Three years ago my roommate tried to stop me from going vegan.
He walked into the kitchen, saw me drinking oat milk, and expressed sincere concern: according to Ayurveda, I needed meat and dairy. Veganism did not fit my “vata” constitution. Only “kapha people” could be vegan. “Vata people” should not be vegan. They would waste away.
What my roommate failed to realize was that I was having a particularly righteous day. How could anyone eat an animal? The man who eats an animal is a barbarian, and so the system that promotes the eating of animals is barbaric. Therefore, Ayurveda was barbaric.
But this created issues. Because Ayurveda was trad. How could a system in effect for 5000 years be wrong? And, actually, eating meat was even more trad than Ayurveda. And so if eating meat and Ayurveda were wrong, then the lindy effect would be wrong, the human tradition would be a big farce, and I would need to re-evaluate large portions of my life.
But if Ayurveda was right, then I was wrong. Which meant my roommate was right, and vegans were wrong, and I should eat meat. But then I and the world and most of humanity would be barbaric.
Anguished, I put my head in my hands. Are we all barbarians? Would I rather kill a baby deer or get ankylosing spondilitis?
Then it hit me. A way to be both vegan and lindy. What if… what if… I could go even farther back in history, farther than 5000 years, and find an ancient, traditional, vegan diet that is still practiced today. This diet would be more lindy, more trad, and more based than ayurveda, paleo, or whatever nonsense my roommate was hawking this afternoon.
A stranger’s blogspot once told me of the glories of the Satya Yuga, which was either 3 million or 12 thousand years ago (no matter– both are lindy enough for my purposes). In the enlightened age of the Satya Yuga, humans subsisted on fruits alone. Why? Fruits are the gentlest food. Fruit is the only food that is offered. All other food is taken. Cut, ripped, slaughtered. But fruit falls off the branches. It begs to be eaten. Fruit is therefore the ideal food for the sensitive, non-violent, enlightened soul.
Could fruitarianism be the trad, based, yet vegan diet that I was looking for?
I was hesitant only because we were no longer in Satya Yuga, but in either Kali or Dwarpara Yuga [1]. Would fruitarianism still work?
It had been one hour since my roommate told me to eat meat, and I was walking golden gate park listening to fruitarianism podcasts on spotify. They are a fascinating bunch, with much overlap with the esoteric medicine (e.g. perineum sunning), and ante-deluvian civilizations (e.g. Atlantis, Lemuria) scenes.
I actually had a book on Lemuria, The Lemurian Scrolls by Sivaya Subramuniyaswami. Subramaniyaswami, (born as Robert Hanson in Oakland, California), channeling the akashic records [2], describes the gentle, peaceful, spiritually evolved life of the Lemurians. Importantly, they ate only fruit, milk, honey, nuts, and seeds. Not exactly pure fruitarian, but close enough, I thought.
I was thinking about fruits and the Lemurians as I walked out of the park and onto concrete.
And as the hard cement sent shocks of pain through my malnourished vata knees, I looked around the Outer Sunset with new eyes.
I imagined the living soil of the earth ripped up, thrown out, and filled with the black sludge asphalt binder. I imagined dense forests of magestic trees bulldozed and woodchipped. I imagined great pterodactyls swooping above the canopy, and now watched their modern counter-parts: sickly pigeons pecking at plastic bags. One is crushed by an SUV. What a decrepit civilization!
I should have no part of this. Society was deeply confused. I had been deeply confused at one point. But not anymore. I had taken the red pill. I had unplugged from the matrix. My soul belonged with the Lemurians. I would spend the rest of my days eat jackfruit and playing with ladybugs. No more plastic bags. No more asphalt. No more meat.
Subramanyaswami, in The Lemurian Scrolls, said that the Lemurians, before their extinction, left behind certain energy vortices where humans could contact them.
And, as destiny would have it, one of the most powerful energy vortices was only five hours north of me, in Mount Shasta.
I would depart immediately. What else was there to do? It had been two hours since my roommate rebuked my veganism, one hour since listening to my first fruitarian podcast. I bought two bottles of orange juice, one for dinner and one for breakfast, and set off to Shasta.
