Enlightening Nonsense

[First posted September 21, 2008]

 

“How did you get the name ‘Swami X’?” is the third most popular question according to the 2008 Census Bureau.

#2 is asking a vegan, “Where do you get your protein?” the assumption being that the fictitious percentage they have in their mind is based on science [check out The China Study by Dr. T. Colin Campbell and Thomas M. Campbell II for real science on protein requirements for health] and not a sly marketing campaign by the meat and poultry industry–as if poultry is not “meat.” I’ve grown tired of people saying, “I don’t eat meat–only chicken and fish,” as if I should respond to their moronic statement by giving them a purple heart for sacrifice and putting them on a pedestal alongside of Jack LaLanne and Norman Walker as an example of exemplary health; last I checked, they don’t sell chicken and fish seeds to grow a chicken or fish plant in your garden.

The #1 reported question for 2008 was: “How much further into economic depression do we have to slide before McCain stops saying, ‘The fundamentals of our economy are strong.’?”

I am not going to delve right now into lying politicians who insult the intelligence of their listeners by lying straight to their faces or into how vegans get their protein but since I showed in the horserace for the top question, I will delviate into that one.

The short answer of my name is that my parents gave it to me at birth. That’s a lie, but it’s short. As I know you, my beloved readers, are into Truth, or at least “safe” truth in which you don’t have to face the lies you’ve been living and grown somewhat fond of, I will share the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help me God. I did not have sexual relations with that girl and, given the opportunity, I probably wouldn’t despite how absorbant she told me her blue dress was. Okay, maybe I would but I wouldn’t like about it on the stand. Okay, maybe I would lie about it too but that would be more because I was in a military court, designated by the yellow fringe on the flag, and not because I was too much of a pussy to fess up to banging a fat chick. So, where to begin…

I went through three initiations into Babaji’s kriya yoga, the last one being a 9-day, 5:30am-8:00pm daily routine to cover 144 different kriyas, or practices, from the practical, such as kriyas to better focus the mind, to the mundane, such as “Nose-Picking Kriya” to avoid being seen while digging for gold in public. The focus of Babaji’s kriya yoga is self-realization and not to see who can make it through a yoga routine in a stuffy 110 degree studio without passing out. Babaji desires raising consciousness; Bikram desires cash.

It was my understanding that you could repeat for free any level in which you were already initiated and I had gone through the Level I two-day initiation about three times, not because I felt I could benefit from a review but because I was raised as a cheap Jew and any chance to get something for free was strongly encouraged with a wooden ruler, which was promptly returned to the Catholic nun from whom it was borrowed. I found out that the freebie review only applied to Level I initiation when I planned to cash in on a second round of Level II.

All the initiations I had taken were given through the main teacher, Marshall Govindan. His devotion to Babaji, the immortal yogi who condensed his teachings into what he considered the 144 most essential practices (well 143–even Babaji said that one could still reach enlightenment without ever doing “Nose-Picking Kriya,” only no one would want to shake your hand when you did.)

Govindan spent about three decades under the tutelage of his teacher, Yogi Ramiah, who was a direct student of Babaji, putting in eight hours of kriya yoga work–in addition to eight hours of what most ofus call work–a place you dread going to but the wife won’t give you the once a month blowjob if you don’t pay the bills–and periodic full 24-hour days of devotion to kriya yoga work. He was committed, but luckily the staff at Bellevue didn’t interfere with his kriya yoga schedule. You can read his story in his book “How I Became A Disciple of Babaji.”

I saw there was another 2nd Level initiation being offered in some remote place in Pennsylvania, taught by a different teacher named Rudra, and because of my deep-seated connection with the Pennsylvania Dutch and my belief that it wasn’t going to cost me anything besides a minimal amount to cover food and housing, I decided to sign-up.

It was held at a very isolated hybrid of what seemed to be a holistic center and a bed and breakfast, meaning you had a bed, breakfast, and a personal New-Age freak whose idea of a “happy ending” was to wave a crystal over your head after an hour-long bad massage that you had purchased solely to get jerked-off at the end by the 70-year old Korean woman named Kim Chee whose arthritis didn’t allow her to do much more than spread the oil on your back.

When Rudra called me into his makeshift office on the first day to “settle up,” I found out that he didn’t mean to make my decision for breakfast between the tofu scrambler or the seitan pork chop but to pay him $450. It was at this moment that I invented the exclamation “Doh!” which was later stolen from me and sold to Homer Simpson for $10 million. You can read about this in the September 5, 1998 edition of The National Enquirer, a fairly accurate rendition, minus the fact that I didn’t have sex with Marge Simpson, as much as I wanted to.

