Serpico during one of her many bouts with narcolepsy
I had left to have a training session with a client and returned to my apartment at around 6:00 p.m. I had left Ninja alone in my apartment, clearly not learning any lesson from when I left Toad home alone for an hour and came back to her taking the liberty in that short time to interior decorate my apartment by moving everything into the center of my main room and taking a metaphoric dump on my floor [see “Hurricane Toad” at http://rebelyogi.com/hurricane-toad]
To my relief, the apartment was a mess—but it was the same mess as when I left. Ninja was asleep in my bed. This girl sleeps like she’s a salesperson for Sleepy’s Mattress. I think on this day she stayed in bed until about 2:00 and the nap that she took when I left the apartment had turned into another siesta that would make even a Mexican say, “Listen you lazy cabrona, get your ass out of bed!”
I let her rest while I prepared an assortment of food for her from the various rabbit snacks I had in my apartment. I made a yam soup, a nice sprout salad and a partridge in a pear tree. I wasn’t sure whether she liked partridge or not but it came with the pear tree and I really didn’t feel like negotiating with the owner of the herbarium.
Another hour had passed and it was about 7:30 now. I went in to lie down next to her. She woke up briefly and I felt like making love. “How about some sex?” I requested. Her answer was “ZZZZZZZZ,” as she immediately nodded back into unconsciousness. I learned in college that if a woman does this, whether through the influence of alcohol or exhaustion, that it means she has become a “Self-Serve” station and you have to do pull out your gas nozzle and start pumping her yourself. It was only after serving my third consecutive sentence for date rape that I realized that the “Self-Serve” experts might not have taken into account the legality of filling one’s tank by siphoning the gas from another car.
I decided to stay in bed with her and do some pranayama energy breathing exercises. Within a very short time I found myself just not in the mood. Sometimes you like lying around and being “mellow” and sometimes you want to be more active, whether that means fucking, dancing or fuckin’ dancing!
I got out of bed and went into the other room. I decided to do some yoga. I unrolled my mat and did about one position when sleeping beauty emerged from the room. I rolled up my mat and wondered now that she was in my life if I would ever be able to complete a task again.
“Were you doing yoga?” she asked.
I considered answering, “There’s a fuckin’ yoga mat on the ground and I’m standing on my head!” but thought it best to keep that thought to myself, reflecting on the time when a past girlfriend asked if I thought she was stupid and I responded, “You’re not stupid, you just constantly do stupid things that would reflect a pea-sized brain” and how my balls still ache reflexively whenever any woman bears her knee.
“Not really,” I said. And then I came up with a brainstorm, which really wasn’t much more than a brain drizzle. “I want to do a meditation with you.” She was game, until I described that it involved shaking then dancing then sitting then lying down.
“I don’t want to do that,” she snorted like a pig who turns to you and says, “Egg shells? What the fuck kind of slop are you feeding me here!”
Dinner, sex, pranayama, yoga, shared meditation—she was the messiah of plan fucker-uppers! I thought of the phrase, “the best laid plans of mice of men,” which only made things worse. I mean, what the fuck does that phrase even mean? If I were a mouse, my only “plan” would be to scratch my mousy balls. If I were in one of those laboratory mazes, I would plan to sit docilely until the scientist grabbed me and then bite that fucker for destining me to a life of mazery. I don’t know how “best laid” they would be. Unless, I suppose, Richard Gere shoved my up his ass.
I sat down on my couch and she thought I was pissed. I wasn’t pissed. Well, there was a little dribble equivalent to the “last drop” of urination in my underwear but it wasn’t a full-fledged episode of incontinence.
She got upset and thought I was mad at her. My Witnessing Self was like, “Enjoy your first fight, bitch.” At first I smiled about this, thinking he was calling her a bitch. When I found out he was addressing me, I wasn’t too pleased.
