Enlightening Nonsense

I am known to have a mouth like the Energizer rabbit, not so much droopy with whiskers nearby, but one that just keeps going and going and going and never shuts the fuck up. My mouth was unparalleled, partly because I had 72 stitches in my upper lip from a guy punching me while wearing a ring and they just don’t run parallel anymore, but mostly because no one could keep up with the amount of verbiage that would spew out of it like a sewage pipe, minus the pharmaceutical drugs. That was, until I met Ninja.

She just doesn’t shut the fuck up. I’ve tried soaking and scrubbing but still—ring around the collar [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e3N_skYSGoY]. I’ve even resorted to constantly asking her for a blowjob. She thinks it’s because I’m horny but it’s really just another attempt to get her to shut the fuck up.

Whenever you meet someone new, a psychological occurrence called “The Halo Effect” comes into play. This means that because you are so goo-goo eyed about the other person, you see them are perfect, despite all their very human fucking annoyances, metaphorically seeing them as having a “halo” over their head.

When Mary Magdalene saw Jesus she said, “You seem wise and have a nice beard—but I think I may just be experiencing the Halo Effect.”

Jesus replied, “No, I actually do have a halo.”

With Ninja, I don’t think she is some walking form of perfection…but I do find her perfect. While the top of her head seems to be like an active volcano, always spewing out scalding heat, I use it to keep my herbal tea warm. While her hair is really short and mostly buzzed except for in the front, I find it brings me back to the glory days at the Catholic parish when we used to sodomize small boys. And while her bush is so untamed that it looks like it belongs on a 70s porn star and would make one who has used a machete to cut himself through the Amazon Rain Forest freeze in fear like he’s just seen Medusa, it allows me to use that Weed Wacker I got on eBay last year that’s been sitting in a closet almost as long as Tom Cruise has. They say when life gives you lemons make lemonade. But that phrase doesn’t apply to those of us who were wishing for lemons and are totally psyched when they appear. Ninja is a lemon and I’m puckering…and loving it!

That being said, I have a challenge to deal with regarding her talking about all the “out there” stuff that only my immense sensitivity has prevented me from saying, “So, who gives a fuck?” I actually would say this if she paused long enough for me to get a word in edgewise.

While I can have verbal diarrhea that no amount of Kaopectate can stop from running—and I have plenty of thoughts and opinions—I don’t really take any of them too seriously. This doesn’t mean that I don’t sometimes vocalize something passionately like, “Torturing animals for vanity by wearing a fur coat is wrong!” but on some level, if you pressed me you would see that I don’t think anything—even murder—is that big a deal. The soul doesn’t die; all passionate issues are just attachments; all judgments good or bad, better or worse, are just delusional envisioning of existence.

The real issue is that Ninja takes her thoughts seriously and I take no thoughts seriously. And it bugs me that she will fall out of connection with me while she immerses herself in a pool of illusory thoughts while what is real is sitting right next to her and staring at her lovingly.

Early on I shared this with her. I started to tell her that when her mouth moved as fast as Monica Lewinsky’s right before drooling Bill Clinton’s load on her blue dress, it made me feel distant but that I doubted she would understand why. She was like, “It’s because at those times I am more connected to my thoughts than to you.” I was like, “No, that’s not—uh, actually, that’s exactly it.”

Whether or not all of reality is just a lie and I’m sitting in a pod providing battery power for the robots that took over the world while dreaming I’m a man living an irrelevant life, to me thoughts are still much less “real” than human beings. And when we care more about a fiction within an illusion than a reality within a delusion, well, that just makes the whole thing look like an Escher sketch.

I no longer “need to know” whether the Star Beings created us from apes or not, either way, I’m still going to use the word “pussy” 53 times each day. I no longer care if some book or workshop contains the latest, greatest wisdom teaching or exercise; I’m still going to find it too boring to sit through. I no longer care if someone is an enlightened master or not, only if I find him or her entertaining. And I have no grandiose mission to save the world or even save myself, I’ve resigned myself to the fate the 42^nd Street preacher has told me is my future: burning in Hell for eternity.

