.
Wild flowers willing
To risk death in wind and storms
To share their beauty
.
Wild Flowers
February 19th, 2010Ash Holes
February 17th, 2010
Being Ash Wednesday today, I saw the ash heads out in droves. It’s hard for me to look at them and not think them ridiculous. I’ve never seen one of them that didn’t have an underlying smugness about her as she holds her nose high and thinks, “I’m a pious Catholic who went to church today.”
Jesus told his posse, “You feel like praying, go off and do it by yourself and don’t act like a holier-than-thou jackass by prancing around and showing it off.” And that is what Jesus did. There are references in The New Testament to him going off by himself and praying often. He didn’t make an announcement, “I am going off to pray now”—he just did it. Jesus was interested in connecting to God, not showing how great he was.
Even all the healing stories didn’t have him end it with, “Now tell everyone in your community that The Great J.C. saved you.” In fact, besides the flocking of lepers who came to him in droves carrying their ears and arms and other pieces of body parts that had fallen off, including Michael Jackson with nose in hand, most of his healings were done one-to-one and in private.
Now Jesus wasn’t against community and sharing together and in the Essene community that he was a part of, as well as in the eighteen “lost years,” he was wandering around the East and going to all the Mystery Schools and growing in his understanding of wholeness and the power that it bestowed, he often spent—and enjoyed—time in community. Of course the Vatican won’t ever share with their cult members all the books and scrolls they have in their collection documenting his studies in the East because it doesn’t fit in with their controlling fairy tale to have a God-Man who had to study with other masters for 18 years.
Unlike Mahavira, who wouldn’t allow a woman to touch him, or Buddha whose premature ejaculation problem prevented him for the longest time from even initiating women for fear he would blow a load if he just touched them on the crown of their heads, Jesus wasn’t afraid of woman, the poor, the Untouchables—anyone—and he enjoyed communing with all of them. This was an external manifestation of embracing all the parts of ourselves, even the shadow parts, in order to come into Wholeness.
Until we do that, all communing—whether in the family or in the ashram—is going to be a small slice of pie and why settle for a measly portion of life when you can gobble down the whole Existence? We voice fears that, “It may upset our stomachs” while we accept the teasing taste that only makes us aware of our current state of self-imposed limitation. Why not risk it and see? Besides, you could always take some pharmaceutical drug for an upset stomach with the minor inconvenience of cancer as a side effect.
Interesting, many have repeated like parrots the phrase, “As above, so below,” from their Bibles and yet they would never think to utter, “As outside, so inside.” And that is a big reason why religion and all the cults like raw foodism and yoga exhibit such a chasm between the members’ “spiritual” lives and their day-to-day lives.
“As outside, so inside.” We look at the rampant destruction in our world, from natural disasters, some of which are “naturally” created by governments’ weather manipulating weapons, to wars and other violence, and commit ourselves to sending an Andrew Jackson to Greenpeace or replacing our light bulbs with the government mandated swirly ones whose light output pales in comparison to their mercury output. We favor legislation to mandate others to “shape up or ship out,” always thinking the issue is outside of us.
We are all One. I never thought I would say that phrase without either throwing up in my mouth or mocking it for being so cheesy. But it’s true. The issue is not outside of us—because there is no “outside of us.” We are ALL One. And there is no problem outside of us that is not our own.
The Earth is a conscious being, albeit not a “human” one, sometimes referred to as Gaia.We are akin to the cells in our own bodies, individually a viable life on its own but also a part of a greater whole—and unable to survive without the whole body.
The Earth is experiencing greater and greater turmoil, and I don’t mean the lie of “global warming” which is pure manipulative fiction designed in order to set up world bodies to control and regulate the masses by telling them what kind of light bulbs they can use, cars they can drive and toilet paper with which they can wipe their ass. While conspiracy webpages like prisonplanet.com don’t seem to think it can rain without the government or the Jews being behind it, it does.
We have been experiencing more and more tornadoes and tsunamis and earthquakes in the past several years and this will continue and get even greater and potentially more destructive up until the end of 2012, when The Great Transition occurs. This Transition will not happen on a given day but has already been happening for years. At the end of 2012, like the Mayans saw, Gaia will finally settle back into her easy chair and start to feel comfortable in her new skin, kind of like Barack Obama after the first day in the White House, as he had been informed years earlier by the Bilderbergers that he was going to be placed in as President, not only because they thought it would be cute to place a black man in the White House who would only serve to create slaves of all colors but also because they thought it would be hilarious to place a Kenyan there.
