Enlightening Nonsense

[MY APOLOGIES: THIS PIECE IS UNEDITED. PERHAPS I WILL EDIT IT IN THE FUTURE, PERHAPS NOT. AS I MAY DIE IN MY SLEEP TONIGHT, I WANTED TO GET IT OUT THERE BEFORE IT WAS TOO LATE]

When there is a big source of light, there are two types of people that are attracted to it: moths and vampires. Moths are unconsciously drawn to the brightness, an inner “North Star” that guides them towards the light. They become so enamored and overtaken by the light that often they burn up, one of the reasons you find a bunch of dead moths accumulating by your lamp bulbs when you do your Spring-cleaning.

You would think that any moth with a brain in his head would think to himself, “Man, that light is really pulling me towards it. But, look, there are mounds and mounds of corpses littering the ground surrounding it. Fuck this, I’m going home to jerk-off!” But that is the pull of the light, just like love, it reduces our thinking process to mush and lets biological and emotional guides take the helm. In the case of love gone sour, this often leads to the mind returning to a control panel that has been smashed in emotional frustration and thus the mind maintains bitterness towards love, the very source of his destroyed controls.

The other type of person that is drawn to a powerful source of light is the vampire. She sees the light less as a source to illuminate whoever comes to it and more as a source that if contained and harnessed could drive people’s necks directly to her fangs instead of having to go out and search for them herself. The type of light the vampire is drawn to can come in the form of a person or even fame, as when you are in the “spot” light, now you become a source for many mindless moths.

When you step into the role of a teacher, you find that for the most part your classroom—whether it is contained within four walls filled with desks and students or whether it is in a one-on-one discussion with someone outside the confines of a building—is filled with nothing but moths and vampires. The moths flutter around you and eat up every piece of light that you emanate. Many a teacher starts becoming vampires themselves, feeding their egos with what they think is love but is really just a soul’s biological urge to move towards the light. If they are like me, they soon invite the prettiest moths home and fuck them until they are nothing but an empty husk of who they were lying in a pile by the Light Source, dead and disillusioned. They will either wander into the darkness, feeling lost and alone or they will seek another source of light and soon their smile will return, forgetting that unless they become a firefly unto themselves, the path of light leaching only leads to a dead moth.

The vampire moves close to the Light Source and tries to crowd out others, for she knows if the light is shone on everyone equally, even the introduction of a “spot” light will have no impression to the quality of the overall picture; a candle’s light is melted when it is placed near a sun.

So she uses her manipulative ways perfected over millennia of how to lure unsuspecting victims into her lair, to seek the points of darkness in the Light Source—not to bring awareness to the one who is shining so brightly so that he may fill his own holes, but to expand them and exploit them so that while he may still emanate a bright source of light to attract moths, she is ultimately the controller of the light switch.

Whether a Light Source is as bright as Jesus or as small as me, it becomes clear that most are not coming to your candle to get high on the light show, like they would a rock concert, instead of coming to light their own candles and becoming their own Light Source. It takes a strong Light Source not to lose his brightness with each candle he lights for while others may call it “service,” you serve no one by dimming your light.

I met Toad through craigslist’s personals. I had just connected with my false soulmate at the time and so I had no desire to pursue anything deeper than the love a shepherd has for his sheep because I had already found what I believed was the one sheep whose furry ass I could grab a hold of and plow her field like the sodomistic pervert that I was.

I’m reminded of when I was in high school and President of our student government. My friends and I had taken to the habit of going to the library and planting books in people’s backpacks that would buzz when they attempted to leave the library. We would put books that were sure to embarrass our victims, such as Am I A Lesbian Or Do I Just Like Pussy? In our pursuits, we found a book entitled Boys and Sex by Wardell B. Pomeroy. On the back cover of the book was a picture of “Pom-Pom” with a pipe and looking as if he was an English professor and below frame a schoolboy was blowing him.