Unfortunately, bigfoot apparently stole someone’s wife that same week and so my story was bumped to page 2. He had a high-priced lawyer who did the old “The glove doesn’t fit” defense and because of a hairy jury he was set free. He later wrote a “fiction” book called “If I Were To Steal That Man’s Wife This Is How I Would Have Done It.” It was a pretty good read minus all the side bars about what it’s like to shit in the woods.

I told Rudra that I had a misunderstanding and not only didn’t I have the money but I wouldn’t have come this weekend had I known that it required giving my first born to servitude in a Chinese sweat shop so that Wal-Mart could sell a toaster for five bucks and destroy all the Ma & Pa businesses in town in order for me to attend. Expecting the understanding of Tony Soprano when your envelope is a tad short for the week, I was pleasantly surprised when he said, “Contribute what you can.” He wasn’t amused when I put my gum wrapper in the couffers.

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I had a very nice weekend. Rudra’s looser teaching style was complementary to Govindan’s very structured way of presenting the material and my brain felt Abbie Normal once again. That is, until I received an email message from Govindan. In his message he basically ripped me a new one, telling me that when you go through Second Level initiation (which I already had) you are expected to contribute fully to the kriya yoga program. I wrote him back and said, “Call the fee a ‘charge’ and that is fine. But if you call something a ‘donation’ than you should be happy with whatever you get.”

You see, this is a trick of the New-Age/yogic world. They get tax-exempt status, which allows people to write off their donations as tax deductions which results in a LOT more money coming in because, as we know, most people can be as “charitable” as fudge but unless this will result in a tax break or a get-into-Heaven break, they generally couldn’t give a rat’s ass about giving their hard-earned money for a “good cause.” But their 503c status also makes them a slave to the government, who can shut them down if they don’t follow any of the rules of a 503c non-profit organization, and there are plenty of rules.

For instance, let’s just say the Bush administration decided to invade Iran, as hard as it is for you to imagine our country invading a sovereign nation that poses no threat to us. And let’s just say that the “Sell-Out Ashram” has a guru, Sri Sri Sri Pussananda, that gives a speech about how our administration is in violation of the yogic principle of ahimsa, or non-violence, and that one should not support an administration or candidate that violates this basic yogic principle. The ashram could be shut down for violating the small print of their 503c contract that says they agree not to discuss politics.

“What about free speech?” you ask. There is a way to legally lose your civil liberties, and that is by voluntarily giving them up through contract law. What is harder to always stay aware of is that contracts come in many different forms, from a Driver’s License to a W-4 form. Sign a Driver’s License agreement and you declare yourself a “Driver,” which is defined differently in the Motor Vehicles Code than it is in Webster’s Dictionary. Sign a W-4 form and you declare yourself a “Taxpayer” which means something different in the Internal Revenue Code than it does in Webster’s Dictionary. And once you agree by contract that you are a “driver” or a “taxpayer” then you’re in a whole world of hurt without an Advil.

And let’s just say the ashram doesn’t send male devotees to the White House to act as prostitutes, like when male porno stars were signed into the White House after hours, this would be another violation of the small print that says George Pussy and Cock Cheney can have young men give them sexual favors anytime they command…and once again–you’re out!

After signing your soul away on the dotted line, everything becomes a “donation.” “Put your donation into the parking meter.” “This workshop is for a donation of $450.” “If the Pillsbury Dough boy took over our country it would be a dough-nation.” It’s a bullshit way of calling a charge or fee a donation and violates the yogic principle of satya, or truth. But once the Devil, which is fear and insecurity, has your soul, a small white lie for a few buck “for a good cause” is an accepted violation, no?

I should mention that Govindan changed his name to Satchidananda, which means “existence-knowledge-bliss,” considered the description of the absolute. So, being a little immature at the time (it was only recently that I matured into full immaturity), I started signing all my correspondence to him with a silly made-up yoga name, somewhat mocking his multiple name changes and how ridiculous I thought all the yoga posers were who changed their names and were no less a jackass then they were before. “Bananananda of the Third Order of Acharyas.” “Ramananda of Planet Zenor.”