Gandhi said, “One can measure the greatness and moral progress of a country by how it treats its animals.” We go on murdering animals in horrific, torturous ways because we’ve developed a taste for blood; we are raping the environment with unsafe toxins and greedy motives that destroy its life-giving creatures; we are stealing from our brothers and sisters by overcharging and selling them products that intentionally wear out before they need to; we are creating drug addicts through psychological campaigns that make everyone think that they’re not good enough, pretty enough, smart enough, worthy enough, unless they become junkies to useless shit they don’t need. This goes nothing to say about murder, robbery and withholding food from innocent people who just want to live their lives like you and me. This is not “THEM”—it is “US.” And then we complain that the world’s a fucked up place and think the answer lies in some government body enforcing punishment.
That answer is like your father beating you senseless with a belt after you came home late for curfew because you met a new girl that you thought you could love; the only thing it reinforces in you is that your father is a prick. And when you come home late again because you proposed to that girl and was more focused on watching her flowering beauty blossom than staring at your watch, the only solution that abusive logic can come to is one of progression, where your father concludes, “I guess I will have to beat you harder!” And this patriarchal logic won’t work to solve the word’s problems either.
“Isn’t it funny how taxing, spending and borrowing doesn’t cure economic woes caused by taxing, spending and borrowing!”
—Rand Paul, running for the Kentucky Senate and son of Ron Paul
Gandhi said, “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind,” yet we think we can solve the world’s violence and hunger and pollution while continuing to be violent and hungry and polluted ourselves. “An eye for an eye” doesn’t fill the emptiness inside; it only destroys our depth perception, not only for sports competition but also in our ability to focus our vision to the core of our problems.
That’s the first problem in coming to a solution: where we assign the problem to be. It is not THE WORLD’S—it is OURS. Believe me, if we start tossing nuclear bombs around and kill all life on the planet except for the cockroaches, the Earth will go on fine without us. She will even regenerate herself and eventually start to grow life on the planet once again; only She might think twice before “peopling” Herself this time. Stop seeking to save the world and save yourself.
All these conflicts are not outer conflicts but inner ones. The prophet Muhammad said that the real “jihad” was fought inside of us and not by wasting random people that you decide to label “infidels.” Our “insides” are polluted. We are feeding ourselves not only with processed garbage for convenience and because we’ve lost our joy for pure, wholesome foods, but also with negative thoughts and judgments—not only of others, but of our selves. We are saturating ourselves not only with unclean water polluted with toxic poisons like fluoride, chlorine, chemical waste, and pharmaceutical drugs, but are also flushing through our system insurmountable pressure from guilt and trying to keep up with the Joneses. It’s time we take a huge dump and piss all this garbage out of us.
We are so fragmented due to conditioning from our parents and pastors and professors that we want to have sex but are guilty about it; we want to go out dancing on the Sabbath but that would be against the prison rules of our faith; we feel emotions that want to surface but we stuff them because a strong woman is considered a bitch and an emotional man is considered a pussy; we hate our jobs but, oh, we have to be “responsible” adults. Responsible to what? Society? Our families? How about ourselves and living Authentically!
Jesus brought everyone to the table, from the rich merchant to the homeless, from the society woman to the prostitute. When he “turned water into wine,” he didn’t do it through alchemy; he did it by making the water that was available to the common man as sacrosanct as the wine that only the wealthy could afford, in order that everyone could feel special and one with God. He was teaching that we are all the Sons and Daughters of God, regardless of privilege or poverty, of special powers or none at all, of Three Wise Men or a dozen idiots. This was real world spirituality and it was also another parable, subtler than ones spoken with words, about integrating all the spicy parts of ourselves if we want to have a joyful and exciting meal of life. You see Jesus lived what Gandhi said when a reporter asked him if he had any lessons for us, “My life is my lesson.”
Look at most “religious” services; it is the dead leading the dead. “Stand up. Say these words with a monotone. Sit down. Feel guilty! Be better! Stand up. Sit down. Think yourself lesser! Make more promises you won’t keep so you can feel guilty! Stand up. Sit down.” Is there someone moronic enough to think that this is serving anyone in any way besides building his or her leg muscles?