In Boys and Sex, we found one piece of information that said something like: One out of five farm boys have sex with animals. This is illegal in all states except Nebraska. That piece of trivia made it into our next newsletter and was distributed to the whole student body and apparently tourism to Nebraska went up 300% almost overnight. There were some critics who thought the information was not relevant to life in the rich suburb of Scarsdale. As control from the administration that was funding our newsletter started to get too great, I made the decision to print the newsletter from an outside source and pay for it from the student government coffers. Even back then I was a thorn in the ass of authority. Oh, there are plenty more stories of silly antics and mischief but, alas, let us return to moths and vampires for now or else this will become another 20-page piece that requires unemployment and no life to complete.

Toad and I exchanged some emails. I was very straight up that I had just met what I was certain was my soulmate and any discussion of blowjobs or carpet munching was off the table. I shared some deep emails with her, sensitive to the struggles in which she found herself and pleasantly—for a change—less “playing” the role of a teacher and more just sharing offerings to a fellow traveler on the path.

And then it happened. She wrote me an email that seemed like a channeling of Damien Omen. It seemed to tear me apart and dismiss all the heart that I shared with her as being nothing more than me being a blowhard Pomeroy. She said she was using me for my creativity. At the end she wrote a line that said she could teach me things and asked if I was I in or out. I wrote back a two-word email that said: I’m out.

I was a bit freaked out. I am happy to inspire others through my writing, my talking, my presence to find their own creative source but the way Toad wrote it, it was clear that she had attached her fangs into my Source and was sucking and sucking my light with no care whether this left me debilitated or not. Like a girl who had finally agreed to spread her legs for her boyfriend only to have him stain her blue dress with his sperm and tell her to pick him up a sandwich on the way to the dry cleaners, I had opened myself up to her, had been brutally honest in sharing myself and not just my character, and what I got in return was a load of jism and a sandwich order.

About a month later I received an email from Toad in which she voiced her apologies, telling me that she was going through a very dark time and she actually appreciated that I cut her off like a hair growing out your ear. She was genuine and I forgave her genuinely, as opposed to the empty words that most use because they don’t understand the forgiveness that comes from love and understanding that Jesus talked about and instead only know the plastic forgiveness of the priests.

The other day after sharing a few hours in the early evening together, I invited Roach to my apartment. Doesn’t sound like anything too dramatic, I know, but if you knew the state of my apartment—let’s just say that my brother-in-law says that I can only play “away games” in sports parlance, meaning that if I want to get laid it sure as hell ain’t happening in this mess of a place. He doesn’t realize that I don’t invite many people to my place and the only ones that I do invite are so enamored by me that they can’t take their eyes off of me long enough to be disgusted by my place or girls who are such sluts that all they care about is a dick sliding between their legs and if that means they have to roll over onto dirty ice-cream wrappers and have ants crawl into their asses, so be it. “Give me dick!”

Perhaps I’ll get into it another time, but let’s just say for now that for having met each other only four days prior, we had shared quite a lot. The Saturday prior we had both experienced something together that was profound and left us both forever changed. Yeah vague but fuck you for the moment.

Roach is a healer unto herself and has established herself pretty well in more than one continent. Going to her webpage I saw that her hourly rate was even more than my extortionist rate! But what tends to happen with many healers/teachers is that they put their mission so high on their mantle that they often forget that the little girl or boy inside can’t reach that height without a serious boost and so they start to feel separate from this created ideal. Because I had been such an anchor for her to unleash the little girl that was being held captive by the big, strong masculine guard, which she had created through her business, she had a tremendous release and felt very grateful to me.

What often happens when someone who is not a total prick receives what they consider such a great gift, rather than going off and playing with the friggin’ thing that cost you an arm and a leg and two hours on line at Toys ‘R’ Us, they immediately put down the gift and go out and search for some trinket that they can buy you “in appreciation.” The best gift you can give someone is your presence and that cannot be fully given unless you are fully there, fully whole.

So Roach’s heartfelt appreciation, combined with the fact that she sees me as a tremendously powerful Light Source, has resulted in her trying to help me come into my own for the sake up uplifting the world in the same way that I uplifted her.

During a disagreement, Roach told me that I wasn’t hearing her and went on to lecture me in a supposedly loving way about how she is offering so much to me for my benefit and I’m fighting her over nonsense. It was funny, because I, too, was feeling unheard at the moment and that while she was focusing on helping me onto the stool so that I could touch the big picture placed high on the mantle, I was focusing on the small boy standing below, not really even giving a shit about the big picture above.