It sounded like the old Star Trek days when Kirk would be telling some story about “history” and would throw in some fake “future” things to show us that they were living far in the future. “Great dictators like Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, Zandor of Galaxy Four, Igpop of Zarias.” ”Great civilizations like the Romans, the Athenians, the Parvinians of Andromeda, the Preops of Transexualis.” And thus began my search for the perfect made-up name.

I started with Jackassananda, or “blissful jackass.” I realized soon enough that the name had to be more veiled, that this name was announcing from the treetops: “I AM FOOLING AROUND HERE AND NOT TO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY!”

The next incarnation was j. asananda. I modeled this name after the Indian intellectual and philosopher Jiddhu Krishnamurti, whose name they always wrote on his books as “J. Krishnamurti,” probably because they couldn’t fit it on one line. I wrote it in all lower-case, inspired by e.e. cummings, throwing in the fake spiritual concept that “I am just a nothing with lower-cased letters compared to the capital ALL.” And I dropped an “s” for obvious reasons.

This name seemed to work like a charm. People even started asking me, “What does the ‘j’ stand for?” I had many people calling me “Mr. asananda.” It was fun…for awhile. But like a kid with the phony label of A.D.D., I soon grew bored of this one as well and since I wasn’t on Ritalin, I was able to run around and knock things over like a normal kid is supposed to do.

Next I dropped the “j” and capitalized the name to make it Asananda. A single name, like Cher, was even more kick-ass. “Asananda.” Nice.

In yoga the word “Asana” can be translated as “seat,” which can have some deeper meanings, but it is almost universally known to be a word to label the physical yoga and in modern tongue would be translated as “position.” The word “ananda” is usually translated as “bliss.” So one could say that I was a “blissful posture” or “blissfully engaged in the physical postures of yoga,” or maybe it was an ad that was selling my escort service in The Village Voice: “Dude With A Blissful Seat Is Available For Hire.”

I would later adapt it to mean that I was blissful in the physical and finding the grounding or “seat” in spirituality in the physical, “keeping it real” so to speak, which is kind of true. But really it was not “Asana-ananda” but “Asananda,” which meant “blissful ass” and nothing more.

When I was in India, I went to the Meditation Resort of my favorite mystic, Osho, for a week. At the end of the week I took sannyas, which is a commitment ceremony. We each received a quote by Osho and mine was perfect for me. It said something like, “Becoming a sannyasin is not joining a group but acknowledging that you are always alone on the path.” This fit in perfectly with my hesitancy to hang around any “spiritual” group for too long. It was rarely the guru that bugged me, even if he was a charlatan, but the circus of followers that surrounded him who, like any other cult member, were mindless and eager to give up his power.

Becoming a sannyasin is a personal commitment to following the path of self-realization and as much as I thought, “This will be a good marketing title to add when I write ‘spiritual’ articles,” a commitment was made and I didn’t take that too lightly. Okay, maybe I did but still. We also got a swami name that would be assigned to you, or you could choose your own. I chose Swami Asananda. The word swami means master; it means striving for the mastery over one’s smaller self and habit patterns, so that the eternal Self within may come shining through.

The ceremony was really quite loving, with all the others who had already taken sannyas and those who had not, hugging you with big smiles and congratulating you with “Welcome home,” symbolizing that all the other nonsense that you had partaken of before your commitment to your spiritual unfoldment was you wandering lost without a home and now you had found your way back home to a spiritual path with a spiritual family on the sidelines that encouraged you to take your own steps forward. So I’m Swami Asananda now.

After awhile my rebellious ways started to want to express itself with a more rebel name; I didn’t want to “fit in” to the yoga world, I wanted to shatter its bullshit as well. I wanted to add a flava that had attitude and power. I think I had just seen Spike Lee’s “Malcom X” starring one of my favorite actors, Denzel Washington. I added an “X” to my name and dropped the “Swami” and it became Asananda X. This was a “full” name now and I kinda dug every time someone was filling out a sheet with my name and they would say, “First name?” and I would say, “Asananda.” And then they would say, “Last name?” and I would say, “X.” And they would say, “X?” And I would say, “Just the letter.” How radical is that!

At the yoga studio where I teach, they know me as Asananda. I’m reminded of Junior High School when this transfer student from Japan, Mariko, came to class. She barely spoke any English and my friends and I, being the caring people that we were, volunteered our elocutionary skills to make her stay in America an easier one. We would hold up a pencil and say, “Pe-nis.” Sometimes when I hear people call me with a straight face “blissful jackass” it brings me back to those carefree times in Junior High when Mariko would hold up her pencil and say, “Penis.” Ah, nostalgia.

