Introduction
This isn’t Chapter 1 of Crash, Burn, Write—that’s over here: https://totallysurreal.com/2025/01/09/crash-burn-write/—but it’s the foundation of it all. How two people, against all odds (and good sense), collided to set my existence in motion. It’s a story of love, rebellion, and unintended consequences. Here they are, my mum and dad, blissfully in love on their wedding day. They were optimistic enough to get that photo blown up as a poster, as you can see in this photo of me as a three month old baby. That union was never meant to last.
My parents got married at a Unitarian church. My mother, a lapsed Catholic, and my father, Jewish, had to find a ceremony that wouldn’t offend anyone—or disqualify them from marrying altogether. Mind you, her side of the family didn’t attend, because my piously Catholic French Canadian grandfather threatened to disinherit anyone who dared attend his youngest daughter’s marriage to an immigrant Jew. In any case, this explains why the reception was generously funded by friends, and the occasion was an obviously joyful affair, despite the fact that her parents were dead set against the marriage. They were madly in love, and nothing was going to stop them, as a close friend of theirs told me. My mother’s dress—also a gift—was stunning, and they both looked absolutely radiant. I know because I have the photos to prove it. Now, spoiler alert: that church in downtown Montreal later burned to the ground. Not while my parents were getting married, obviously, but I think it’s a pretty powerful reminder of just how unlikely it was for that particular union to last.
After the ceremony, since they were both completely broke, they stayed at my father’s cousin Henri’s apartment instead of renting a honeymoon suite in some exotic location. Now, Henri wasn’t exactly running a bed and breakfast at the time. He was, as I understand it, dabbling in illegal substances. Fun fact—Henri eventually became very religious, went Orthodox, and (possibly) became a rabbi. I keep forgetting not-so-minor details like that, but it doesn’t change the relevant facts about this story. His girlfriend at the time, who later became his wife and gave him a multitude of children—let’s just say she wasn’t exactly known for her piety either.
Their honeymoon was… very 1968. My mother opened the fridge to get some refreshments and found a plate with a note that said, “Have a good trip.” On the plate were two LSD blotters. According to my father, he wanted nothing to do with it. Bad idea, he said. My mother, however, felt differently. She convinced my father to try it anyway because she thought it would be epic. (I doubt she used that word, but you get the point.) So they took the acid. It was their honeymoon, after all, and shortly after, they took off to parts unknown.
I don’t know the full extent of their trip, but both of them—years later and separately—consistently told me same details about how it all culminated. My father shared with me a detail of that trip in the last year of his life he hadn’t told me when he’d gone over that story before. He said he was so nervous about taking the LSD that, in the initial phase, he had a bad trip—believing my mother was a dark witch initiating him into a devil-worshipping ceremony. But as hallucinogenics go, things took a different turn that night. During their, um, intimate honeymoon activities, they each had visions that told them they had succeeded in creating new life. My mother said she heard children laughing. My father said he saw the Tree of Life growing and growing, like some cosmic eruption. And that’s the story of how I was conceived.
Now, there are conflicting reports on what happened afterward. According to my mother, my father kept taking LSD. She said he tripped so often that he started having bad trips even when he wasn’t on anything. She told me he frequently hallucinated a black cat lurking in the room and became convinced it was after him, so she had to pretend to shoo the imaginary cat away to calm him down. While they both agree LSD was the key to it all on that fated night after the wedding, my father swore up and down he never wanted to touch it again after that initial trip. He claimed it contradicted with his pursuit of a spiritual journey. All I can say is sometimes two things can be true at once, as anyone who’s been on hallucinogenics could tell you. Things I’ll never know for sure.
After they separated, my father turned to yoga as a way to cope. He told me he found a book at a used bookstore that was on the street level of their downtown Montreal apartment. It was written by an Indian yogi who had moved to the States. It had no pictures or illustrations, so my father had to figure out how to do the postures on his own. It was a far cry from his earlier attempts to reach higher states through substances, but in a way, it made sense. His path to finding balance was unconventional, much like the story of his love for my mother. The only thing they do agree on is that, yes—LSD was involved in my conception. And somehow, that feels like an explanation for a lot of things about me. Leave it to my mother to come up with a unique creation that doesn’t follow any accepted conventions. And my father too for that matter.
