Richard Rushfield takes us on an unforgettable and hilarious trip through higher alternative education in the eighties. Don't Follow Me, I'm Lost is a strange and salacious memoir about life at the ultimate New England hippie college at the height of Reaganomics. Opening its doors in 1970, Hampshire College was an experiment in progressive education that went hilariously awry. Self- proclaimed nerd Richard Rushfield enrolled with the freshman class of 1986, hoping to shed his wholesome California upbringing in this liberal hideout, where overachievement and preppy clothes were banned. By turns hilarious, ironic, and steeped in history, Don't Follow Me, I'm Lost takes readers to a campus populated by Deadheads, club kids, poets, and insomniac filmmakers, at a time when America saw the rise of punk and grunge alongside neoconservatism, earnest calls for political correctness, and Take Back the Night vigils. Imagine Lord of the Flies set on a college campus and you have Richard Rushfield's alma mater experience.

Richard Rushfield takes us on an unforgettable and hilarious trip through higher alternative education in the eighties. Don't Follow Me, I'm Lost is a strange and salacious memoir about life at the ultimate New England hippie college at the height of Reaganomics. Opening its doors in 1970, Hampshire College was an experiment in progressive education that went hilariously awry. Self- proclaimed nerd Richard Rushfield enrolled with the freshman class of 1986, hoping to shed his wholesome California upbringing in this liberal hideout, where overachievement and preppy clothes were banned. By turns hilarious, ironic, and steeped in history, Don't Follow Me, I'm Lost takes readers to a campus populated by Deadheads, club kids, poets, and insomniac filmmakers, at a time when America saw the rise of punk and grunge alongside neoconservatism, earnest calls for political correctness, and Take Back the Night vigils. Imagine Lord of the Flies set on a college campus and you have Richard Rushfield's alma mater experience.

There was no denying it any longer. Gulliver was lost - on his way to leadership school. He was a failed leader even before he began. How could he - let alone his proud parents or anyone else - have believed that one day he would lead the flock? He couldn't even lead himself. Join Gulliver as his misadventure of getting lost takes him on an unplanned journey down through Africa. Along the way he faces numerous challenges, meets weird-looking creatures and makes wonderful friends, each of which teach him an unconventional lesson in leadership. And perhaps the most important lesson of all: a leader cannot lead without a flock. This book is a parable for adults and children alike at a time when the world needs a new kinds of leaders.

On September 15, 2016, after playing soccer in the rain with his school-aged children, 45-year-old Tim Peterson left the park in his truck with his baby boy, followed by his middle children and wife behind. His last words to Nicki were “Follow me. I don’t know where I’m going.” Moments later at County Road 11 and Evergreen in Burnsville, Minnesota, their lives changed forever. Follow Me, I Don’t Know Where I’m Going, blogger Nicole Venzke Peterson’s first book, is at once a tender and humorous love story, a touching and enlightening glimpse into the grief of a too-young widow, and an inspirational and practical diary of a faith journey. For those who have loved, lost, or simply lived life, this emotional and spiritual book is sure to bring hope to readers.

After one thousand, three hundred and fifteen days of silence, it feels as if I am coming to you from a totally different world. In fact it is so. The world of words, language, concepts, and the world of silence are so diametrically opposite to each other, they don’t meet anywhere. They can’t meet by their very nature. Silence means a state of wordlessness; and to speak now, it is as if to learn language again from ABC. But this is not a new experience for me; it has happened before too.

Offers a compilation of discussions between UG Krishnamurti and various questioners in India, Switzerland, Austria, Netherlands and UK. This book aims to show that the religious states of bliss and ecstasy can never be experienced, can never be grasped, contained, much less given expression to, by any man.

All Is Not LOST is the sad, funny, self-effacing yet soul-bearing story of what happened when one woman set aside a lifelong dream in favor of her kids, only to find herself battling her own ego and unfulfilled ambition. This is the memoir of former working actress Shannon Kenny Carbonell, and her own bittersweet account of the journey she undertook to reconcile her growing feelings of failure and the sudden loss of her identity. Shannon—wife of actor Nestor Carbonell of LOST, Bates Motel, and The Morning Show fame— knew she was making the better choice for her, no matter how painful, when she decided on full-time motherhood over her career. But little did she know that shortly after her family moved to Oahu, Hawaii, while Nestor shot LOST, Shannon would find herself desperate to feed the part of her that was suddenly starved of creativity and accomplishment. Just like the LOST survivors, she had crashed on an island that would test her, heal her, and surround her with the people who would eventually show her the way home.

The part of me which must succeed must never get lost, but the part of me which needs to live must be free to wander without fear of wandering. I found that line in an old novel of mine I looked to today to respond to my bitterly Jesuit-trained friend Eugene in response to poems he sent me; my response is meant to illuminate the richness of our seminar yesterday and at the same time the decades-ongoing banter he and I swim in, into which you also are welcome to wade (...and this is not writing, but wandering, which, as I said, I must). What the Jesuits taught you and Eugene indeed is to read (and other friends of mine, some still tormented). You Catholics are almost Jewish with meaning, almost Platonic with palimpsests and palindromes, cabalistically crusted with gematriac gems. We all hate tedious messages such as this, but things could be worse--I might send you all the notes my mother sends to me, or I might read this novel to you over the telephone, charges reversed. Anyhow, if I find your address Ill send you this mess, and good luck to you. Had you never learned to read you might just hunt mushrooms and catch fish and never worry with Herakleitos. It is a dive. The Devils Den is bleak and not at all colorful. The red and blue bulbs cast so little light they leave the eye straining to discern forms dark and colorless. Oh, you can make out everything, but no detail or inherent hue is manifest. It is as if your eyes felt things blindly in the dark, like radar outlining the somethings, where they are, but not at all like it would be to see a streaking screaming silver fighter plane spinning and careening, laying out its spider-web fiber staid and stable in the sky as the plane itself is mercurialness, this cloudy trail a flag, a battle banner strong but flexible in the wind left behind by its airplane-lover in his wake so that even were the plane to crash this flag would remain waving like a delicate white woman with a white lace handkerchief, would still stand on the platform loyal when the train had long gone from sight--but here is none of the shape and color and detail and character which would be in the white sky of bright day--just blips, the scantiest pattern only, by which a submarine carefully will navigate the profoundest blackest depths perilous and oppressive....She is white, all white. She is long and pale, her dress is white eyelet taffeta puffed at he shoulders and dipped at the breast (and her breasts are pale as marshmallows as I see and almost smell the warm dry softness of their sugar powder surface when she dips to pick up her carefully dropped handkerchief ),her hair is silver white, and in her hand she holds the white lace handkerchief which sketches vapor trails in the dark as she freely gesticulates pointing to herself, opening her arms away into the distant sky, and again pointing to herself.