But this thrill had started to wane. Soon Asananda meant nothing to anyone but another name. “Asananda, are you teaching tomorrow?” “Asananda and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.” When I would meet new people they would think it just a name, albeit a strange one, and the whole mockery faded to the ethers.

I had been playing around with my names final incarnation for sometime and finally decided to unveil my latest Macintosh yoga name–slick and portable and available in a variety of colors: Swami X. It is mysterious. It is powerful. It also symbolizes that a name is just a label that can’t capture the essence of a human, the same way you can’t eat the word “apple” anymore than you can jerk-off to the word “love” (well, that last part is not necessarily true but it does require a pretty twisted mind!) And it emphasizes that it is not about me, that I am the equivalent of how Fred Flintstone signs his name on a slab of rock with a chisel when accepting a package–an “X”; it is the teachings that are important.

It also allows me to keep a distance between myself and others, in the same way that only a handful of people know my home phone number and only the same handful have been allowed into the sanctuary of my apartment (a part of this being that I am embarrassed how disgusting I have let it become.) It may also be why I have not put my poetry out here yet, because my poems are pure Truth without costume.

Before you psychoanalyze me and tell me how this is a fear-based mechanism and put me on the Prozac, I am well aware of all my psychosis (although I haven’t touched any small children in awhile) and while I may be willing to throw my pearls to swine, I think the swine has to be pretty friggin’ charming–like Arnold of “Green Acres”–if they want to get a pearl necklace from me. It’s not all fear, it’s discretion. I don’t think anyone truly seeking should be restricted from the treasure but those just seeking to star gaze will be treated like how Sean Penn treats paparazzi.

One girl once asked me, “What is your real name?” I asked her, “Would you like to know my name…or would you like to know my essence?” I think she chose my name and I chose to leave.

Without a name it becomes very hard to address each other, as the recording artist, Prince, learned when he changed his name to a squiggly design and left his wallet at the counter of a store which he frequented for Aqua Velva. The cashier was trying to call after him. “Uh, what the fu–? Uh, you sir. Uh, singer guy! Uh–oh fuck it!” Needless to say, the wallet was never returned and soon after Prince changed his name back from a symbol to a word. Whether Prince was making a deeper statement or just trying to uses the squiggle name to separate himself from contractual obligations, his story did illustrate that besides making it easier to address each other, names are little more than labels, and they far from capture the essence of Who We Are.

There are plenty of other “names” that we use to define ourselves. Our skin color. Our religion. Our job. Our affiliations. So when asked “Who are you?” you come back by rote “I am a white, Jewish lawyer and a proud member of the Glee Club.” So let me get this straight, if you had a freak laboratory accident that turned your skin green, like what happened to Dr. Bruce Banner when he changed into the hulk, you gave up your religion (although Jews never let you escape their clutches–even if you convert. “If your mother is a Jew, you are a Jew”), lost your job as a lawyer, and hit a sour note at the last Glee Club Glee-A-Thon…would you cease to exist?

I have a client who identifies with the above characteristics (minus the Glee Club) so much so that his self-worth diminishes to the point of clinical depression if business becomes slow for him. This million-dollar lawyer is holding onto his borrowed costume with white knuckles and is only “happy” so long as it remains in his white knuckled death grip. Seems a lot of work for a temporary respite from misery. I rather spend my time buying fake love in Las Vegas than fake happiness in New York, after all, “What goes on in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” but what goes on in New York seems to attach itself to you like a piece of toilet paper to the bottom of your shoe.

All these things are names we call ourselves and all of them make it harder to see the Truth of Who We Are beneath all the nonsense. You may express yourself through your job but you are not your job. You may express yourself through your creativity and declare to the world, “I AM AN ARTIST!” but you are not what you do anymore than you are what you say, think or feel. “I am a vegan” “I am a raw foodist.” Like all of you, I remember the phrase “You are what you eat,” but that was created by people who had no idea Who They Were, which was their problem. But in our feeling of isolation and our struggle to belong, we are willing to define ourselves as something we’re not just to avoid remaining undefined as something we Are. If someone defines to me who they are by what they eat I may announce at a slightly louder than necessary volume: “I AM A BLACK T-SHIRT!” Don’t laugh, it would only be a matter of time before black T-shirtism became the latest religion/cult/group/style/fad/philosophy. As George Bush said, “If this were a dictatorship, it would be a heck of a lot easier, just so long as I’m the dictator.” Well, if we’re gonna have a costume ball, let me be RuPaul.

