Black Peep,  and her mind --puissant and entirely open--  was like a bath in hot silk.   

     Every  year since 1994 she has jostled me into  retreat right around Thanksgiving.   While everyone else in the States is passing the giblet gravy, we are busy tinkering with the hinges of experience,  feeling around for the lynch pin  between body/mind, percept/concept,  quantity/quality.    It takes a day or so to find and pull it, but I'm telling you, the results are far more interesting  than turkey and football.  

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