That being said, I have concluded that while I might consider all this talk about 2012 and the “four different types of soul groups” trivial—whether Universal Truths or not—she doesn’t, and while I don’t care about facts and figures, or falsehoods and backgrounds for that matter, I care about Ninja.

While I may prefer to talk to humans with bodies over listening to channelings from Archangels, perhaps all this New-Age psychobabble is a vital part of her path and expression of her Self and, really, that is all that matters. Maybe she is some type of historian of reality and will be collecting all this painfully tedious, seemingly useless information to make a clear timeline for future generations who, unlike me, give a shit. Perhaps the future history books will talk of her like Josephus and talk about me like Joe the bum.

I even borrowed a book of hers on the whole 2012 Atlantean something or other, not because I really care to use the book for anything other than a paperweight but because I care about her and want to share in what she finds exciting. That being said, if I happen to find a dusty lamp and rub it and a genie comes out, I’m not wishing for money or power or for a remake of the movie Sin City with Jessica Alba showing her tits like she was originally contracted to do—I’m wishing for Ninja to shut the fuck up. Ah, who am I kidding, if I found a dirty lamp I probably wouldn’t even rub it clean, as it would then become an eyesore to the piles of dusty filth that has filled my apartment.

I was sitting on the couch with Ninja and her mouth was running a mile a minute. Topics included Altlantean technology, UFO motherships in the clouds, channeled information from discarnate beings—after this point I couldn’t tell you what else she said, as I was spending all of my mental focus praying to the Gods to strike her dumb, and by dumb I don’t mean stupid but without voice, as I already considered anyone who would talk incessantly about these topics a moron.

And then the genie appeared to me. In the background, Ninja was onto a new topic, something like “crystals matrixes” and “planetary grids”; unfortunately, I wasn’t able to find the “mute” button.

“You have three wishes,” the genie said to me.

“Have Ninja shut the fuck up,” I said without hesitation. And POOF, she was silent.

“You have two more wishes.”

“That’s all I really wanted. Just give the next guy five wishes.”

When Duck left for Peru, my third-eye vision saw the path that led to us ending up together as somewhat hazy. This indicated to me that while the future is not determined, it would require some serious energy investment from both parties to clear up this foggy future, that or I needed to go to the psychic optometrist for a third-eye monocle. I thought this might make me look like Colonel Klink from Hogan’s Heroes and was pretty stoked at the prospect.

Schultz: [Klink is in prison awaiting a possible execution] I have some good news and bad news.

Col. Wilhelm Klink: This time tell me the good news first.

Schultz: You are going to be executed in the morning.

Col. Wilhelm Klink: Then what’s the bad news?

Schultz: They aren’t giving you a blindfold.

She was in Peru and I was in New York; she was immersed in warm weather and I was freezing my ass off; if someone asked her the time, she would say, “Son las dos y media”; if someone asked me the time, I would say, “Time to buy a fuckin’ watch. Now get your bitch ass outta my face!” It was a regular West Side Story romance, minus the gang fights and singing and dancing and “Jets” and “Sharks” and flaming guy playing Tony in the movie. The question was, is the world ready for a modern West Side Story with a “Duck” quacking in Spanish and an “X” barking in Balinese? (It doesn’t make sense but it alliterates.)

After I worked and worked on communicating with her through the limitations of email and Instant Messaging and snail mail and an occasional phone call, it was clear that in communication, she was like a retard with a cork on her fork in order to prevent blinding herself when she thrust it into her eye. And she acknowledged this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7P5qJAI9BIc

“I’m just a terrible communicator,” she said.

“Is that being sarcastic?” I asked, knowing that “It’s about time you admitted that!” would probably be as supportive as the 60-year old stretched-out bra that holds granny’s double-D’s pressed against her belly.