Show a little boy playing joyfully with his own feces a Picasso or a Rembrandt and see how quickly his attention stays on what you call great art. In this society, we call the child “autistic” and drug him until he sits quietly like a stuffed animal, no longer playing with his own shit as he stares blankly at the “great art.” Society is just glad to have kids without shitty hands that they don’t see that they are creating living corpses with their impositions, be they chemical or ethical

After her lecture, I sat there feeling destroyed, unsure of whether I really did feel love for her or whether it was as self-created as the love I felt for my false soulmate, that I was so enamored with the thought that someone was able to finally “see” me beyond the show and frustrations and physicality and foul mouth. And perhaps the love she felt for me was equally false, for it was not a love for a plain soul just wanting to be seen but only in appreciation for me being fully present so that she could explore difficult feelings that had been stuffed deep inside—and what if I hadn’t been an anchor for her last Sunday…perhaps she would have drifted away into the horizon without a second thought of me, all thoughts focused on her business and her ideals and her mission.

She started to do work on me, telling me to open to her and the work, but it took all of my effort to keep dissolving the anger I felt inside for not being heard. Each time she said, “Good,” more anger came up and more dissolution. And while I was a pretty efficient dissolver, I was not open and sensitive but closed and empty and feeling empty is even worse than feeling angry, for even a child would rather be abused by a parent and have some form of contact than to feel ignored. Another “Good” and I was like, “How can this sensitive intuitive not see that if I took a break from dissolving my anger, I’d stick her head in the VitaMix, add a handful of spinach and make a Roach green smoothie.

Walking today I reflected on something that was first implanted in my when I read a book by Jiddu Krishnamurti called Freedom From The Mind. He was talking about what a farce the thing we call “love” is, that if either “loving” party stopped performing their respective role, the love would disappear as quickly as a stinky fart does with a sudden breeze, well, to all but those downwind, I suppose.

Through my love for Osho I had taken what Krishnamurti had sparked in me and ignited it into a fuller understanding that we don’t really know or can share love until we are so overflowing with it that it is a choiceless choice to spill it onto everyone and everything in which we make contact. I guess a part of me thought that this was enough. I could use this understanding to point out how moronic everyone else was who thought they knew love for an individual and pretend that I knew what love was. But something was still missing. It was still mostly theory disguised as knowing.

When I met my false soulmate, all of a sudden the kundalini energy moved from sex to love to prayer. When we made love it was less to satisfy the outcries of my cock wanting to get sick and spit-up over everything, it was a deep appreciation for love.

I found myself walking the streets, not seeking a John to jerk-off for rent money, but just walking, be it with my dog, my self or my genital crabs. Listening to a lecture on CD of “The Wisdom Jesus,” I would hear a beautiful wisdom teaching and drop to my knees in prayerful appreciation. Listening to a CD of Alan Watts, I would overflow with love for him and for a technology that allowed me to sit in on his classroom 46-years after he had been there in body. I remember walking my dog and spending half of the hour in tears—no CD, no beautiful wisdom, just appreciation for being a part of the great existence, feeling honored and humbled [see “The Mushroom Cloud” http://rebelyogi.com/the-mushroom-cloud.html]

Needless to say, after my false soulmate told me that she felt nothing for me and to kindly fuck off, she was like the vacuum aborting the fetus of my love with her vacuum and once again the world became a cesspool of shit and puke and piss and used tampons and urine and my angry nausea resulted in me adding my own piss to the seat justifying it with, “If someone is actually going to sit on this mess, then a little more piss won’t make a difference.” I realize only now that my prayerful love was still just a fetus and needed more time to grow in order to be a viable life of his own. I also realize that I have an obsession with bodily fluids.