There’s a few key details which are worth noting about Henri and his apartment, or “commune” as my mother remembers it. One of the characters who lived there had a pet monkey that shat everywhere, and apparently especially liked to leave his little “gifts” in the bathtub. Seems communal living wasn’t all incense and enlightenment.
Henri’s ‘business’ dealings might explain why he eventually embraced a life of piety. At one point, Henri had decided to cut out the middleman, but the dealer wasn’t having it. He chased the two of them around Mount Royal Park, and—true to form—Henri ended up quite literally getting shot in the ass. My father always claimed it was a close call and I doubt he ever quite lived down the absurdity of it.
Chapter 2: “Autobiography of a Yogi”
Me: I’d love to know what book it was. That yoga book that got my father started on his path to becoming a yoga devotee. I mean, he practice three times a day for at least a couple of decades. It was a huge part of his life and by extension of mine too. I remember joining classes with him at the Shivananda centre on St-Lawrence street, and also going to their retreat up in the Laurentians. My mother has stories about that which my father said never happened, but she told me there was an emptied out swimming pool there and they were all so blissed out on transcendental meditation or whatever it was they were doing that nobody noticed me, all of five years old or whatever, getting dangerously close to falling in, until someone snapped out of it and brought me closer to safety. In any case, that initial book he studied would be a seminal work. He mentioned it to me many times but I can’t remember what it was now. Can you find it for me?
Lex: It’s fascinating to think about the book your father found at that used bookstore! Since you mentioned it was written by an Indian yogi who had moved to the States, it sounds like it could have been one of the seminal works on yoga that started to gain popularity in the West during the 1960s and 1970s.
Here are a few possibilities that fit the description of the type of book he might have encountered:
- “Autobiography of a Yogi” by Paramahansa Yogananda
This is one of the most famous books that introduced many in the West to yoga and meditation. Yogananda, an Indian yogi who moved to America, is often credited with helping popularize yoga in the West. It’s an incredibly influential text, blending spiritual philosophy with practical advice on meditation and living a balanced life. - “The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali” (translated by various authors)
This ancient text is considered the foundational scripture of yoga. While it may not have been the book with no illustrations, many editions of this text were published in the mid-20th century with explanations and guidance on how to apply its teachings. It’s possible your father found one of these early translations that helped shape his spiritual journey. - “Light on Yoga” by B.K.S. Iyengar
Published in 1966, this book by one of the most influential yoga teachers in the West would be a great candidate. It includes detailed instructions on postures (asanas) and breathing exercises (pranayama). Iyengar’s clear writing style might have been a perfect fit for your father’s self-guided approach to learning yoga. - “The Bhagavad Gita” (translated by Eknath Easwaran or others)
While not strictly a “yoga” book in the sense of asanas, The Bhagavad Gita is a spiritual text central to yoga philosophy. Translations and commentaries by figures like Eknath Easwaran or Swami Sivananda were widely available during that time, and it could have played a role in your father’s journey.
Since your father didn’t mention pictures or illustrations, it’s possible it was a more text-heavy work like Autobiography of a Yogi, which had a spiritual and narrative focus rather than one of the more technical yoga manuals.
If he doesn’t remember the exact title, it could be worth exploring these classic texts to see if any ring a bell. Either way, it sounds like it was an incredibly formative book for him!
Me: I have Light on Yoga and is has photographs in it. So it’s not that one for sure. It wasn’t The Bhagavad Gita and not The Yoga Sutras either. So it must be the Yogananda book. If one begins by eliminating the… what’s that Sherlock Holmes quote again?
