Enlightening Nonsense

The plot of just about every kung fu movie I’ve ever seen involves an evil guy, usually sporting a Fu Manchu beard and stache, defeating the good guy at the beginning of the movie and the good guy going off to the woods or a monastery or somewhere else in isolation and, after coming across a praying mantis or some other bug or animal in nature, he studies its ways for years until at the end of the movie our previously less-skilled hero finally beats the bad guy. Ninja and I went through several battles where we went our separate ways and then came back for a rematch but it seems after I retreated to the confines of my apartment and studied the movements of the cockroaches, our last battle was lethal. Ninja is dead and there will be no rematch.

Most of us like to follow the “scorch and burn” method of breaking up, where we want to totally destroy someone we are no longer with, otherwise known as the “O.J. Six Feet Under Method.” “She’s a total psycho!” “He’s completely narcissistic!” “He jerks-off into tube socks!” (In my defense, I was throwing them in the laundry anyway.) Well, I am no different—Ninja is a total psycho!

After she took away my move-in pass and left me a week out from lease’s end with no place to go, she didn’t respond to any of my calls or text messages for a week, to the point where I was worried for her safety, hoping that she was alright so that I could kill her when I saw her. [See “What a Relief!” http://rebelyogi.com/what-a-relief.html and 7 Days of Silence http://rebelyogi.com/7-days-of-silence.html] When we finally talked, she told me how she was feeling like a failure in life and couldn’t face me looking at her like a failure as well. I told her how communication is the #2 glue factor in a relationship—right after giving good head—and that I need her to communicate regardless of how difficult it may be. She agreed and there was another rematch.

And so when Ninja went home to her mother and sister’s place in Jersey, which she relays to me is an asylum of sorts, I was expecting, that with our newfound understanding, the lines of communication would be open and flowing. But I didn’t receive any calls. I text-messaged her that something had happened to me on a given night and I wish she were here to talk to about it. She wrote me a text message back, something of the sort of, “Sorry,” when what I really wanted was a “Call me!” I wrote her the next day at 5:00 in the morning in a text that I had a nightmare and didn’t think I would get back to sleep. Her response was pretty much the same, “That’s too bad,” when I kind of needed, “Call me so we can talk about it!”

Two things before I go on. Firstly, Text-messaging is a pussy way of communicating and, in my opinion, should be reserved for such messages as, “6:00 at the pier,” or “Order me the veggie casserole” or “Do you know a doctor that treats crabs—as in genital and not ocean?” As I wrote in Text-Messaging Douchebags [http://rebelyogi.com/the-text-messaging-douchebag.html], I find anyone who has their face buried in creating texts a douche that should be thrust into a dirty vagina and put to work scrubbing the walls clean.

Just about every time I send someone a text-message it is because I don’t want to talk with him or her. Sometimes it is more convenient, as when a simple, “It itches on the balls and at the base of the dick” says all one needs to say and any additional verbalization would just be ear noise.

Secondly, I take partial responsibility for being too much of a pussy to say, “Hey, I could really use hearing your voice right now.” I think this is paramount to the problems that many face in relationships: one party expects the other to be a psychic and to know exactly what they think or need.

That being said, if I fall down and smash my knee and it is fountaining gushers of crimson all over the place, do I really need to tell you, “Uh, hi. I could use a little help over here”? If I am teaching a yoga class by donation and you show up 15-minutes late because you decided last-minute to get your nails done and on entering you step on one person and slam your mat down as you settle into your spot and after an hour and a half you leave putting $3 in the donation envelope, do I have to tell you that I feel a little disrespected that you are such a cheap bastard? If I’m lying next to you in bed in the morning and my cock looks like the walking stick of the Monopoly guy with the monocle—long, hard and black with a little knob on the end—do I really need to tell you that it needs a milking?