Today while walking my dog, I saw a bigger picture of what true love entails. I used to say to fellow travelers “The sun shines equally on Adolph Hitler as it does on Mother Teresa.” Oh, how brilliant I was. It doesn’t discriminate. This is that overflowing love that Osho discussed. But if we’re honest with ourselves, we love our family because they’re our blood, our boyfriend because he knows how to stimulate our G-spot, our boss because he pays our salary and our priest because he lets us feel absolved for fucking our neighbors wife with just one Hail Mary and he provides great daycare for our little boy who, coincidentally, has been complaining about pain during defecation ever since.

What about the mugger who robs you? What about the man who tells you he loves you “’til death do you part” and once he sees another girl with bigger “assets” he drops you like a used condom? What about the boss who fires you (or in my case, the multitude of bosses)? Where’s the love, people? It’s not there because we don’t know what the fuck love really is. That’s fine. I’m all for it. But why do we continue to bullshit that we possess something that is about as real as man-made global warming?

I realized that some love me for what I can or have given to them. That is business, not love. Some love me for what they believe I can give to the world. That is a fantasy, not love. Most of us only know love in terms of business and sometimes that business is in the form of how it makes us feel.

“I can’t define it but when I’m with you I feel completely happy!” We’ve spent so much time in the misery of living someone else’s life and the rest in the stupor of ecstasy, be it from drugs, sex or fantasy, that if someone would say this we would probably think it a beautiful statement and add our own “spiritual” two-cents of, “It’s true, love can’t be defined. As the Tao Te Ching says, ‘The Tao that can be spoken is not the Tao.’”

But what happens if that magical feeling dries up like a nun’s vagina? Then you either break up with the person, usually telling everyone what a prick he or she is, or you spend the next 50 years living in the suburbs with the source of your hate, pumping out 2 ½ kids and a dog, and finally losing your fear of death—for even death seems a better prospect than this eternal Hell.

What happens if I don’t follow my “mission”—or even worse, the mission you see is my path? What happens if I don’t choose to help anyone else anymore? What happens if I keep my gifts locked in my house whenever I go outside? Will you still want to play with me? Metaphorically, we have been so used to being provided outside sources for our entertainment, be it iPods or Gameboys, that we no longer know how to provide our own source of love and play, regardless of whether we are alone, with another, have a Gameboy or have a dirty cardboard box. I wonder what would happen if you found my writing no longer “entertaining” or “deep.” Would you ignore me at the writers party to rub shoulders with Stephen King instead? How fickle our love is, just like a sports fan who boos his team’s player who he only cheered two weeks ago because he happens to be in a hitting slump.

The revolutionary says, “We need to spread love all across the globe! That will be our new government!” The rebel says, “Fuck love. I’m going to spread gonorrhea across the globe and then we’ll see if your government is open and free or if it, too, has jail cells.”

Speaking of travel across the globe, I know I’m all over the map here and that if I gave a shit to be more commercial that I would cut this piece into about ten different pieces and maybe edit out the nun’s vagina line. Can you love someone for being a nothing? For offering no contribution? If someone came to your raw food potluck and didn’t bring a dish, would you say, “Sure, help yourself to the food,” because you know you’d seem like a spiteful bitch if you didn’t or would you say, “The food is only an excuse for us to get together. We are actually sharing each other more than we are food,”—and mean it? Bullshit. No problem. No offense. Just don’t claim you know what love is beyond the mere nourishment of the body and not the soul.

One of my favorite books is Illusions: Tales of a Reluctant Messiah by Richard Bach. In it a man who gives people rides on his bi-plane comes across another aviator who does the same thing, only with some significant differences. This stranger never seems to have any oil leaking or any dead bugs on his windshield. As they spend more time together, it is revealed that the magical man was a messiah but the job started becoming not a joy but a misery to him. He had told God of his angst and God told him, “You can do whatever you want to do.” And so now he lived the quieter life of a pilot flying a bi-plane for a few bucks a ride.

I’ve gone back and forth between getting caught up in the beautiful picture up on the mantle and just wanting to play with my own feces, or in Illusions terms, to fly my own personal bi-plane. What I’ve realized that people in the New-Age world don’t seem to understand, is that just like there is no separation between a god outside of us and inside of us, as above so below, there is no separation between being yoga in a classroom and being yoga outside the classroom, there is no “mission” that needs to be delineated outside of just plain BE-ING.

