Enlightening Nonsense

© September 24-26, 2010

“You know, I know this steak doesn’t exist. I know that when I put it in my mouth, the Matrix is telling my brain that it is juicy and delicious. After nine years, you know what I realize? [Takes a bite of steak] Ignorance is bliss.”

—Cypher, from “The Matrix”

The first “Matrix” movie was kick-ass, before the series disintegrated into a cheap Keanu Reeves kung fu/Superman movie. When Neo takes the red deprogramming pill, he suddenly wakes up from the Matrix and into the real world, which is controlled by the machines, and finds himself—and every other human on the planet—encased in their own private bathtub where they are being used as human batteries to provide the energy for the machine world.

Something about the waking up process flushes Neo out from the bathtub and into a bigger body of water, because apparently the machines need you asleep in order to most efficiently extract your energy (sounds like out government, no?) It is here that Morpheus and his crew of several free humans in his ship the Nebakanezer grab Neo like one of those games in the arcade where you drop a claw down into a pile of stuffed animals and whatever you manage to grab you get to keep. Unlike those arcade games, the Nebakanezer’s claw is not designed to be too weak to grab anything, leaving the child teary and toyless and the Jew who runs the arcade greedy and heartless, and so Neo is rescued; the Nebakanezer leaves with the toy.

I couldn’t pinpoint for you the exact time and location, but I had what some call a Spiritual Awakening several years ago. Unfortunately, while I have woken up, I find myself in the worst possible place: stuck in the bathtub with no one lending a helping metal claw to get me the fuck out of here! At least when you are asleep in the Matrix, the dream life is only mildly torturous. As the character, Cypher, says over a dream steak dinner with the robot agent, Smith, while making a deal to get himself plugged back into the matrix for turning in his leader Morpheus, “You know, I know this steak doesn’t exist. I know that when I put it in my mouth, the Matrix is telling my brain that it is juicy and delicious. After nine years, you know what I realize? [Takes a bite of steak] Ignorance is bliss.” [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7BuQFUhsRM]

If you wake up from the Matrix, life ain’t a picnic, despite what all the New Agers and yoga posers are selling with their lies. In the movie it entails living forever clandestinely in a dark gray world, always on the alert and eating nothing but an amino acid snotty oatmeal gruel that only Morpheus figures out how to gain 30 lbs. on between the first and second movies.

In the world off the Hollywood screen, waking up from the Matrix means realizing that everything you thought to be true is not—which includes the cartoon character you’ve been playing—and now what? How do you interact with others when they present to you a computer program and say with excitement, “Enjoy your dinner. I made it myself”? And suddenly all the “important” issues you once cared about—and even punched that guy I the nose at the bar for because…sure you had one to many martinis but…he should have known better than to call Obama a Socialist, suggest that the basic ABC’s one should learn in school is Abortion & Birth Control, and declare that the Mets suck—even though he is, they should and they do—are as irrelevant as whether Michelle Obama wears a thong or granny panties (granny panties on days Barack is coked out, which is most days but no one can mention that or you’ll be called a racist because we live in a country of nigger lovers, and a thong when she comes to my place for a little anal.)

“Why, Mr. Anderson, why? Why? Why do you do it? Why, why get up? Why keep fighting? Do you believe you’re fighting for something, for more than your survival? Can you tell me what it is? Do you even know? Is it freedom, or truth, perhaps peace, could it be for love? Illusions Mr. Anderson!! Vagaries of perception! Temporary constructs of a feeble human intellect trying desperately to justify an existence that is without meaning or purpose! And all of them as artificial as the Matrix itself, although, only a human mind could invent something as insipid as love. You must be able to see it, Mr. Anderson, you must know it by now—you can’t win, it’s pointless to keep fighting! Why, Mr. Anderson, why, why do you persist!

—Agent Smith in the final fight scene with Neo, Matrix Reloaded

[http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bIfzyYT1Oho&feature=related]

This is really half waking up from the Matrix. When you fully wake up, you don’t give a shit about it and decide to just play and your answer to Agent Smith would be, “Why? No reason, no purpose, no ideal, no mission. It is because I choose to, bitch!”