I think a supportive relationship involve the partners always being open and honest and ready to voice their feelings and needs—with each being concerned about the needs and feelings of the other—where they would risk asking the obvious in order to make sure that everyone’s feelings are being addressed and needs are being tended to. But, to use an example from the previous paragraph, I don’t need you pointing to my hard cock and asking, “Are you horny?” For god’s sake, just shut up and suck it! If you asked that painfully obvious question, the next words out of your mouth would probably be the observation, “Gee, I never saw a penis retreat into the body like a frightened turtle before!”

So when Ninja essentially gave me about four text messages in two weeks, two of which were, “I should be back Monday” each week, it seemed like my tolerance for “working on things” was blown like the government did the dams with C-4 in New Orleans. I finally received a—surprise, surprise—not a phone call but a text-message that said, “I’m finally back. Do you still want anything to do with me?” This was essentially an acknowledgment from her that she was aware that her discommunique was something that would totally be upsetting to me—and yet this is exactly what she chose to do.

Remember, our lives are filled with nothing but choices and opportunities. And while your choices may be currently limited by your finances or your small dick, this doesn’t mean that EVERY DAY you aren’t loaded with choices. While at the moment you may not be able to afford $200 tickets to Jersey Boys on Broadway, you can still find entertainment with a ton of free live music or theater or even just a walk in the park where you hide behind a tree and throw rocks at passersby like a Palestinian. Your 1” flipper may not make you a porn star but you can become a master at cunnilingus and still give a woman pleasure. As a joker, I used to enjoy how girls would burst into belly laughs when I dropped my pants. This got tiring real soon and so I ordered the Johnny “Wad” Holmes Penis Enlarger and 14” later, I’m the one laughing as I watch these same ‘ho’s choke on it.

My first iridology teacher said, “God will provide. This doesn’t mean that you will be a millionaire but he will always provide for you.” I think I raised my hand and said, “What the fuck does this have to do with iridology?” It was only later that I realized that it had a lot to do with the eye, less so in a structural way and more so in how we view the world. Stop crying like a victim that you don’t have things you don’t need anyway and be a Creator of the life that you came here to live!

Where the hell was I anyway? Crabs…14” cock—oh yeah, choices! Ninja made a choice and it wasn’t a “Forgive them, Father, they know not what they do” type of choice. She knew exactly what she was doing and how it would affect me. I wrote her a text-message that said, “I am happy to hang out and/or have sex but we are not BF/GF. Too much not working & probably incompatible. I’m sorry where I have been a douche, which was often.” (Just so you know, the reason I use gay abbreviations is not because I am being “hip” or am just a lazy fuck but because I have 160 characters per text or else it becomes two messages and since I don’t have a text-message plan, each text going in or out costs me 20 cents. The day I write TTYL for “talk to you later” is the day I will welcome a brick to my head! This is also why I have avoided joining the gay parade of Twitter—how the hell am I going to say anything in 140 characters??)

YES, YOU ARE RIGHT, breaking-up over text message is about as lame as that episode of Sex In The City where Carrie was dumped by a Post-It note (not that the Post-It dump was lame but the episode was not one of the strongest. I much prefer when they go into depth about the emotional rollercoaster that Charlotte is experiencing with the whole “have a baby” thing and Miranda’s struggle not to act like a woman on a 24/7 menstrual period and be mean to her nothing-but-loving-sometimes-boyfriend, Steve, and of course the occasional random sexual escapade from the somewhat breast-drooping but still fuckable Samantha.) But when every time you call you get her machine, sometimes you just don’t want to deal with the bullshit anymore. I sent the text because, as said above (10 pages above, third paragraph in), I didn’t want to talk with her; I wanted to be done without the fanfare of having to explain a hard dick means you want some.

She wrote back: “That’s okay. I made my share of mistakes too. I agree that we should gracefully part. I’m not in a place where I can contribute sufficiently.”

My ego was a bit like, “SHARE of mistakes??” but I locked him in my head where he had a temper tantrum, banging against the walls of my skull until he collapsed in exhaustion. The one bit that I won’t let go is, “I’m not in a place where I can contribute sufficiently.”