What she told me even a stillborn birthed in Iraq from all the depleted Uranium the U.S. dropped there would have understood to be obvious. And as much as I would have liked to have leaned back with my hands behind my head and said, “I think I have made my point,” with a pomposity that would make even the Wicked Witch of the House, Nancy Pelosi, look good in comparison, instead of gloating at my victory of argumentation, I just felt sad.

We all hope to “change” our partners into the perfect mate for us and sometimes forget that they are perfect just the way they are—although this may not translate as “perfect for us.” And to try and change someone into something they are not is one of the most dishonoring things one can do to another. I am all for working on relationships and believe that if you don’t, your relationship is bound to end like 50% of marriages do, in divorce, or be like the 49% that settle for misery or the 1% that are as brain dead as Terry Schiavo and don’t know if you just changed her diaper or gave her boobs a squeeze. But how much work is of value and when does it get to just banging your head against a wall and wondering why your headache won’t dissipate?

It wasn’t until I recently got back in touch with Gaia, a girl from Canada who I met online through a raw food personals site, that I was reminded of what I really needed: someone who was extremely conscious and giving and able to form a full sentence without at least a dozen grammar mistakes. And not only did I stop rowing towards Duck but I then started to row my boat to the shore, knowing that a fall that would make Niagara look like a water fountain was up around the bend. And while before I was willing to traverse it in a barrel for the slim hope that I would live to see her again, now I thought, “Fuck that noise!” and that I rather sunbathe on the shoreline than risk a muscle cramp from fatigue. 

I had sent her out a week ago some pricey raw chocolate, a flower I drew, a mala bracelet that I had brought to my Central Park tree friend for a blessing and a tiny framed picture of us for Valentine’s Day. She got it the day before Valentine’s, not knowing that at this point the sweetest thing I had left to offer was someone else’s chocolate.

She called me a couple of times on Valentine’s Day but I missed her calls. When we talked “in the box” of Instant Messaging, she asked if I was excited to see that she called. I had posted the day before on my un-blog The Emerald And The Ruby [http://rebelyogi.com/the-emerald-and-the-ruby.html], where the “Emerald” was Duck and the “Ruby” was Gaia and the gem lover who no longer found the Emerald to have the same brilliance was me. And my dwindling enthusiasm for the relationship was about as impossible to cover as one of those “North Star” pimples on the end of one’s nose. And for a guy who values truth more than just about anything, I replied like the cheating Thornton Melon, played by Rodney Dangerfield, in Back To School when the Dean of the university asked the obviously plagiarizing 60-year old newly-enrolled student who had donated millions to the school if the work he turned in was his own. “I can’t lie to you, Dean Martin. [Beat] Yes, it is.”

Valentine’s night, it was about 11:00 P.M. and I went to Central Park with Abandon. It was there that not only did I see they coyote that’s been wandering around the park for the past few weeks but where I followed Abandon up to the girl she had ran up to wagging wildly and jumped up onto, who was not only really cute but I would find myself spending the next three hours walking with talking about everything from metaphysics to megaphones (alright, we didn’t talk about megaphones but it was a nice alliteration, no?) And with her I could joke about anything and everything without fear that I would offend her or like an FCC censor she would hand me a list of things that I couldn’t include in my life show. While my fingers and toes started to get frostbitten from New York’s arctic temperature that would make even Al Whore admit that global warming is a farce, it seemed my heart was starting to dethaw from its cryogenic freeze and the high-voltage electricity that this girl was paddling was enough to restart it beating.

The next day, Duck sent me an email and asked me if something was up. Like Sherlock Holmes, she had put together a list of suspicions that included me going to dinner with a female on Valentine’s Day (who was a friend), writing The Emerald And The Ruby and my not seeming too excited about her calling me.

I wrote her back a long email and told her the truth, that while I could see at times where she was working on her communication with me, it seemed that a lot of the same issues we had discussed were continuing to repeat themselves. I said that while I could probably do without sex for a year until I saw her again, I doubted that I could do without the intimacy that doesn’t involve genitalia for that long. And the prospect of wacking-off while developing a brain tumor from my cell phone just didn’t seem to appeal to me anymore.