When you wake up in the Matrix, then you can fight fifty Smiths with your kung fu moves and fly and have a 14” pecker if you’d like. But if you could wake up in the Matrix but not from the Matrix, would you choose to do so? All the so-called spiritualists claim to want to wake up but the waking up they are not talking about but underlyingly really meaning is the “in” variety. [See “The Blue Pill” at http://rebelyogi.com/the-blue-pill.html]

This is really half waking up from the Matrix. When you fully wake up, you don’t give a shit about it and decide to just play. When you wake up in the Matrix, then you can fight fifty Smiths with your kung fu moves and fly and have a 14” pecker if you’d like. But if you could wake up in the Matrix but not from the Matrix, would you choose to do so? All the so-called spiritualists claim to want to wake up but the waking up they are not talking about but underlyingly really meaning is the “in” variety. [See “The Blue Pill” at http://rebelyogi.com/the-blue-pill.html]

In the bathtub, where I reside, you get all of the dirty water and none of the rubber duckies. You realize life is a fraud and a shithole and your stuck with it. The only part destroyed is the beautiful and now your cynicism seems finally justified.

It all wouldn’t be so bad if you also down the toilet was flushed the idea that, “There’s gotta be something better than this!” But it doesn’t. It remains floating around the bowl like those pesty specks of shit after that night at the All-You-Can-Eat Mexican Buffet that just won’t flush.

All the Swami X naysayers are quick to point out when I act rather human and, according to them, not so “spiritual.” “That’s not very swami-ish of you,” they’ll deride, not seeming to realize that the average swami has a gangrenous ass from sitting in a cave for decades because he believes torturing himself will bring him closer to God, is celibate, that is, until he comes to America where he starts to manipulate his young female followers into having sex with him in a way that is nothing short of date rape, and cannot function in a modern society unless he has his handlers take care of every arrangement for him, from food, all the particulars involved in booking his speaking gigs and wiping his swami ass. Other than having sex with young, docile, unsuspecting girls who think that my sticking my dick in their mouth is some special pranayama breathing technique, if the bar is set with these freaks, there is little swami-ish I’d like to be. [See “Fake Swami” at http://rebelyogi.com/fake-swami.html]

One difference between the average human and me is that while I still experience anger and sadness, and even on occasion happiness, I don’t really take any of these expressive states too seriously. Even the New Age phony preaches that the negative is not true and to be avoided at all costs while claiming that the positive is somehow any less fiction.

This is not to say that if I see someone punch a dog in the face that I won’t be “genuinely” upset. But accompanying the upset is awareness that this is my Being “playing” at this emotion much like an actor on the stage. A Broadway actor may actually cry as a result of his stage bride sleeping with another stage human. He may even turn red with anger as he plans to go O.J. on her and cut her throat in a coke rage, drugs provided by Obama. But if you interrupted his performance in the middle of the scene and said, “Excuse me. Joe Actor? Are you really angry at this point?” if the first word out of his mouth wasn’t, “Security!” he would probably say, “Well, my body feels angry and angry thoughts are flooding my mind, but am I, Joe Actor, really angry? No, not in the least. This is a friggin’ play. If anything, I’m rather psyched that I get to do this, get a taste of all these emotions and situations without having to actually fully digest them and deal with all their indigestive consequences—such as a murder trial, a prison term and being sodomized daily in my cell. Well, minus the sodomy; I am an actor after all. And I get paid for doing this!”

Our Being, our True Self, is the actor. It expresses itself through a whole gamut of actions and emotions, stage combat and scenes of romance, without ever really being affected by whatever role he may be playing at the moment. The audience is those who witness the show and get so caught up in the performance that they forget that they are merely sitting in cushioned seats and having paid their admission fee, which was not paid in cash but in a decision to participate as one of a larger live studio audience where even the house is filled with actors. And the pay-off, the salary, is to be able to play, not to be in a play…but to actually play.

How often we forget that it is a play—Maya in Sanskrit, “The Matrix” in movie-talk—whether it appears to be a light comedy or a heavy drama, and to enjoy the play—whether our seats are in the balcony or on the stage.

Yes, like an actor immersed in his role, at times I am so “Method” that I forget for the moment that I’ on a stage with lights and dressing rooms and a tech crew. Now it is only when playing certain dramas, usually ones that involve my character or another being misrepresented, or some poor defenseless creature being brutalized, or someone saying something that is just such bullshit that even a bull would ask, “Did I just lay that?” that I disappear into my role…for the moment. When the scene ends I’m immediately like, “Jees, why did I allow myself to become so drained just then when either way, whether I phone-in my performance or bust a few blood vessels in my eyes in the process, I’m getting paid the same?”