If the basket is going around in church and everyone is throwing in their dough so that the priest can buy a new French tickler to stimulate the perineum of some 9-year old altar boy and you only have fifty cents to your name—you throw in what you can, as no priest should be denied the ability to best pleasure a young boy’s ass. You may not be able to “contribute” what Richie McDaddywarbucks can but you do your part.

Perhaps even fifty cents is more than you can contribute. In that case you offer your services to lube up the altar boy’s ass so the priest doesn’t have to risk getting any Vaseline on the holy dress he wears while having the balls to claim he’s not gay. Or maybe you offer to wash the little boy’s bloody underwear so that it will be easier to deny that a messenger of God is sodomizing little children. But you contribute.

We’ve been brainwashed by guilt into thinking that unless you are serving a mission to help the poor or feed the hungry that your contribution is not worth anything. Not all of us can afford the plane fare to travel to India and give a couple of decades to Mother Teresa’s Ashram where we can partake in torturing children and swindling funds [http://newsgroups.derkeiler.com/Archive/Soc/soc.culture.indian/2005-08/msg00442.html], so what’s the alternative? Contribute nothing? Or contribute what we can?

On the other side of the coin, we often hear phrases like, “I’m not in a place right now…” spoken by New-Age douchebags trying to justify their lack of “contribution.” In relationship, let’s say your girlfriend is going through a lot of strife at the moment. She may not be “in a place” where going out and partying every night will work for her, despite this being Party Week at your firm. I’m fine with that. But when she doesn’t return your calls, stands up all the plans you made with her, show up late to any that she doesn’t stand up and doesn’t treat you with respect—when does “not in a place…” fall lame? It can’t be a trump card that we throw down when anything goes bad, like in high school when I came home around 2:00 a.m. and my father was ready to beat me silly (hmm…maybe that is why I am so silly!) and so I told him how I just found out that the well-loved Kenny had suddenly died to save my sorry ass. It worked and when my father apologized for being so harsh with me I told him, “You might want to consider taking a course on parenting, dickhead.”

A relationship—any relationship that is moderately functional—requires some minimum to be put in to keep the cranks of the machine going. If you don’t communicate, you are not in a relationship; you are merely co-existing. Yes, “We are all One” but I rather be with my “one” body than have another body acting like deadweight overloading my boat. Seriously, if “How are you doing?” is followed by complete silence—run, don’t walk, as fast and far as you can from this socially deficient mute.

I was talking to my bank friend, Quiche, about the “two-weeks of silence.” She said something like, “Yeah, that’s not courteous.” I told her that I don’t want my significant other to be courteous, like how someone will say thank you when you hold the door open for him because he has been drilled ad nauseum like a prisoner at Abu Ghraib about “proper” behavior. I want them to actually be grateful and for their “Thank you” to come from their heart and not just their mouths.

Ninja one time called me and said, “I’m checking in,” with the not-so-subtle indication that this was per my request and if it were up to her, she’d send me a text message in a week or two and that would be fine. A mature life sometimes requires us to think outside of our immediate gratification and consider people outside of ourselves. A baby grabs its shit and throws it against the wall because it feels squooshy and leaves a pretty mark. She doesn’t consider that mommy and daddy are going to be a tad irritated cleaning up the wall and her hands and debate all night about whether they should have used a condom or a hanger. But we don’t get mad at the little shit-thrower—she’s a fuckin’ baby!

As an adolescent, I never really “got” why I should go to family events or useless temple services and would only go because I was somewhat forced to and always had a sour puss on my face during the internment. I didn’t know back then about “The Secret” and “manifesting” and that the shitty time I experienced at all these events was my own amazing ability of manifesting coming into fruition. But I was an adolescent and we all know that like a punk kid we have to kick over a few garbage cans before we come to the point where we think it just not worth scuffing our boots over.