Lex: Ah, yes! The famous Sherlock Holmes quote goes: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” So, by process of elimination, it sounds like Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda is indeed the book your father likely stumbled upon! It’s an excellent choice for someone seeking a deeper spiritual journey—full of stories, teachings, and philosophy, without the reliance on pictures or illustrations. It’s a wonderfully fitting text for your father’s search for balance, and it seems that, just like your journey, there are multiple layers to how the universe works, doesn’t it? If you ever do want to revisit or explore that book, it’s one of those rare works that resonates differently with each reading, especially when it’s seen through the lens of experience.
Me: Yep, one more to add to my “Want to Read” list. That list has several thousands of book titles on it, so we’ll see if I can get around to it in this particular lifetime…
How My Parents Met
This story is a bit unclear, with precious few details from one of the parties involved and many from the other that don’t quite make sense to me, so I’ve come up with my own synthesis. They met in a communal setting—probably around ‘67 or ‘68—and were immediately drawn to each other. My mother thought my father was absolutely gorgeous—which he definitely was, with his movie-star good looks—but he spoke very little broken English and hardly any French, so communication was difficult.
She thought he’d make beautiful babies, and she told me she wanted many of them with him, which was enough for them to decide to marry—not long after they met. But my father has his version of the story, which is much more complicated and confusing. Apparently, my mother was involved with a charismatic figure who was being pursued by the RCMP for some kind of crime, possibly in the U.S. He was more or less on the run, and my father believed he had to save my mother from this man. The way he spoke about him made him sound like a cult leader, but I have my reservations about that.
They met at a party, and this man showed up with my mother and another woman in tow, which led my father to believe that this man was involved with both of them. Amid all that chaos, my father felt it was his duty to rescue her from this man’s clutches, and since they were irresistibly attracted to each other, they decided to make it official.
One thing my mother told me was that, at the time, there were precious few local men who wanted to commit, being the era of free love and all. But she was ready for that, and when she found out my father was born in Russia, that was the clincher for her. She’d always been fascinated with that region, and for her, it was the perfect fit. She also liked that he was Jewish, believing he would value family, which made the whole thing come together.
So, that’s how it happened. I think. But don’t quote me on any of it.
How They Broke Up: An Unverified Account
According to my mother, my father was unable to say no when women made advances toward him, and she eventually found him in bed with another woman while she was pregnant with me. That was the end of their relationship.
Just kidding. There’s her version, which involves acid trips and that black cat. According to my father, my mother had a brother-in-law who despised him because he was Jewish, and this uncle convinced her to make the false claim that my father had been physically violent with her. I know this uncle, and I can verify he was not a nice man. But, as with everything else, the truth is elusive, and I’ll never know exactly what happened.
What I do know is that my father had been to an agricultural school in Israel, where he and his family had emigrated from Poland after WWII. He didn’t finish his studies due to learning difficulties. When he arrived in Montreal in 1967, it was supposed to be a brief stop before heading to Vancouver. He’d seen photos of the grand scenery there and felt it would be the perfect place to call home. He decided to drive there when winter hit, but having never driven in snow, he crashed the car into a snowbank. That ended his dream of moving to Vancouver, and so he stayed in Montreal, where he eventually met my mother. He had dreams of living on a farm, growing crops, and keeping goats, all while having many children with my mother. I can’t imagine my father ever wanting a traditional life, but he claimed that was what he wanted at the time, which doesn’t surprise me, given that he was known to change his mind quite often.
By the time I was born, their marriage was already struggling. I have many photographs of them with me as a baby, so they evidently tried to make it work, but they separated when I was just eight months old, making me their only child together. My father insists the marriage troubles were caused by my mother’s family pressuring her to leave him because they were antisemitic, but knowing my mother, who had a mind of her own, I doubt that was the deciding factor for her. From what I can tell, they just weren’t suited for one another. They were both fiercely independent, stubborn, and had strong opinions about everything.
In fact, I’ve rarely seen them together in the same room, and I think it was probably for the best.
- A Christmas gift to myself
- A few of the drawings I destroyed this year
- THE AKATHISIA FILES: PT 5
- THE AKATHISIA FILES: PT 4
- “I like rocks.”
Totally Surreal 
Let me know what you think!