We got through this but one of my primary buttons was pushed. Not the button that doesn’t like its plans ruined. Not the button that thinks if a woman is talking that only means she should have a dick in her mouth, if not for the man’s pleasure than, like a baby’s pacifier, to shut her up. Nor the button that thinks everyone around me is an idiot. It was the button about being misunderstood, one often pressed for a man who speaks and writes in hieroglyphs while the moronic masses look at my pictures and say, “That’s a cow—I think he’s calling me fat!”
Because I am a real yogi and not a phogi, a phony yogi, I don’t run from frustration—I run into it. As I was sitting, I was aware that there was a sense of frustration that could be felt in my body like an active volcano that would never explode but was bubbling its fire in its midst, or like a penis that you stroke and stroke but will never blow any load that’s not yellow. I remained mindful of the body sensations I was experiencing—mindful meditation. I observed the thoughts in my mind and rejected the multitude of ones involving killing Ninja, concluding that to have to go to the store to buy Hefty Bags and carry her to the closest dumpster would be too much of a hassle.
But most of all, I reflected on what it was—what mind belief based on falsity—that had allowed my body-mind complex to feel less than fuckin’ cherry. I realized that it involved an attachment to structure, organization, plans but also felt a separation from this attachment, which is necessary to transform anything, for if you are fully immersed in for instance anger, it is next to impossible to reflect on anything but how to cause the most damage to the other that you blame for your self-created power surge that has fried your circuits.
They say that the way to make God laugh is to tell her your plans. While it is hard to function in society without making a few plans, for even the most enlightened person will never find you for dinner in a city of 10,000 restaurants without giving him the name and address of the eatery, the issue is not with the plans themselves, but with the attachment to them.
You plan to see a movie with your guy and when you get there you find it to be sold out. So deal with it, bitch (I’m still reeling from my Witness Self calling me that!) You plan to meet your friend at 6:00 p.m. for the Stupor Bowl and get caught in traffic and get there at 8:00 and miss the first half. You plan to have a long night of passion with your girl and when she opens the door wearing nothing but crotchless panties that, unlike with your last girlfriend, were actually designed that way and not the result of yeast infection gone wild, you jiz in your pants. [http://www.hulu.com/watch/47604/saturday-night-live-digital-short-j-in-my-pants]
It’s just a movie! It’s just a football game! It’s just sex!
So there was the button of “best laid plans” that was pushed but that button was only a small nuisance like a piece of toilet paper stuck to my shoe. My reflection on this made it clearer how while there is still a mild influence it can have on me, through awareness it was just a little bitch that was ready for a slap down (damn you, Witness Self!)
But to have Ninja look at me as just another member of the mediocre masses whose way of viewing and living life is just commonly idiotic, whose whole state of being is based on what is going on around him like a driftwood, was a button that was as large as those plugs in Frankenstein’s neck. Why a scientist who could sew a bunch of body parts together and bring them to life would have to have two large plugs ruin the overall presentation is beyond me. That is like a person who manifests from the ethers a large 7-course meal in front of him but always keeps a saltshaker nearby.
I am not a member of the mindless masses. In fact, I’d like to decapitate all the zombies whose heads are so full of garbage that their removal would probably have Al Gore make yet another made-up, unscientific claim about how this would drastically affect the environment. If anything, putting all that shit in the ground would fertilize it. And if you look at me in the dull light that can light up the walking dead, not only will you miss any understanding of Who I Am or any teachings I may have to offer, but you will also insult me.
Perhaps the day will come when I will say, “It is alright that you showed up late to my one-night only show” and the other will respond, “So you’re saying you will never forgive me and you think me a bad person?” and I will smile and say, “That’s exactly what I mean,” whether it was or not.
I won’t give a hoot, don’t pollute [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Zpz1k5Mv4o] about how I am interpreted, whether someone “gets” me or not, whether someone likes me or not or whether I even share anything inside of me or not. Then I can just sit around all day and lick my mouse balls and see if I taste cheese and oh, what a wonderful world