As an adult, I still value my wants and desires first but I see others as a close second and realize that it is my responsibility to find joy in whatever I do and not be dependent on the activity. But more so, I actually get pleasure from sharing with people who I love—and even those that I don’t really care for—if I see that my presence somehow helps give them a boost. Even if it doesn’t, to see someone immersed in what they love is a thrill for anyone who is not completely self-centered. At least to a point, until they just keep going on and on and you start to feel an epileptic seizure taking control of you and finally shout, “ALRIGHT, SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY!”

This is why I would spend $20 to see a play with an actor friend in it when I would rather sit at home and watch the cockroaches crawl over my walls. That is why I invite you to play in a yoga class with me, too. I don’t particularly think taking a yoga class on a given day is going to give you “just such a stretch” that you are forever transformed. But I do enjoy sharing my flow with you and I think it is immersing yourself in flow—whether your own or another’s—that can be instantly transforming. And this is what my friend Dizzy didn’t get, seeing my yoga class invitations as nothing more than a “good yoga class” and, I’m only realizing today, perhaps seeing her play invites to me as little more than providing me with entertainment when, as I said, I don’t need more than the filth of my apartment to keep me amused. I was there to see her immersed in her love, and by “her love” I don’t mean one of those mechanical dildo contraptions that I occasionally see on RedTube.

Ninja is not “in a place” at the moment where she can give me what I need. I tend to doubt that she will ever be in that “place” or that when she finally arrives at that “place,” I will have long vacated it for the next adventure. It is not from a lack of caring or her being a psycho. It just is not a “place” where she can reside in relaxation. And I wouldn’t want her to live a polite Stepford Wife existence to satisfy my need for a girl to communicate with words once every week or two. I want someone to actually want to be with me, to communicate with me, to share with me, not just for me but from her very core. Ninja seems more concerned with Merkabah meditations, UFO motherships and black helicopters than my needs and feelings.

The first time I was in bed with Ninja, and by “in bed” I mean “in pussy,” I looked over and saw a picture of my beloved Osho staring at me. At first I said, “Dude, a little privacy here?” He didn’t even blink. I mean, he was a photograph after all. I then asked him if Ninja was the “one.” He said, “No, she is just for transition.” This confused me, as while I had just ended my involvement with Duck, I felt completely over her, that I wasn’t holding onto any anger or desires concerning her.

It was only after the death of Ninja that I realized what Osho was sharing with me. He wasn’t telling me that Ninja was an interim girlfriend to either help me get over the last one or prepare me for the upcoming magical “one.” He was telling me that Ninja came to me to prepare me to fight a kung fu battle that was less about women and more about myself. I have been a baby. I have been an adolescent. I have been an adult. Now it was time for me to view my relationships—and my life—through the eyes of a wise old elder. I could still play but throwing around feces or blocks or sports cars was no longer feeding my soul. My soul came here to live its joy and anything that is draining or distracting needs to be left behind.

We all think of great teachers or masters in the form of some wizened old foreigner who talks painfully slowly about deep truths that you think he may croak any minute. The real master teachers are the people who come in the form of a bitch or bastard, a psycho or asshole and often are people who are just “not in a place” where we think they should be based on our own conditioning about what form a teacher should take, but in a place that is the “right” place for what is truly needed for everyone.

When we remember that life is a moving flow and not a static freeze-frame, we don’t get attached to moments of happiness or discontent but learn to ride them like a surfer does waves: sometimes riding above them, sometimes crashing below, but never forgetting that it’s all sailing—smooth or not—and, baby, we came here to sail!

As the sun is setting, the kung fu fighter walks off alone into the horizon. His shirt is ripped above his chest, heart injured but not broken. His face contains cuts, bruises and swelling, but still his vision is clearly focused in front of himself. One testicle hangs a little lower than the other; he makes a mental note to get this checked out by a doctor. He would like to sit down and rest his weary legs, take a load off Fanny, but he knows his life is one of a fighter and that he will never be able just sit silently and enjoy the orchestration of the sunset. Instead, the music he hears is that of a metal band with a bad attitude and no earplugs will ever be able to shut out the noise.