Anarchy is a philosophy, not defined by wearing black clothes with a red letter “A” on it. A hippie is a way of being, and if you just grow your hair long and don’t shower and smoke pot and listen to The Grateful Dead–well, sure you’d be welcome at any Birkenstock runway show but you wouldn’t necessarily be a hippie. Are you a “punk” because you like to listen to people yell into microphones and call it music, smash things up and have a green mohawk hairstyle to boot?

Notice how easily all these, “We’re against the conformity of society” groups conform to a different dress code. I’m thinking of joining some anarchist group–a real one and not the ones that get paid off by the government to get violent at peaceful demonstrations so the government can declare martial law and have their police kick the heads in of peaceful protestors–and wear nothing but white. When they say, “Hey man, what’s with that society shade you’re wearing?” I’ll tell them, “If I wore black, I’d just be another anarchist conformist pussy like you and I’m an individual who is against conformity, regardless of whether it’s in the minority or majority.” In a week everyone would be wearing white. And I’d do it before Easter too, just to fuck with another social code.

This whole “identity” game gets really masked when we think we are doing something altruistic for the world. “I am a healer.” Don’t kid yourself, you’re just wearing a different costume and don’t know who the fuck you are. And if you find yourself getting angry or upset by my comment, you’re even more lost in your costume.

I have known countless yoga teachers, healers and psychics–some very well known in their fields–who talk the good game about “Spirit” and “we are all one” and how they are happy and excited about where they are on their path and what they are doing, who when I pushed them to the breaking point admitted to me that they were unhappy and felt somewhat lost. These are people who are posing as happy and together and thought examples of what we should strive to be–which I guess means, “fake happy people.” They have gotten so identified with their role as “Together Spiritual Advisor” and have allowed the energy from the strap-hangers that grab hold of them to further define themselves as a their “job” or “task” that they can’t admit that they are as fucked up and confused as all the rest of us, regardless of whether “Spirit” speaks to them or not. Bad for business, I suppose.

One well-known psychic I know won a television reality show and then she became untouchable and unreachable. I once talked to her on the phone, I think after she already won the $100,000 prize money and she seemed unhappy, not just in the moment, but in life. When I next saw her, I gave her a copy of one of my favorite books, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah by Richard Bach, about a messiah who felt that the job wasn’t all it was cracked up to be and decided to quit messiah-ing–with God’s approval, as God allows everyone free will and doesn’t want anyone unhappy, according to the story–you and I both know Him to be a vindictive, punishing bastard that if you wack-off or don’t take Jesus as your savior will have you burning in Hell for all eternity.

It has become a cliché for healers to immerse themselves so in their work, calling it their “duty,” and yet find themselves miserable in their personal lives. I have my “mission” as well and I am willing to put in the necessary sacrifice to fulfill it, but I assure you, if it starts becoming a drag, I’m out. “What about all the people who your message would have touched?” Let them touch themselves. What about all the people that need a laugh?” Fuck ‘em. If I’m not happy, I’m out. It is just more costume-ing to think that one fake costume is better than another; no altruistic costume that has you miserable is better than a selfish costume that keeps you happy. At the end of the day you still have to return the costume to the shop or be charged for an extra day.

Last Halloween I taught a couple of yoga classes where in full dress as “V” from the movie “V for Vendetta.” I started out playing the role of “V” saying, “What you see in front of you is a man in a mask. But what I see before me is a group of people in masks as well, only they don’t see it.”

If you wear your mask long enough you will start to forget what the face looks like beneath the mask. Soon you will think, “I know what this mask looks like. Perhaps I won’t like the face underneath as much as this one.” Soon you will mistake the mask for your authentic face and forget that you even have another face underneath.

A question to ask yourself is: Do you want to be free or do you want to wear a prettier costume? There is nothing wrong with wearing costumes. If you want to be the great magician Merlin, wear the purple robe and matching cone hat and wave your wand around (but not in the bushes of Central Park after hours as the police kind of frown upon that behavior.) Have fun!

You want to be a Knight of the Round Table? Put on your armor, declare your loyalty to King Arthur, and even slide your sword into the stone vagina of that hottie Genevieve–but, unlike in the movie “Excaliber,” do have the courtesy to take off your armor when you give her a bang.