Around 10 pm I was an hour out. I slept in my trunk at a rest stop to avoid paying for a motel. I slept terribly and woke up the exhausted.
Once in Shasta I parked at a breakfast spot. 16 hours after becoming a fruitarian, I was already craving the egg and cheese breakfast sandwich. I stayed steadfast and copped the smoothie.
I sat down with my smoothie and eavesdropped on the lady at the table beside me. She was on the phone coordinating an alien hunting mission with a friend. “Kathy saw three UFOs yesterday! If we leave now, there should be a few still around.”
They spoke as casually as if they were going birdwatching. Like they were trying to spot a white-throated sparrow. Like they were on the watch for something cool, not something that’d flip reality upside down. It seemed her reality was already flipped upside down.
After her call, she unwrapped a spread of crystals and starting selling to pedestrians.
Post-juice I headed to Panther Meadow at the base of Shasta. According to a Medium article, this is where Mt. Shasta’s “energy vortices” were.
I stood at the feet of Shasta and stared. It was all dry and grey and gravelly, like a steep, unpaved gravelly parking lot. Not so different from a dilapidated cement sidewalk. I tried to “tune in” to the energy of the mountain. I wanted to feel something epic but felt nothing.
Whatever. I thought. Let’s go find the energy vortex. I hit the trail while periodically sending telepathic connection requests to the Lemurians.
“Hello Lemurians, if you’re out there, please give me a sign. I’ve been fruitarian for over 16 hours! I shall be your earthly torch-bearer.”
I left a few futile voicemails until finally something happened.
All of a sudden, on a totally nondescript point on the trail, my whole body felt buoyant and angelic. It straightened out and opened up, but in a pleasant rather than a militaristic way. All my body’s fatigue and all its little aches and pains I had gotten so accustomed to suddenly dissolved! It was like being hugged and permeated by a cool, sparkling, cloud.
There’s something here! There’s really something here! I couldn’t believe it. But as I kept walking, the cloud left me, and my aches returned (though slightly less bad than before). I decided to return to the same exact non-descript spot and there was the cloud again! I walked in and out, testing it. Could this be a small vortex?
Perhaps! My hopes renewed, I pushed deeper into the Meadow, searching for stronger portals.
As I walked I passed through more small clouds of energy and got more and more excited. Lemurians! Lemurians! I called to them manically. Lemurians! Where are you? Please guide me!
Along the way I passed by an idyllic couple. The woman was in a sundress, the man was in a tunic. They picknicked in the meadow with blankets and a wicker basket. They smiled and laughed and ate grapes and held hands as I paced back and forth head down mind racing hunting the Lemurians.
But, as is always the case, as my frenzy for the supernatural intensified, I grew less and less sensitive. After an hour of diminishing returns I gave up. I had to ground, regroup, and retry. I headed back to town for some guidance.
I pulled up to a cafe, still somewhat frenzied, and ordered an egg and cheese breakfast sandwich dripping with oil and dairy. I forget how I justified it. I hoped the Lemurians would understand. Had they hit me back I would’ve had the strength to stay fruitarian, you know? Big change needed some social support, you know?
The first person who caught my eye was a big rastafarian man. He was older– maybe 60– had dreadlocks and a red-green-yellow reggae shirt. He reading a thick book called “Esoteric Egypt” and taking careful notes in a massive B4 notebook.
I sat down at the table next to his and shot.
“Hey man, I’m looking for Lemurians. Just had a feeling you’d know about them.”
The rasta man turned his head slowly and silently. He turned his head like we were in Ocean’s 11 and he was the ex-teammate now in retirement and I had just pulled up after 30 years like: “come on, just help me hit this one last job.” Careful, reluctant, but piqued.
He spoke slowly: “What do you want to know?”
“Just, like, whatever you have, I guess. I don’t really know where to start.”
“Well, you’re asking me about the Lemurians.” He paused.
“Yeah.”
“But before you can know the Lemurians.” He paused.
“Yeah?”
“You gotta know yourself.”
“Mmm.”
“So. Do you know what you are?”
The man appeared to be kind of rasta sensei, and was testing me for the role of Karate Kid.
“Not really. Still trying to figure that out, I guess.”
“It’s simple. What are you made of?”