It can be wonderful the feeling of truly losing your Self completely in a role, especially if it is a “good” role where you are receiving adoration and accolades and prestige and power. And while I am no different than most of you, besides the enormous python that nests between my legs, in that I feel somewhat “good” when things are going my way—money is coming in from my bitches, sex is coming in from my strippers, sunlight is coming in from, uh, the sun—where we part company is that there is always a slightly bitter taste in my mouth, even with the sweetest delicacies, because I know lasting happiness is not found in circumstance, whether the occasion is seemingly joyous or not. And as long as one’s happiness just depends on getting money, getting sex, getting sunlight, or even getting what you deceive yourself into believing is love, it will always be fleeting.

And unlike most every so-called leader in the New Age and yoga poser world, I don’t walk around with a blissed-out smile on my face unless I am feeling blessed-out—and I don’t pretend that I am blessed out 24/7. I know many headline speakers at various expos and top psychics and yoga teachers who behind the plastic smile used not only to sell workshops and books and DVDs promising to make one just as joyful as the lie they put forth as truth, are also desperately trying to sell themselves the same lie, because the fall from superstar to ordinary Jane is a greater fall than even Satan took when he told God to take his faggy little Heaven and shove it up his ass.

What is given to you one moment can be taken away the next; even your life. What the misinformed and deluded do is go to the gym and do nothing but work the hand-grippers until they have a vise-like death grip to hold onto whatever I.V. drip they wheel around with them to keep them feeling morphotic. If it’s toys that they attribute their happiness to, they will grab onto the accumulation of more toys. If it is compliments they crave, they will start to buy things and do things just to acquire compliments. Whatever their temptation, whatever their pleasure, will be their dark master. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CAR7jqSG46E] It may even come off as they are “such a caring person” but their doing’s are really only getting’s in disguise.

And if it’s a lover that spackles their holes, for once meant in a non-pornographic way (although, now that we’re on it…), they’ll seek artificial edifices like marriage and use guilt and other manipulative grips to submit their jujitsu partner into Mutually Assure Destruction not with nukes but with their dukes to keep both them and their partner in misery. And all for the lofty declaration of the pursuit of happiness! Really in trying to hold onto fleeting happiness.

While being trapped in the Matrix bathtub kinda blows, despite periodically wishing that I was plugged back into the Matrix, an unconscious battery producing dry dreams that leave no one wet, those prayers are always made with “crossies” held behind my back. I would take an eternity in the Purgatory of the bathtub than to be thrown full throttle back into Hell. The comedy of errors is that what I see as Hell, most others see as Heaven. What I see as a bonfire to drum and dance around, they see as “destructive searing heat.” What I see as an authentically good time, they see as “sin.” And what I see as a bunch of faggy pussies sitting around for eternity as the picture of boredom, they see as making beautiful music on a cloud with a view.

This is one reason why I am outcast—because I call a plastic smile a plastic smile. I call insecurity intentionally hiding within the constant commotion of community so she doesn’t have one minute of time to sit by her self and realize her castle is made of sand that one big wave will wash away forever, and even if it is made out of steel, it is planted with so much military-grade explosives that it will fall at free-fall speed like the Thermite-exploded World Trade Center buildings—including Building 7 which was never hit by anything—did.

Listen to me: I don’t fault them for their insecurity. I don’t even hate them for their ignorance. I’m insecure and stupid at times, too. But I do despise that because they don’t have the guts to say, “I don’t know” and “I’m scared” and “I’m unhappy” and “I’d like it in the ass but I don’t want you to think I’m a whore” that they are selling snake oil and calling it jerk-off lube. They do a disservice to true seekers through their bullshit. They tell them not to take the road less travelled but some worn out path that’s “tried and true” to achieve nothing but mediocrity as a bathroom spray to cover the smell of their own bullshit.

Some people read my stuff and think, “What an idiot!” and are turned off. Maybe they should appreciate my jerkiness—and my honesty about my jerkiness—that I give to you for nutrition, instead of more empty calories like the others serve you on pretty china that you suck down like Bosco, leaving you fatheaded but still unsatisfied.

We have been so conditioned out of acting authentically, being beaten by the church into thinking that acting naturally and enjoying things such as sex is a sin, being brainwashed by our government to believe that if you don’t think a piece of dirt delineated by a man-made imaginary line in the sand is worth dying for that you are unpatriotic, un-American, maybe even a “terrorist,” that when we hear someone actually put voice to the fact that he doesn’t know, that he’s afraid, that he’s angry, we react like robots on automatic pilot and condemn hi for being aware that he is just one more fucked up human being.