Stop going to church or temple or the mosque for God. That is stupid, as God is everywhere. You can go for joy or a sense of community if you want, but why not instead of reading tired old books written by tired old dead people, talk to your fellow brothers and sisters and sing and dance and play games?
And if you are going to bring your religion outside of the churches, don’t do it by parading at what a mindless follower you are by walking around all day with an ash cross on your forehead. Live it.
Don’t talk about piety—be piety.
Don’t talk about spirituality—live spiritually.
Don’t talk about caring—care.
And, for God’s sake, don’t talk about God…be God.
My Spastic Double
February 15th, 2010
As I was crossing the street, I saw a long-haired, grubby, bearded dude dancing frantically on the corner, as if he had just rubbed some Ben Gay on a groin pull and by mistake got some on his Johnson. I checked my physical body to make sure that what I was seeing wasn’t a large mirror reflecting my own flailing body, for this dirty, flea-infested wack job was a dead ringer for me and dancing on street corners is one of my frequent pastimes. I didn’t think it was me because I believe myself to be a little more graceful in my moves and so I smiled broadly. Of course it was possible that I was like one of those tone deaf douchebags on his audition for “American Idol” who thinks he’s the shit when really he is shit.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kgv06QjWRP4
He stopped suddenly and started walking and I just so happened to be going his way. I caught up to him and walking alongside him I said, “How ya’ doin’?” He looked at me and what seconds ago was a man seemingly acting without a concern in the world for what others might think of him, now became a mute who clammed up like a nerdy boy responding to a pretty girl who asked him for the time, right before he unloads his bladder down his pant leg. He gave me a guttural sound and a head nod and looked nervously ahead. I didn’t let him get off so easy.
“What’s your story, brother?”
He gave me a one-word answer like, “Nothing.”
“Come on we all have a story. I have a story…I like stories.”
“Oh.”
“You’ve got nothing for me?”
“No.”
Now anyone with either half a brain or something better to do would have just dropped the matter and been on his way. But I only have a quarter of a brain and I have nothing better to do—so I didn’t.
“I don’t get it, a minute ago I saw you dancing without a care in the world and now just talking one-on-one you seem so closed off.” At this point I almost hoped he would jump on me, knock me to the ground and bite my ear off while shouting, “DEATH TO THE INFIDELS! CAT STEVENS RULES!” just to break up the monotony and because I like Cat Stevens. But he didn’t.
He was a real fuckin’ bore when he wasn’t dancing, kind of like “Fun Bobby” without alcohol on Friends. I was going to tell him that if he were on Friends and acted this way, Monica would have no choice but to dump him but I was afraid he would say that Monica would never go out with a guy like him, to which I’d have to go through all the losers she’s dated over the ten seasons run and, frankly, I wasn’t sure that Old Grubby here was worth the series in review.
Staples was to my left and I said, “I’ve got to buy a…a staple now. Yeah, a staple. Take care.” He mumbled a word and I silently cursed his high school public speaking teacher for giving up on him prematurely.
I reflected on how cool it would be if everyone just danced wildly whenever they felt the urge, without the need for some major psychosis to act like a few drinks at a party to loosen them up. What’s the worst that would happen? Maybe someone would laugh at you because that is the only way they know to drown out the little voice inside of them that quietly whispers, “I would like to be that free.”
I know if I have the urge to dance like that I will—and I have—regardless of what is going on around me. And if some long-haired, grubby, dirty, flea-infested swami came up to me and asked me my “story,” I would tell him that I was not put on the planet to tuck his filthy ass under the blanket and read him a bedtime story. I probably would be just as closed off as my spastic double…but at least I’d be a little more eloquent about it.
ADDENDUM: I wrote this piece last week and needed to have someone take the matching pictures of the Joaquin Phoenix burn-out pics. I went on the sidewalk and asked some young, gayish-looking dude, “Hi, can you take a couple of quick pictures of me?” figuring those gays are good with artistic stuff. He almost completely ignored me and then just say, “No,” without missing a beat. I think he might have even just say, “N…,” as he didn’t even find me worth the “O”.
The next guy I asked was happy to do it and even asked to look at the comparison photos another time so as to take the best shots he could on my dinosaur 4 megapixel Canon PowerShot. I asked him where he was from originally and he told me Germany. It seems that whether exterminating Jews or taking photos, those Germans really put their hearts into it.
