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Webster’s Dictionary defines SERENDIPITY as:
The faggy whistling sound a homosexual man makes after he orders a Tom Collins at a gay bar.
To research this definition, I frequented a total of 243 gay bars over the last three weeks and 603 Tom Collins and 713 blowjobs later, I find this definition to be very true, although I noticed the key the whistle is blown in is a half a step lower on the Upper Eastside versus down in Soho. I was blown in the same key in both areas.
I had just started listening to a series of Osho lectures that day on The Dhammapada, the Buddha’s Diamond Sutra that some spiritualists would like to wear on their finger more than the shiny standard. I listened to about three hours worth. I have a condition known as S.A.D.D., or Spiritual Attention Deficit Disorder, and after three hours of just about anything, I’ve had enough, at least for the moment. So as much as I love Osho, I was ready to give him a rest for the day and hit the gay bar.
In my past life with Jesus, when he was giving his Sermon on the Mount, it starting dragging close to the three-hour mark and I pointed to my portable sundial I wore on my wrist and said, “Uh, Savior? How about ‘saving’ us a few minutes and cut to the friggin’ chase!” Thankfully the transcribers of that long, boring speech agreed with me and only “the chase” was recorded for posterity. I’m not kidding, I mean, “Blessed is the guy who cleaned the cow shit from my sandal when I cut over Farmer Brown’s fence and inadvertently stepped in a pile.” Jesus Christ!
So I was walking Abandon and came across some furniture on the sidewalk that was being. Let me back up…I was on my third Tom Collins at the The Dirty Bunghole. Uh, let me back up before that…
I recently moved. For the first time I have a separate kitchen, as opposed to what they tend to do in studios or small one-bedroom apartments in New York City, where they put one row of imitation tiles near a stovetop and call it a kitchen. My Mom had said that I could put a small table in there and since I am a momma’s boy and listen to everything my mother says—except maybe about cutting my hair and hussling more for work and cleaning my apartment and to shave before I tongue kiss her as my stubble always irritates her face—I decided to look into it.
I wanted one of those folding tables that are kind of rectangular and thin when they are folded up, so it wouldn’t take up room when I’m not stuffing carrot sticks and celery down my throat and up my ass, and that I could open up fully when I am entertaining guests with a 7-course meal like I two every Tuesday and Saturday.
So I’m walking with Abandon, after a few drinks at The Dirty Bunghole, which incidentally have really plump maraschino cherries, or so he called that thing he stuck in my rectum, when I came across not one but two folding tables and chairs. I had a personal training client in Brooklyn that I had to take a 45-minute subway to get to coming up and I didn’t really have time to come back and forth several times.
And then I saw in a box on one of the table some books. Now I have more books than I will ever need and ever since my 12-Step Book Addiction program I am able to walk by any bookstore without the slightest urge to enter it…but if I did enter it I would have to browse the New Age and the Health and the Sports and the Writing and the Gay New York sections… “There is a higher source than me.” Okay, I’m better now.
So in this box were some “spiritual” books. There was “Seth Speaks” which is a channeled book. There was Chuang Tsu, my favorite Taoist because he was funny as fuck. And there was THE DHAMMAPADA. No way!
So I gave Abandon her leash and said, “Girl, you’re going to have to walk yourself home,” as I grabbed one of the folding tables and those three books (I left How To Get Men To Buy You Drinks In Gay Bars as I had figured out that if you just stir your first drink with your cock, every other drink would be bought and paid for the rest of the night.)
On the way to my client in Brooklyn, I read the first sutra, or section. It was only a few pages long but it was so full that I would feel ridiculous if I made my goal to blast through the book like a hotdog eating contest, instead of savoring it like a vegan brownie. Some points touched my heart very hard regarding helping others instead of just focusing on if you could get your dick sucked at the next gay bar that I was moved to tears, or rather, my bowels moved. It was too late to change my underwear and so I came up with the face-saving excuse to tell my client, that I sat in some dog shit while I was wearing my underwear inside-out on the outside of my pants. Seemed reasonable, I figured.
On the subway back, I considered plunging forward into the second sutra but then thought how the first really gave me enough to explore and stuffing more food down my throat at this point would either result in asphyxiation or some stranger giving me the Heimlich Maneuver, neither of which option appealed to me, so I decided to review the first sutra again.
At home that night, while postponing wiping the cobwebs off my new folding table that was conveniently located in my bathroom until I moved the clutter that I had relocated to the kitchen in order to deceive myself that I had actually cleaned a little in the main room, instead of just sweeping the dust under the carpet, so to speak, I received that while Osho had given a series of talks on The Dhammapada during his stay in his body, that he wanted to share more of his teachings to a modern audience with a different twist than he did some 25-plus years ago; he had learned a whole new slew of dirty jokes and felt it a shame that he didn’t get a chance to tell them to his listeners. And, more importantly, he was sharing with me teachings that he knew would benefit me at this point in my spiritual dysfunctionism.