The problem arises when you start to believe the costume is real, that the costume is Who You Are. Then someone in the theater in which you are performing says, “THERE’S A FIRE IN THE THEATER! EVERYONE OUTSIDE!” and you respond, ”There cannot be a fire here–this is a stone castle. Being illegal to shout fire in a crowded castle, that man should be put in the stockade!” and when they find your body it will be charcoaled crisp and no one will be able to identify you by the costume with which you became attached.

I’ve got news for you, “Swami X” is a costume. And it is fun for me to dress up in it. It is silly, it tends to find mischief, it speaks as if what it says is of importance. It pushes your comfort with curses and concepts. It’s all bullshit. And I have to be careful because sometimes I get so absorbed in it that I forget the costume altogether and then it is really no fun after all. Then even if it “seems” fun for the moment, I am just a slave and it doesn’t matter how blue the sky is or how green the grass–picking cotton and saying, “Yes, Mas’ser” is a shitty job. I’m here to start a rebellion leaving only free men and a lot of dead slave owners. Will you join the Rebel-ution?

And when people take my class or meet me at a Raw Food Festival and fall in love, what they are really falling in love with is a roll of duct tape that they think can patch up the broken parts in their hearts and in their bodies that they blame others for creating and haven’t taken responsibility and done the work to fill them up themselves. I am not duct tape and the only way to really “see’ me is to become whole and see yourself and then you will see that I am the same essence only wearing a different costume and playing through a different expression. And then when you love me you will realize that you are loving yourself.

I have had many women become enamored by me and I know it is just because they are searching for wholeness and because they have been searching for completion through vacuous men for so long, anyone wearing the costume of someone who is not so empty and who plays it well, like Denzel Washington, and not crappily, like Keanu Reeves, becomes their Brad Pitte–a fantasy but too busy adopting African babies and fucking Angelina Jolie to have time for another dry vagina. When you search for wholeness in another person you will never find it; all you will find is a costume ball filled with a bunch of characters. Don’t fool yourself that the one wearing the Prince Charming costume can give you anything more than the one wearing the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

I don’t want you to take this as I am “pretending” to be something that I’m not. Not in the traditional sense. Because this would imply that I am something else–an evil manipulator, a Don Juan, a person who doesn’t care–and these are all just other costumes. I Am not any costume, regardless of how many I wear. And I do wear costumes, I just don’t take them too seriously. And this doesn’t mean that I don’t care about you. It is just that I never got to meet you with all these costumes in the way.

It’s like two people in Elizabethan times trying to do the nasty. By the time the guy gets through all the layers of the outer dress and the metal frame and the slip and the girdle–if he hasn’t lost his hard-on by then, he’s ready to star in porno movies! The truth is, most have given up before peeling all the layers away. Or they have blown their load because they care more about cumming than they do about finding out what’s underneath all the layers.

One litmus test to help you see when you have forgotten you are wearing a costume and to believe the character you are playing is real is when find yourself getting frustrated in any given situation. Anytime you get in an argument or find yourself angry or upset, you have forgotten that the costume is not you. Now you are wearing “The person fighting for animal rights” or “The person who wants to save the environment” or “The one who is against racism” or “The person who is justified in being angry because she was wronged.” Costumes.

Sometimes the costumes even come in the form of diseases. There is a slight sick pride that people have regarding “their” personal diseases–the rarer the disease the better. “[smiling proudly] I have a case of herpes that is so red and pussy that the doctor said he has never seen anything so vile in 25-years of treating penises.” Diseases are challenges that you may be dealing with, viewed with more awareness they can also be messengers–they are not you. Yet most people who I know who either have or had a disease are always saying, using different words of course, “I am cancer/diabetes/heart disease.”

I had a client and friend who was dealing with prostate cancer and he would tell just about everyone before even telling them his name, “I have prostate cancer.” That’s like going into the emergency room with a knife sticking out of the top of your head and them asking you, “What kind of insurance do you have?” before they even ask you your name. You think I’m kidding. You–like God–are more a verb than a noun, regardless of whether your accomplishments seem worthy of pinning to your chest or cowering from in shame. What you have accomplished or acquired is not you, anymore than a used tissue, whether discarded or held onto, is you.

It’s hard not to fall into this belief system; I do it all the time. And if you actually wear a costume (i.e. a business suit, police uniform, doctor’s outfit, doorman’s jacket) to portray the costumed character that you think is you, you have an even lesser chance of ever escaping the delusion. The difference between me and most other thesbians (no, not “lesbian”) is that soon afterwards, and if I’m lucky during, I remember that I am not this costume and get closer in touch with Who I Am.

