Autobiography of an Italian Yogi

September 1, 1945, Little Italy, the historic North End of Boston: I was born. My mother, narcissistic mean cruel and abusive, was perfect for me.

The streets were violent — perfect!

Allow me to explain.

I remember being 7 and too young to leave on my own — could I breathe in a particular way to change my feelings or how I felt?  I would make up different breathing ways and rhythms to no avail.

At a young age of 12 years, I would sit in the family attic for 8 hours at a time watching the Sun move through the room, thinking, I didn’t want my happiness to be derived from who I thought I was or should be. Happiness shouldn‘t be attached to an idea or concept.

If it wasn’t for my violent  mother I wouldn‘t be working on the parallelisms of Hinduism, Christianity, and Metaphysics. The origins of thought, motion, and creation.

If I had a happy soccer mom, it may not happen.

When Buddha realized Buddhism it was because he left the safeness of the family compound into the world of misery.

If Buddha had a happy soccer mom we would only have soccer.