The Emerald And The Ruby
February 13th, 2010
I had to squint to see the beautiful Emerald as the light reflecting off its many facets caused my eyes to water. From where I stood, she seemed flawless. I dreamed of holding her, possessing her, gazing forever into her Emerald eyes.
And then I saw the rare Ruby that had only arrived today. I had briefly read about her in print years earlier. A mysterious disappearance…thought to be stolen…gone forever…only resurfacing this year.
She was pulsating with vibration and glowing with light. The closer I got to her, I could feel my whole body start to tremble. I asked the attendant if there was some special sound system used to cause this throbbing effect that penetrated to my bones like the heavy bass booming through a dance club’s speakers. He told me that the vibration came from the Ruby herself and that there was no additional amplification that created the effect.
“How about the glow?” I asked. “Clearly that is done with some kind of laser.” He told me that no external light was added, that her luminescence came from within.
I had gone to exhibits around the world and held many a precious stone in my hand, but this Ruby didn’t look like any other gem I had ever seen. Yes, she was somewhat circular, and somewhat shiny, but that was where the similarities ended. She wasn’t just a pretty stone—which they all were. She contained a life force that you could palpably feel when she was in your sight.
I brought my face right up to her display and could see my own reflection shining back at me, more handsome than any mirror had ever shown it. She seemed to make me look better than I was and I started to feel better than I had been.
This gangly, awkward, street kid that most had shied away from, thinking me dangerous or strange, had grown into a man in a suit. But my appearance never seemed to bring me any respect. No matter how much I tried to fit in, I was never accepted. But when she shone her light on me, in that instant I stopped being a man and became a brilliant gem myself. Staring into her face I became lost in her light. I don’t know how long I stood there motionless and I would have continued to be standing there like a stone if the man behind me hadn’t tapped me on the shoulder.
“She’s a beauty, eh sir?” said the man, snapping me out of my trance. He called me “sir,” a term of respect that I never seemed to get until she had lit up my own inner glow. I felt in her presence that the whole world was available to me, for now my dark shadows had melted away with the light she had lit inside of me.
And then I thought that perhaps this was the key to her beauty, that she focused her light on everyone who was around her, making us all glow a little brighter; from her container we were the precious stones.
I went back to where the Emerald was kept. And now I no longer had to squint to look at her, for once my eyes adjusted to the intense glow of the Ruby, the Emerald looked almost dim by comparison—still a beautiful piece, with shapes and curves, cut to perfection. But she didn’t make my heart come alive the way the Ruby did.
I realized it was my own light that was making the Emerald look so bright and when I no longer shined it on her, she looked just like an ordinary stone. And now my desire to make her my own was gone.
I went back to the museum every day. And the same lines I used to wait on eagerly to see the Emerald, now seemed to make me impatient. And so I said to myself that I would gladly see her if there was no line…but there always was. And soon I didn’t even try.
But I would wait for hours if need be to stand face to face with the Ruby that had not captured my heart, for she would never encase me with her love, but left it in my chest to beat faster when just thinking about her.
Not A Porn Site
February 11th, 2010
Being a civil libertarian and a champion of the individual’s rights, I generally let all my un-blog readers’ comments go up without editing them out, even though the comments are only a hair’s width more intelligent than the postings I see at the conspiracy website prisonplanet.com, which seems to require the phrase, “I’d like to kill all those Zionist Nazi bastards!” to be included in every posting.
Just the other day there was an article there about how Christian missionaries in Haiti were stopped trying to take Haitian children across the border and the Haitian authorities are seeking charges of kidnapping against them. Glancing down at the comments section, sure enough—an article about Christian pedophiles—has comments like, “Well at least they’re not as bad as the Zionist Jews!”
I’ve received a few spam comments at Enlightening Nonsense and a few from blogs that obviously have a computer program that lets them know if anyone writes certain keywords so that they can “ping” them and ask to cross-link in the hope of increasing traffic to their site. I’ve accepted a few of those, finding it amusing that, for example, a golf site would ask me to cross-link because I used a phrase to describe my ass as looking “as if someone had given me an ass-kicking while wearing a pair of spiked golf shoes.” [http://rebelyogi.com/not-brad-pitt.html] Some I’ve rejected.