Instead of “How wonderful!” you say, “How horrible!” Instead of embracing this man, to share a touch of love to a tortured soul—or at least a handjob—you push him away. We arrogantly act superior to other nations and cultures and claim a history replete with placing one group, always the one in power, above another group behind us. But whether it be blacks or “Untouchables” or Jews or “primitives,” or “fags” or “women” or the man with a vision that doesn’t see the world in your paint-by-numbers way, we are still ostracizing and shutting out and putting down others; that has never stopped. It is not behind us. It is beside us presently and will be in front of us until we start to stop talking about spirituality and start living it.

The First Amendment to the Constitution is not designed to protect popular speech. Popular speech never needed defense. Have you even brought up a point to your friends or family that is exactly their point of view? Real “risky,” huh? How about sharing a viewpoint with which they are in total disagreement.

If I want to be a pussy and soften up my parents or my brother before hitting them up for money, I will wax prolific on the heroism of poor little Israel and how the Jews have been oppressed for so long and still manage to do well in the world and those Jew bastards eat it up. If I voice my thoughts on certain policies or actions that Israel follows or has done that seems to be oppressive, the fireworks light up the sky like a Jew-burning among Palestinians. With my family I’ve converted to Palestinianism because I find preaching to the choir is just wind-bagging it. An Arabic client of mine recently said that I seem to spiel the “Jewish propaganda” position regarding Israel, which is a typical comment of a savage A-rab. If she only spend a dinner with me and my family she would see that I speak against the Jews probably as much as I speak against the Palestinians and only a little less than I speak against the Catholics. Well, maybe nowhere near as much. But that’s well deserved. I spit on the Catholics as much as their priests spit on their cocks as lube before fucking altar boys.

When we don’t embrace the man who is honest and courageous enough to place his heart on his outsides, vulnerable to the decay of the sun, wind, rain and insects…or burning insults, blowing off, spitting upon and being ravished by pests and parasites…we are not embracing the aspect of ourselves that is also feeling lonely and confused and perhaps a touch pissed off about it.

That’s the conspiracy and it’s much bigger than JFK or UFOs or 9/11. There is a conspiracy to shut down the individual authentic expression of the Self. It is promulgated by the power people who say ugly nonsense disguised in pretty packages called “social and moral obligation” and “love for God.”

They tell you that you have to care about others and if that means sacrificing yourself—or your tax dollars—you should be happy to do so. They tell you that loving God means hating yourself and that somehow you need these clowns in priest’s clothing to interpret the word of God because God speaks in a language that uses way too many big words for your dumb ass to understand and thank God that while he created you a moron, he at least made some self-sacrificing men of God with brains to act as interpreter for words you already know—and you are told to feel good that God gave these dickless white-collar virgins pedophilia as their payment for all their hard work.

The church is a sickness, a plague. We would be much better off Godless than to follow the stewardship of this Titanic as it takes us full-throttle towards an iceberg and only tells us that the bar is offering two-for-one drinks. And most are sitting at the bar and buying their poison! Who needs awareness of pending doom when there’s a discount on unconsciousness?

The elite of government are parasites. You’ve heard the rhetoric that it’s “We The People” who have the power. But that requires a courageous population that is willing to sacrifice maybe an hour of their T.V. time in order to keep their chairs and whips keeping the Federal lion tame. But this country is made up of mostly cowardly pussycats that have been declawed and wouldn’t dare risk biting the hand that feeds them with all of its social welfare programs. We have allowed the government leeches to suck so much of our blood from us that now we are too weak to do anything but sit in our own piss and shit while they take baths in jewel-encrusted tubs on the backs of our labor. They are the machines sucking our very life force dry for their own gain.

So I’ve woken up in the Matrix bathtub. I can’t plug back into the dream because once you’ve broken out of your slumber any dreaming feels like a nightmare. I can’t fight the towering metal machines with fleshy fists. There’s no one to talk to, as everyone is in his own pod all snug like a pea. If I were a vegetarian cannibal I would be in hog heaven, as there is an endless field of vegetables to feed upon.

And while I may not be able to fight the physical enemy, I have no choice but to fight the phantom demon of insanity. My only hope is to make peace with the silence, for this is all I have. Beneath the constant hum of machinery and the click-clacking of my own thoughts is a peaceful silence that not even the endless gray sky or the boredom of interminable monotony can disturb.

I have been screaming at the top of my voice to transform vegetables into humans; I’ll worry about the transmutation to gods later.  My throat is hoarse; my ears are growing tired of my voice both without and within. Perhaps I’ll sit and close my eyes, not to avoid the ugly sights of reality, but to help me find the only thing that really matters, the only source for unabiding happiness…my Self.

“Nothing can bring you lasting happiness…but you have that already if you stop disturbing it.”

—Swami Satchidananda, Founder of Integral Yoga Institute