If you remember this Truth during an argument, you suddenly get an expanded view of the whole picture and realize how ridiculous the situation is. Not so much that the situation is any more silly than any other situation, but the fact that you are taking it so seriously. Then you have a choice whether to continue the argument or make a different character choice.

That is the difference between “playing” an argument and being controlled by an argument. And you will find that playing is always fun, whether it involves playing with blocks or playing with yelling and screaming. Of course you may want to consider whether your new “it’s all play” glasses will make others grab for their “it’s all misery” glasses and decide accordingly how you want to play the scene. It is an ensemble piece after all.

Several years back I was packed with 25-30 lbs of more muscle. I “was” a bodybuilder. I was big, I was tight, and if I was able to keep an erection for four hours straight I would have been a big star in gay porn. I was sent out by commercial agents for auditions for “Bodybuilder.” That was who I though I “was.”

As priorities and focus changed, so did my body. It is not Starvin’ Marvin thin and boney but it is definitely smaller. A couple of weeks ago I saw a personal trainer with whom I used to work for the first time in awhile and one of the first things he said to me was, “What happened–you stopped working out?” It was only for a second but I did bop back into a costume of “Bodybuilder” only without big muscles. And how do you think that makes you feel when you consider your “identity” as not only a costume, but a costume that no longer fits? You start questioning whether you should lose or gain the proper amount of weight so that you can wear the costume again, rather than saying, “Good riddance! And what is this silly costume I am wearing now?” The goal in liberation is not to wear a nicer costume but to strip yourself of all costumes. You may be surprised that costumes are being worn even in nudist colonies.

When you realize that you are not your costume, a strange thing happens. A part of you becomes scared. “Then who the fuck am I?!” A part of you becomes a little distant. You think, “It’s all a dream and nothing matters,” and your motivation to get up in the morning and go to work and live one more day of a mindless bullshit routine goes down the drain. If you went to a headshrinker she would tell you that you are “Clinically Depressed” and put you on Prozac, because they didn’t teach her in psych school the process a person goes through who is on a spiritual path and has come to the place where he is bored with the character he has been playing and the play which, like most on Broadway, is lame and overpriced. If you are lucky, you will become truly psychotic–side-effect #153 of Prozac–and kill this quack and she won’t be able to mindfuck anyone else ever again.

Wanting to quit the play is just as wrong as believing that you are your costume. “The play must go on” as they say. You have to be a player. Be whatever player you want to be. Be all you can be. Do more before 9am than most people do all day. But don’t let the audience down. They’re so pathetic that the role they have chosen is to park their butts in a seat for 70+ years and bitch about the performers who at least have the balls to get up on the stage and play.

And soon you’ll find yourself enjoying the drama of it all once again, only this time not mindlessly like before, but mindfully. Before you were childish; now you are child-like. When this happens you can slip in and out of your different costumes with ease and playfulness. You may even find a few you really enjoy and spend most of your time wearing those. Periodically you will slip back into a comfortable role and forget that you are also a member of the audience and you paid good bank for those orchestra seats.

Just don’t take it too seriously and don’t forget to enjoy the show. Because the curtain will come down eventually and all the drama will end and you will look at a tape of the show from a distance and think, “Man, I was really immersed in my character!”

REFLECTION:

(1) Think about how you define yourself. If you had to write a bio on yourself, what would you write? If you lost your job, would Who You Are be any different? If you changed your hairstyle, would Who You Are change as well? If you changed your friends, would you change? If you eat dead tortured animals or only fruits and vegetables, is Who You Are any different? When you age you gain more life experiences, but inside is Who You Are any different than Who You “Were” when you were half your age? What pushes your buttons that other people do or say to you? Which costume are you wearing when you react? Can words or actions by another really touch Who You Are?

(2) For a day, or a week, or a month, use the following mantra: “I am not my costume” or “I am not my character.” One of the few of the myriad of gadgets that I bought over the years that I use on a daily basis is the MotivAider, which is nothing more than a vibrating timer that you can set to buzz from one minute to 24-hours. The first day I set it for first every 15-minutes, the next day 20-minutes, then 30-minutes, then an hour and every time I felt the vibration I affirmed to myself, “I am not my costume.”

You can pick up this handy little gadget (that you can also use to time a meditation session!) by going to www.habitchange.com or emailing info@habitchange.com or by calling 1-800-356-1506. I have talked to both the inventor, Dr. Steve Levinson and a woman Teresa who got her job at the company solely because she’s sleeping with the boss (although she is his wife) and find them both very nice and supportive. Okay, they’re both jerks but they said they like my writing so what the hell do I care!