And then there was some comments from “Chad,” an early stalker of mine, which were just so vile and stupid that I not only blocked them but I had to jump in a cesspool just to feel clean after reading them. [See “Mein Kampf” [http://rebelyogi.com/mein-kampf-2.html]
So the other day was the first time I blocked a comment from a reader who is neither unknown nor a complete moron like Chad. It was posted to my piece “The Anal Sex Debate” [http://rebelyogi.com/the-anal-sex-debate.html]. They posted a link to a webpage that contained funny, dirty cartoons.
I went to the site and, personally, I liked it. But as much trash and filth as you may perceive me to utter, it is all nonsense designed to entertain, to shock you out of your stupor, to reclaim ALL of the words and thoughts and feelings and emotions that the yoga posers have told us are not “spiritual” and therefore off-limits, and because it is fun for me. But I don’t particularly care nor intend for this un-blog to become a place where a group of derelicts gather to share their latest deviancies and foul-mouthed antics.
And sometimes I even find it sad when people think that they have to talk like sewer rats in order to “keep up” with me, especially when that is not their authenticity. For those of you who have taken a class with me or heard me speak in person, I rarely curse and have only used the phrase, “As dry as a nun’s vagina” when I was speaking at the 10 million person Gathering of Pedophile Clergy at the Vatican and even then it was only based from my personal experience of sleeping with nuns and not used frivolously.
I want to emphasize that the poster was not “bad” for posting the link and that I actually liked what I saw on the site; I think I laughed out loud three times and blew two loads, the second of which cost me $300 to get my keyboard cleaned.
But as much as I like to support free expression, this is not a democracy—this is an anarchical dictatorship, which means that I make the rules and I break them, too. This is in contrast to the United States of America, which is a dictatorship, disguised as a Democracy, supposed to be a Republic.
Oh no, looks like that line will get me on the terrorist watch list! I wouldn’t mind if it were the old days, when that would translate into full body cavity searches at the airports, which has resulted in my laughing out loud three times and blowing two loads, the second of which has caused the zipper on my carry-on to always stick.
But in today’s day and age, it means accumulating disease-causing radiation in my body as I am forced to stand in a full-body scanner which will produce completely naked pictures of my body and result in my being forced to drop my pants as, what always happens, they mistake my 14” cock for a shotgun and then having all the workers print out a copy of my naked scan and ask me to sign it, thinking with a schlong that big that I must be some famous porn star.
http://www.prisonplanet.com/exposed-naked-body-scanner-images-of-film-star-printed-circulated.html
Third Lesson From A Tree
February 10th, 2010
It was 19° F and the “F” stood for “Friggin’ cold!” I had screwed Abandon earlier with a short walk and when I suggested that she just pinch a loaf in the house tonight, she said, “As much as a pile of crap on your floor would go unnoticed in this dump—get your lazy ass up and take me to the park!” While I wear the pants in this relationship, in part because I think people who dress their dogs up in little outfits are idiots who never grew out of playing with Barbie and Ken dolls, I knew she was right—that a pile of crap would go unnoticed—and so I took her out.
The wind was blowing and my nipples had gotten past the point of erect and to the point of risking shattering with any sudden movement. As I approached my tree friend I said, “Seriously, just a few breaths and I’m outta here!” He just smiled at me and in a silence I was too cold to hear said, “That’s all I need.”
After sharing breaths, he guided me to lean my back against him. I said, “Seriously, just for a second. I’m freezing my nuts off here!” I turned around and leaned against him. And suddenly the cold disappeared, like that feeling you get when you find a warm patch in the ocean and think, “This is so delightful!” until you realize that you just swam into a pool of piss from some bastard swimming near you. I could hear and see the wind blowing the branches around me but I somehow seemed insulated from the cold in my tree friend’s warm embrace. At that point, there was no man leaning against a tree or tree supporting a man; our physical forms could no longer be delineated.
He showed me how when you press yourself close to another, not physically but by seeking understanding and union, all the coldness that was between you before will disappear in an instant, for there is no more “between you,” no separation, only One Being. He then told me to be like a squirrel and take my cold nuts home.
“Meeting is the melting of boundaries, blurring of the divisions, overlapping, overflowing.”
—Osho from Meetings With Remarkable People (p. 110)
Duck Concedes To Anal!