So I started to channel Osho, if you would. Now let me explain my understanding of how my channeling works. I am not certain whether there is an actual being that is dictating to me while I act as the Earthly scribe. I think this is possible but the scientist in me doesn’t just settle for the frosting side. I tap into the energy of the being, whether that is my concept of their energy or a real energy pattern that expresses them, and it is my connection this energy pattern working through my vehicle that the information comes.
I get wisdom teachings that seem somewhat beyond my ball-scratching, gay barhopping, idiotic ways but nothing will come through me that is not somewhere in my data banks. In other words, I won’t be able to start writing in German or quoting mystics of whom I have never heard. Could this just be my subconscious mind talking? Could be. Could it be me tapping into the Cosmic Consciousness? Maybe. Could it be me tapping into a being? Look, I don’t know what the fuck it is, I just know it grooves.
So I started to open myself, and not just my butt cheeks at The Salty Seaman, and write for the transmissions from Osho that would come through my vehicle and into my notebook. I would spend each long subway commute transmitting, which gave me ample opportunity to scribe, as my new apartment is located in Bumfuck, New York.
And the flow just kept flowing. Often I would look up suddenly and have to quickly grab my bags and get off to avoid missing my stop; 45-minute train rides started to feel like minutes. I found myself with 15-pages written just on the first sutra…the first page of the first sutra…the first two paragraphs of the first page of the first sutra!
You see Osho is like me in regards to the fact that he can talk not just about eternity—but for an eternity! He will go off on a million different tangents that all share their own wisdom teachings and then will eventually come back on point. An editor today would want to cut out whole 7-page sections saying, “What the hell—this is like seven books in one!” But Osho understood that learning, like life, doesn’t function linearly. And so he could talk for 2-hours straight answering a particular question that might have taken a “scholar” 30-seconds to answer.
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Osho told a funny story where one of his peeps asked him, “Osho, why do Jews have big noses?” She then saw that look that comes across Osho’s face when he starts to tap in and is about to go off on a very long diatribe and she interrupted and said, “Never mind! I know: it’s because air is cheap.”
Air may be cheap but not Babs' concert tickets!
I am not sure what will become of these transmissions. People have channeled everyone from Nostradamus to Jesus. I am already aware that a lot of the Osho crowd who think they have liberated themselves beyond the confines of conditioning will raise their voices in a serious naysay if I come out with a book that is claiming to be a channeling of Osho. Fuck ‘em.
I do know that my writing tends to be divided into three different categories and while they all share a similar overall feel, they each have a slightly different quality to them. When I write my typical nonsense, it flows and it feels pretty light for the most part and some lines even crack me up as I write them. [This piece took me about an hour-and-a-half to write and I never paused once or thought about what needs to come next, nor did I even edit it—but this may change after posting.]
These Osho transmissions have an interesting new feel. I can literally write non-stop and don’t have to worry about clean-up or editing and it feels like I am sitting in a private lecture all the while with a master who is using the databank of my resources—my experiences, my knowledge, my style—to share with me his message. And while I am receiving wisdom teachings that are beyond my mere intellectual understanding, on some level it isn’t quite as satiating because there is a part of me that feels like I am not creating but gathering. It’s hard to explain. Don’t get me wrong, I still dig it and will continue to do it. It just feels different.
And then there’s my poetry and my fiction. This feels almost heavenly to me. I am aware before I put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, that the poem is already done on some level. I even have a sense of it, as if on some level I wouldn’t need to even write it, that I have already tasted and digested its richness. But it wants to come into words and while words can’t capture exactly a sense or a feeling or an understanding, they are what us humans use to communicate and it feels like there is a slight need for me to change the energy form from a more etheric state to a more solid one.
When I write my poetry, it feels like my heart is open and the receiving channel through which it enters me. When I write my nonsense, it feels like my head is the receiving channel—which doesn’t mean I am intellectualizing and thinking necessarily. Hard to explain. With the Osho transmissions it feels like my whole body is the receiving channel. My body feels almost hollow and the messages pass through me, somewhat mechanically. My mind is still active and periodically, even in the midst of writing something, I will make a comment to Osho such as, “I am a wordsmith and sometimes I may modify a word or two you are giving me for better craftsmanship” and he replies, “Do what you want”—all the while the pen never stops moving.
To read an earlier transmission from Osho, read the GREEN section of the piece “A Second-Hand Emotion” [http://rebelyogi.com/a-second-hand-emotion].
I am not sure when it will be time to share the Osho transmissions on The Dhammapada. When I do, you will see that is about a lot more than just a commentary on the Buddha’s words and more of a commentary on life. There are already some funny jokes in there as well! I am seeing that some sections lend themselves to be extracted for earlier postings. One in particular I may share soon is about Rumi’s beautiful line, “Out beyond ideas of rightdoing and wrongdoing, there’s a field. I’ll meet you there.”
Out beyond ideas of seriousness and saintlihood, there’s Osho. I’m hoping that through my vehicle you will meet him there.