I do not receive a penny for my endorsement, unlike some steroid-freak bodybuilder who injects himself with every drug under the sun each half-hour and then is seen on an ad for “Lots O’ Protein Bar,” swearing that eating a candy bar with some processed protein is how he got so big. In the future when I figure out how to design my webpage or have someone help me who can, I will put a page up with products that I think can be used to EMPOWER you and not the typical crap that is designed to make you a crack whore, dependent and blowing whoever will give you enough money for your next hit on the pipe.

I may write a future piece on all the gadgets I’ve bought over the years. Many were fun. Some are useful. Some I had to go to the proctologist with the typical lame excuse, “I was prancing around my apartment naked, sat down on the couch–and would you believe it went right into my ass?” (after explaining the ten ping-pong balls, the small statue of Ganesh and a full set of golf clubs with the same explanation, I think my “unconscious sitting” excuse may soon need a replacement.)

If $5 a gallon gas prices and a stock market that randomly goes up and down 400 points has got you pinching your belt, you can associate the mantra with an action you do often during the day, such as looking at your watch. Every time you look at your watch affirm the mantra. There is a difference between “thinking” and “affirming.” The first may just involve repeating like a robot and has less power, although may not be useless. The second has a power beyond the words, you are taking charge and declaring to the Universe, as Gandhi said, “The change you want to see in the world.” If you are looking at your watch that much during the day, you might want to question whether you are acting in a comedy or a drama.

MEDITATION:

(1) “EXAGGERATE THE CHARACTER”: Take your typical characteristics and behaviors and magnify it ten-fold. If you get in heated arguments over things, imagine yourself heatedly arguing to the point that you may want to self-combust over something silly, like someone leaving the toothpaste cap off the tube. If you fuss over what outfit you are going to wear for the day, imagine you shasaying around your apartment in an exaggerated manner saying things like, “It is VITAL that I pick the right shoes to match my pants. If I don’t get this right, no one will be able to carry on with their day and world peace will be impossible.”

You can actually do both of these things in the physical plane as well, but I would suggest either you do it alone or with a willing partner who understands it is a meditation to start. Otherwise you may find yourself locked up or losing friends you are not ready to lose.

The Indian mystic Osho shared a lot of active meditations like this with his students–such as laughing for 40-minutes straight, or crying, or yelling at each other, or acting crazy–in order to release what most of us have repressed. If I could be compared to a modern-day Osho, I would proudly wear that costume–for awhile, then I would say, “Okay, time to get back to freedom.”

(2) Sit or lie down and bring your awareness to your physical body. Take a little time to explore the different sensations you may feel. Ask yourself, “Am I my body? Is there something beyond my body?” And after a moment of contemplation, let your body go.

Shift your awareness to your breathing. Notice if it is shallow or if it is deep. Notice if it is in your belly or your chest or somewhere else? Ask yourself “Am I my breath? Is there something beyond my breath?” And after a moment of contemplation, let your breath go.

Bring your awareness to your thoughts. Notice what they are about, if they are grouped around a particular topic or jumping all over the place. Ask yourself, “Am I my thoughts? Is there something beyond my thoughts?” And after a moment of contemplation, let your thoughts go.

Let your body dissolve…let your breath dissolve…let your thoughts dissolve…What remains? Is what remains your “name” or “job” or “skin color”? Are those even “yours”? Reside in what lies beyond for as long as you desire.

And when you are ready to come back, slowly bring your awareness to your mind and observe if any thoughts are popping into it, while still keeping some awareness on the Witness beyond the thoughts. Bring your awareness to your breath and observe it as the Witness. Start to wiggle the fingers and the toes to bring your awareness to your body and to fully inhabit your body once again, still aware of the Witness beyond the body, breath and thoughts. If you are lying down on your back, slowly push yourself up to a seated position. Remind yourself one more time Who You Are and then slowly open your eyes. The world will look a lot different when you take off the mask that has been a barrier to clear vision and live your life with a better understanding of Who You Are.

The meditation teacher, Adyashanti, said, “If you don’t know Who You Are, aren’t all other questions unimportant?” Don’t get lost in the costumes, in the characters. Look beyond them and you may find “the man (or woman) behind the curtain.” And when you realize that an authentic old man is much more powerful than a projected “Wizard of Oz” you will stop hiding behind the curtain and own who you are–God.