Friends + Alka Joshi w Zara Raheem + J. J. Arcanian’s 3 Illusions

Yesterday I phoned a dear friend – alas, he’s in the hospital, recovering from a stroke! I really hope he takes it seriously, cleans up his eating and so forth. But since I know zilch about how he cares for his wellbeing and less about how anyone besides myself should, my sadness and worry are sincere, yet that other stuff is plain selfish. Some sort of health-oriented fundamentalism in me, or call it desperation, wants a one-size-fits-all lifestyle solution. How great it would be if any of the body/mind/spirit potions and scourings advertised everywhere could truly rescue us from what often amounts to ‘sh#t happens.’ I could blather forever about all the cause/effect wisdom-ettes I’ve gathered along my mortal journey, but they all boil down to arguable guesses.

Is it okay to call him my dear friend even though we’ve been out of touch for decades? For sure, he is dear. Unless life deals me with the ‘sh#t happens’ of dementia, I’ll always appreciate the many ways he was kind to me when we were friend-er friends.

When I broke up with a long-time boyfriend, who met my friend in grade-school, I was too old to be as simple-minded as I dangerously was about dating. Thank goodness he helped shield me from some of the borderline stalkers I encountered. Also, he didn’t complain when said boyfriend and I barged in on him over several days of Christmas. We gave no thought to how harsh his work season was and that he cared nothing about Christmas. Still, over that holiday, he introduced me to the brilliant “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and later to Stephen Sondheim’s “Sweeney Todd: the Demon Barber of Fleet Street” on vinyl. Many Thanksgivings, he, his parents, and siblings, each quite talented culinary-wise, included us in their gourmet feasts and walks on the beach afterwards. How did he not hold it against my then-boyfriend and me when, the year his mom opted to keep things ‘just family,’ we whined, ‘but we are family’? When he was still only in his very early twenties, he modeled how to look after a bed-ridden grandmother who admonished me to never grow old because aging is a bitch. When she passed a few years later, he memorialized his car’s plates with her name and birth year.

All this is to say; dear friend, the world needs more wonderful people, so please do your all to get better.

And that’s to remind you and myself; friendship is precious. Even the most fleeting connections are gifts. I can only hope that I’ve returned the favor at least now and then.

Other friend news is that, thanks to Nirva Parikh (here’s about her acupuncture practice), she and I recently attended a Diwali celebration at Michelle Obama Neighborhood Library. A dance presentation, henna body painting, Indian food, goodie bags, and a chat between two top-notch novelists were included. Seeing successful authors in person gives me an added boost of optimism that I’ll soon find a great literary agent to represent my books (click here for more on them). Zara Raheem wrote The Marriage Clock and The Retreat. Alka Joshi wrote the Jaipur Trilogy: The Henna Artist, The Secret Keeper of Jaipur and The Perfumist of Paris. By the way, Alka guested here before, and Lisa Niver guested here about Alka, and here I reviewed Alka’s The Perfumist of Paris.

Today’s guest, J.J. Arcanian, was inspired in part by the works of Plato, Socrates and Hegel to write Three Illusions…

An Impactful Siddhartha by J. J. Arcanian

While waxing philosophical during one recent daybreak, it occurred to me that our lives are the sum of our experiences. My sense of self-importance quickly faded after consulting with Google; humility returned after I discovered countless others had drawn the same conclusion—long before my presumed revelation. But at least I succeeded in arriving at another shared conclusion: our experiences tend to influence our actions and behavior. 

Forever the romantic, I was a late-blooming 18-year-old (appearing even younger) when I left for college in 1970. Congressman Alexander Pirnie, ranking Republican of the House Armed Services Committee, drew the first “lottery” number for the military draft on December 1, 1969. Soon after that, my “student deferment” was all that separated me from military service and the Vietnam War. This sweepstake assured me, and others, of the frightening alternative should we lose our rainchecks from the military draft. 

Though the war ended soon after that, I quickly realized these suspensions from military service could be construed as examples of an unjust privilege: concessions made at the expense of other, less fortunate American teens. I won’t examine the socio-economic or racial implications; they should be obvious. Nonetheless, I have since been eternally grateful to everyone who has served in our military; their sacrifices ensure our freedom and safety.

I kept accumulating experiences during this exciting time of my life. I unearthed Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe (1968 non-fiction), and other literary gems of the Gonzo journalistic style (and otherwise). Some were particularly impactful. I was transfixed with Ken Kesey and the accounts of the Merry Pranksters, an interesting collection of hipsters (during the early 1960s) who had traversed the country while tripping on LSD (it was legal at the time). Their neon-painted bus (named Furthur) supplied the not-so-understated but apropos transportation. 

But it was Mr. Hesse’s Siddhartha, a story about a young man on a spiritual quest of self-discovery, that truly captivated me. Written more than a half-century earlier, in 1922, the account is set primarily in India and Nepal and is closely linked with Buddhism.

The handsome Siddartha endures a variety of events while pursuing enlightenment. At first, he lives as a beggar (called an “ascetic”). In Buddhism, asceticism reflects a voluntary but demanding lifestyle founded upon self-discipline, rejecting worldly comforts in favor of purity and spiritual objectives. Before long, Siddhartha challenged and rejected some principles and fell head over heels in love with a beautiful woman (interestingly named Kamala). But this is not a book review, and I do not wish to spoil anyone’s discovery of one of Hesse’s masterpieces.

This period was a wonderful time in my life, and I have been fortunate to have accumulated a wealth of experiences since—good, bad, and indifferent. But now, fifty years later, I pondered what a modern-era Siddhartha in Western culture would look like; could he even exist? Can a naturally insightful person survive in a world teeming with AI, misinformation, conspiracy theories, and divisive rhetoric echoing from every mountaintop?

In search of this ideal, I penned Three Illusions: A Novel. This novel is not a mere work of fiction, but a reflection of my personal journey and a commentary on the state of our modern world. I assure you that I am neither delusional nor grandiose; I am not seeking to approach the unapproachable Mr. Hesse. Three Illusions: A Novel is quite different. I am merely trying to envision a character with perceptive traits that are in short supply in our modern world. 

The protagonist (Dylan Maxwell) is blemished, of course, but not otherwise riddled with envy, malice, greed, or other defects in character that presumably have existed since Homo sapiens first inhabited the world. Indeed, this young man would fully succumb to the pressures placed upon his inherent sapience. Wouldn’t he? 

This novel is my attempt to provoke thoughts about the relevance of philosophical concepts in modern society, a theme that has been central to my personal reflections and observations.

How important is friendship to you?

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