I also told her about Gaia and the Central Park girl and how they brought to the surface what I had been suppressing, that while I did feel a soul connection with Duck, there were needs I had that she was not filling. I told her that keeping the possibilities open for a possible connection at some undetermined time in the future while closing off the possibilities in the present was neither honoring the Universe or myself. I told her that while my love would not stop shining on her that I wanted to tell her the truth and not some modified version of it.

She wrote me back the longest email she’s ever sent me. She appreciated that I was straight up with her and while I felt there was some misinterpretation of what I had communicated, she got the jist of it, that while I was a dreamer, I could no longer deny my waking life anymore. And while her email didn’t directly say how hurt she was, I know it had to hurt popping a dream of hers that I helped to blow up.

Duck is a sweet girl and if there is any pain to be divvied up, I would request the lion’s share. Among other things, she helped to remind me that love is more important than the location I live in or any mission to save the world. She opened me up to dream once again and whether my particular dream involving her came to fruition or not, I was finally dreaming of something other than Al Whore covered in honey and placed in a large red ant hill and eaten alive. She also reminded me by her sensitivity to some of my humor that I need to be with someone with whom I can relax and be myself without having to limit myself to jokes about Barney the dinosaur in order to get a family approved G-rating.

In Native American tradition, there is the Heyoka, the sacred clown, who uses the medicine of Coyote the trickster. It is his role to make fun of everyone, including the Indian Chief, to make sure that no one takes him or herself or any situation too seriously and loses their ability to laugh at themselves. The sun may be baking and everyone is complaining about the heat and he will come outside wearing layer upon layer of clothes asking if anyone knows when the cold streak will pass. Or if there is a sentiment in the tribe that the tribal leader is not listening to his people, he may imitate the mannerisms of the leader in an exaggerated way, portraying him as a deaf mute, not only to help the leader to keep his ego in check but also to keep the unity of the tribe.

I am Heyoka and use Coyote Medicine. Unfortunately, in this society of the humorless most are like Sarah Pallin and think they are performing a civic duty by hunting coyote. But whether they are killing an animal or snuffing out the voice of one who is trying to help them to not take themselves so seriously, it is still an act of savagery. Pointing their guns or their fingers at the Trickster, their violence leaves blood on their hands.

By seeing the coyote that night, I was given a taste from my own medicine bag, for Coyote Medicine was reminding me to lighten up, that I was taking things much too seriously and needed to regain my sense of humor. He was also showing me that my Trickster humor is important medicine and that anyone who could not laugh with me was turning my medicine into poison, for them as well as for me.

When I asked Osho on the first day I met Duck if she was “the one,” he told me no. He said that we are compatible and could be happy together but that she was not the one who would add the perfect harmony to my heart’s song. And so I did what any devotee would do when his master told him something—I set out to prove him wrong. I would work harder, move to Peru, change my name to “Pancho.” But as much as I pretended that I would do anything and everything to be with Duck, I soon realized that I would not sacrifice Who I Am to be with anyone, Duck, goose, chicken or any other poultry.

And when I came back to Osho with my head down and told him he was right, he wasn’t mad at me for shunning his words and he didn’t rub it in my face with an, “I told you so,” for he knew that the only way to really know anything is to discover it for yourself through your own experience.

As sarcastic and heartless and mean as I can appear through the caricature of my online persona, I hate to hurt anyone who isn’t a Christian, Muslim, Jew, Hindu, Buddhist, Atheist, Asian, black, white, gay, straight, bi, man or woman. But when even I try to fight the Universe’s current, I inevitably get smashed on the rocks and my flailing legs will usually kick someone else in the face. And when we grab onto another with a death grip too afraid to let go and ride the current, it inevitably leads to pulling the object of our affections under water and drowning both.

The worst part about it all is that Duck told me that she was going to drop out of receiving my un-blog, as it would be too painful for her to read about my love life. This will cut my readership by 50%. I would unsubscribe myself but then no one would read my stuff!