SURVIVAL is relative. Nothing lasts forever.

“Nothing will last forever, not Mr. Money
and not Mrs. Cunt, nobody and nothing. I
find it healthy.”*

We’re unsure whether to go. “I don’t want to hear about how we haven’t got much time left,” I lament. Earlier, I had asked Pete about it. “Survival,” he scoffed. “I went through that five years ago. You know, a lot of them talk about ecology, it’s fashionable, but underneath . . . ” He waves his hand. “I don’t even go into Chapel Hill anymore. I feel better with the grits here in Carrboro. I can’t explain it. It feels different.”

A carpet, anyway you look at it, is the best way to travel. You can take it with you anywhere — into the green forest or the courtyard of a mosque.

There are some who say all you need to survive is canned peas. I don’t necessarily agree with that. The human is extraordinarily complex. Ask yourself: when were jackets invented?

Your house, your home, is the environment in which you’ll spend more time than any other. Because of this, it profoundly influences you and your peace of mind. It is the keynote to your survival. Consider this well before you start to design, build, or buy. It is probably one of the most important decisions you’ll ever make.

There are few questions more intriguing than whether man survives death — and if so, just what is it that survives?

The human aura has been reported by psychics for thousands of years. These independent yet similar reports of a visible glow around the human body suggest that the aura does exist, at least in the mind of the beholder. The question is: “What is the human aura?” Is it truly light emanating from the body, or is it some other phenomena perceived only by a few?

Red dust swirls about the ditch at midday, flying in the face of a blindingly hazy sky. Muddy rivers of perspiration stream across faces and backs.

I entered John Umstead Hospital (Butner), on, or around the 13th of March, 1975.

An introductory note: I’m not a gourmet, a nutritionist, or a professional cook — just someone who’s tried to prepare food and feed people with love for about ten years. So don’t take my advice for more than homey suggestions or my recipes for Julia Child creations. I’m also a vegetarian (more about that in future columns) and a Capricorn (for those who are interested) and a well-loved wife and mother. This column is not meant to substitute for books such as Diet for a Small Planet or The Joy of Cooking, but I hope it will flavor your day with a fresh view on what we eat and what we become because of what we eat. Comments and suggestions are welcome.

Baking can be fun; many of us know this and many of us know this all too well. But baking can also be a way of being creative and producing nutritious food which can provide us with protein, carbohydrates, fats, vitamins, and trace minerals. Cookies and other baked goods don’t have to be junk foods; when eaten slowly and in moderation they can be an integral and wholesome part of a highly nutritional diet.

Under various sedimentary names this restaurant, located on the fringe of Eastgate off 15-501, has been popular since it first opened in 1964. Actually Mr. Mariakakis had run the Marathon in the forties and early fifties, so the production itself is a Chapel Hill folkway. It has always been a favorite eating place, not only for the excellent Greek and Italian food, but also for the dramatic value of the clientele in terms of modern theater. It is this reviewer’s educated guess that the Kwikee, as it is known among the illumanati, has the most variegated caste since independence, liberation and fraternity.

A dark, heavy-blue February day pulled from me a sigh of quietened relief. So much artificial gyration had had its warrant sent out. Knowing itself to be a dead man, tracked straight to certainty, the ice block of conceit dropped itself dead in its tracks. What a beautiful sight! The love beast sang its own death song from out an already anguished mouth. And yes, the penetrating tone of the morbid howl was the one that burst an airtight catacomb. Now that the catacomb be banished such that no magic-claiming map may direct one thither . . .

A few nights ago, I went for a walk with a freshman girl. I have been morbidly depressed lately and thought that the company of a youthful, effervescent individual of the opposite sex might be of some comfort or, at least, diversion. I was quiet for the most part, preferring to listen more than speak. The young lady bubbled on about how the world would be a better place if people just stopped hating one another. She talked about how if you were just nice to people they would be nice back and there would not be any more conflict in the world. She talked about how she loved flowers, lasagna, and parties (in that order). After a while, I turned to her and said, “You’re pretty idealistic, huh?” She responded with a cheery, “Uh-huh!” We departed for a favorite Italian restaurant where much of the remainder of the evening was spent discussing the young lady’s dad and mom and all the good times which they had back on the farm. We ordered a pitcher of beer. My idealistic friend could really put it away. We left the piazza parlor for a party that was already in progress. People were dancing, drinking, and playing guitars. The young lady and I sat down and I picked up her hand and looked at it. She had one of the smoothest lifelines that I had ever seen. Her head and heart lines were also pretty weird looking. “When someone hurts you do you just forget it after a while or act like it didn’t happen?” I asked her. “How didja know?” I showed her, then left the room to look at the Eno River outside.

One day in 1971 my Guru asked me what I did about the letters I received. I replied that I answered them. Two letters had been brought to him that day. One letter he put on top of his head and the other he held between his hands for a moment. Then he tore up both of them and threw them on the ground. Forthwith, a cow who had wandered into the temple compound chomped them up. This teaching confused me.