The New-Ager who has seen the documentary The Secret about the Law of Attraction and how we attract to us what we put out, will be quick to point out that what we actively focus on will be drawn to us—and the world—and that if we focus on spreading love and peace and abundance then, to quote Same Cooke’s song, “What a wonderful world it would be.” So then, just like your false love, if the world is not wonderful as it is then you are just doing more fantasizing and when I fantasize I much prefer to think of tits than flowers.

You are being a revolutionary, trying to change the world, rather than being a rebel and working to change yourself. When your vision changes, the world changes automatically—no peace rallies, no demonstrations, no sit-ins. Your vision is not dampened by destruction. You see the beauty in the limbless body as well as the swimsuit model. In your false painting you seem to want to create—whether you acknowledge it or not—a world of swimsuit models. Because you’re a New-Age freak you say, “Oh, of course the models can have their own individual expressions. Some can be black, some white—we may even allow a few Chinese.” When you look at the woman with the harelip are you moved to tears of beauty? Tears of what she calls “compassion” move the New-Age yoga poser…but that is not true love. He is unable to see this harelipped freak as just as beautiful as anyone else and that while he may not want her to blow him, he’s still do her from behind.

Like the messiah in Illusions, I think I may want to take a break from the messiah game. Surprisingly, which is another difficult Truth for the New-Age fantasizer to grasp, like in the book, the bi-plane messiah still touches and transforms all with whom he comes into contact. The only difference is that now he is happy.

REFLECTION:

Who or what do you love? Why? “I just do, I can’t explain it!” Go behind your bullshit and see what it is about the person, what it is that they stimulate in you, that “makes” you love them. What would happen if they no longer provided this stimulus? If you had a dog that did nothing but rip up everything in your house and bite you, would you still love it? Brother, please. Unlike society, this is not a place where you score points for “loving,” albeit bullshit answers. This is your inner school—no teachers to grade papers or principles to have you sit in their office. For a change, be Truthful and honest. You may even get to a point where in a panic of confusion you will conclude, “I don’t know what love is!” Don’t fear, my brother, you do. It just cannot be found in words or deeds or actions…only emanations. And thinking about you in that place of confusion makes my love boil over. Thank you for that.

MEDITATION:

Imagine yourself deciding to make big decisions that will probably disturb everyone around you who has been skiing along in your quiet wake. You tell your wife that you’re sick of your job and are quitting tomorrow. Does she respond, “Congratulations, my love! I’m so proud that you’re choosing to honor yourself!” Yeah, right. She probably goes off about the bills and the mortgage and feeding the little brats and their college funds.

Imagine telling your family that you have come to a place where you no longer want to eat cooked foods. What is their reaction? “Great! That’s probably much healthier for you anyway. I will look into learning how to prepare what you need and, who knows, maybe this will be how I eat someday.” Or do they call you a fanatic and complain about the extra work required to keep you in their lives?

Imagine you decide to change your dress radically and instead of wearing, for instance, khakis and a button-up shirt when you go out “casually,” you decide that bell-bottoms and tie-dyes is your groove. How do your friends react when you go out? Of course they may be surprised but do they end up honoring your personal decision or imposing their own judgments and ideals?

Now go through these scenarios and any others and focus on how you feel, residing in a place of peace regardless of whatever the people around you have to offer. The New-Age yoga poser would have had you go through this meditation seeing everyone honoring you and admiring you. That bullshit won’t occur anywhere but in ImaginationLand and once you open your eyes, be ready for the shitstorm of insults and judgments, hopefully not more fragile because it is so disparate from your fantasy world. I want you to focus on your inner peace, for that is something that is yours, nobody else’s, and that only you can give away. Why would you choose to?

Now go through this from a different perspective. Imagine another, be they in your family or in the papers, making personal decisions that seem to differ from your value system. Offer them the same understanding that it is their soul and their journey and regardless of whether they choose to “contribute” to the whole or not, feel nothing but love and support for them. The Truth is, the way we contribute is by being authentic to our hearts. Anything else is just a fancy picture on a high mantle—out of reach and it will never make you happy.