“Uh…” I thought I ought give him a Shasta-coded answer. “…light?”
“Come on. What ARE you?” He paused.
“Uh…”
“A human being.”
“Right.” I said, embarrassed.
“So. Human. Hu. Man. You know what hu means?”
“Uh…”
“Hu. Derived from the Latin. Humus. Humus.”
“I see”
“What’s humus? Earth. Dust. Humans are just dust.”
“I see.”
“Words are important. People just say words without thinking about them. You gotta know where words come from. Dust. Now what’s dust made out of?”
“Uh…”
“Carbon. What’s carbon?”
I locked in. “It’s a molecule. Six protons, six neutrons, six electrons…”
“Six protons, six neutrons, six electrons. 666. You ever heard of that? Devil’s number. 666, carbon. Interesting, right?”
“Interesting.”
“666, carbon. Listen. You ever hit some good weed, and you’re like, ‘damn! this some good shit!’”
“Not exactly, but I understand the sentiment.”
“You ever hit some good pussy, and you’re like, ‘damn, this some good shit!’”
“Not exactly…”
“Well what’s shit!? What’s shit made out of?”
“Carbon?”
“Carbon! Dust. Humus. When we say ‘damn! this some good shit!’ What we’re saying is, ‘damn! this some good carbon.’ That’s all it is. 666.”
At that moment a young Chinese mother walked by in a tight top. Rasta sensei, a learned man of many letters and tongues, greeted her with a “ni hao ma”. She smiled at him.
“You see that? That’s polarity. Women are electrons, negatively charged. Men, we’re protons. Women draw us in. We can’t help it. It’s magnetism. Opposites attract. Physics is important. Like words. You gotta know your physics. People don’t know their physics. What do you know about plasma?”
He took a book out of his backpack. A New Science of Heaven, by Robert Temple. I was interested but had to ask.
“Hey man, I’m sincerely fascinated with this stuff, believe me. But… how do you know what’s true and what isn’t? I feel like all of these esoteric authors have their own theory, and all their theories conflict. And everyone is extrapolating so much and filling in the gaps with spirit guide communications and akashic record investigations. It seems like they might be onto something but I have no idea who to trust. Also, where do you find all these books? Google?”
“Google?
HA!
Google’s no good.
Listen.
You gotta do your research.
Re. Search.
Another word.
What does it mean?
Re. Ra.
Who’s Ra?
Sun god.
Ra. Ray.
Ray of what?
Ray of light.
Light. Illumination.
When someone gets an idea, what do we say?
Boom. Lightbulb. Lit up.
Illumined. Illuminated.
Re.
Ra.
Sunlight.
So, RE-search depends on sun-LIGHT. But people are out here doing research with artificial light! Fake light! Does that make sense to you?”
“Uh”
“People don’t THINK these days. They don’t look at words.
And Google?
Heh.
Google won’t give you anything. Google’s run by nazis. Don’t believe me? Look it up.”
I took out my phone to Google his claim before realizing the error of my ways.
“If you’re honest, life will lead you to the right books. Are you an honest guy?”
“Uh somewhat.”
“You do any mischief?”
“Occasionally.”
“You can’t be doing mischief. You’ve got to be honest. Humble. Then you’ll learn.
Now, at the beginning of all this, you wanted to know about the Lemurians.
Well, what I’m telling you is, if you wanna know the Lemurians, you’ve got to know yourself. You’re looking outwards, but you’ve got to look inwards.”
At that moment Bob Marley comes on the cafe speaker. Rasta Sensei slowly rises and begins to bob.
“Yeaaaaaaahhh. Now this some good shit.
Pay close, close, attention to his words my friend.”
He slowly bops his way backwards out of the cafe.
“Hold on, before you leave. What’s your name?”
“Ras.
Ras Lion.”
He points at me as he leaves.
“You have a great day, alright? Remember, know yourself.”
the mainstream hindu tradition puts it at millions of years ago. contemporary gurus like sri yukteswar and sadhguru put it at ten to twenty thousand years ago. the difference arises from interpreting yuga-related puranic verses like this one as quoting ‘divine years’ (1 divine year = 360 human years) or human years.
the akashic records are a kind etheric blockchain recording every thought, word, and deed in human history.