February 9th, 2010
Duck and I were having what seemed like an argument “in the box” of the Instant Message chat. I finally typed in, “I love you!” She ignored that comment and kept barreling ahead with what a prick I am. A little later I wrote, “Did you see that I wrote ‘I love you!’?” Her response was, “You can take your ‘I love you’ and shove it up your ass.” I was thrilled and popped open the bottle of champagne that has been in my closet for seven years awaiting a special occasion to break out—she was willing to try anal, even if it was my ass that was going to take the pounding!
I had invited my friend Dizzy to my upcoming yoga class; it was scheduled for 10:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning. She emailed me that she wouldn’t be coming, that with her busy work and play rehearsal schedule and supporting her actor friends by seeing them in their plays, she needs to recoup and take care of herself. I totally understood. I then wrote her something that I suspected she would take the wrong way. And I was not disappointed—she did.
I specifically told her that I didn’t want her to take this in a guilt-inducing way and that I was hesitant to even share this thought with her. I said that while she supports her actor friends by seeing them in their shows.
“What do you think my ‘acting’ is? Right now it is my teaching and my writing.” I concluded with, “I RATHER you get sleep than abuse yourself trying to “support” me. THAT would be supporting me, you resting yourself so you can share yourself more effectively in your acting and with others. But if you are going to throw philosophy at me, I will show you where it has holes.”
The last line was a response to her trying to sound all spiritual using the term “self-realization” in the context of receiving a good review while starring on Broadway. That’s not self-realization; that’s ego fulfillment.
So how did Dizzy react? For now, let’s just say she was pissed off. Among other things, she dropped out of my meet-up group (http://yoga.meetup.com/758/) and wrote in the “Please tell your Organizer why you’re leaving this group,” box that,
“I’d rather not have the pressure accompanied with not meeting the demands of this group…I’ve been to many of these classes and have enjoyed them, but yoga as obligation is no fun for me.” [My highlighting]
I wasn’t “pressuring” or “demanding” or saying that she was “obligated” to come at all. I was just saying that if she cared to support this starving yogi like she did her starving artist friends, the way to do so would be to share in me when I am in flow, which is while teaching yoga and in my writing. I thought she was being a bit melodramatic, when mellow drama would have probably been more effective.
Now I’m not beyond getting sad or mad—and I do on occasion. For instance, when Duck told me to shove my “I love you!” up my ass, while clearing some room in preparation for the stuffing I discovered to my dismay that the gerbil I had put up there last week was dead. And you better believe I cried. And when I was walking barefoot in the park and stepped in a pile of shit, I did get angry, angry that my other foot would not be able to experience the pleasurable sensation of squishing down into a fresh, fully-formed pile of poo; stepping on the flattened poo felt nothing like it did on the other foot.
But my vision has expanded over the past year or so and I am often able to see the bigger picture of things and this helps me from getting sucked into the melee of minor battles, if I don’t choose to for fun. Now if someone says something completely ridiculous—like 19 terrorists with box cutters, of whom 7 are still reported to be alive, committed the crimes of 9/11 and that a minor fire could bring down WTC 7, a 47-floor steel-framed building in less than 7 seconds—well then all bets are off!
http://whatreallyhappened.com/WRHARTICLES/hijackers.html
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8W0N-qH0ac4
It’s not really a “Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff” philosophy, which would essentially say that it is still “irritating stuff” but not worth the sweat. I have been able to see some challenges as not “stuff” at all. It was clear to me that Duck was upset and angry and her words were just an expression of this, albeit a bitchy one, in the same way that someone would drop a class of milk and shout out, “AAAAAAHHH!” Unlike what the yoga posers preach, it’s fine to let out some steam. But crying over spilt milk—I am in favor of the death penalty for such a heinous crime.
And Dizzy’s lash out was just her feeling overwhelmed by her own life’s busy-ness and by my diesel words filtering through her currently sensitive unleaded machinery. It would be the same way as if you were stung by a jellyfish you would welcome me peeing on you to stop the pain, but if you were sitting watching television and I pee’ed on you, you probably wouldn’t experience the same sense of relief; same urine, different circumstance. And actually, when I go to the beach I tend to eat a large asparagus salad and so my pee smells really rancid!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MhE8Qk7eXUg
How could I get mad at them for reacting in the only way they have been conditioned to react? Even more, how could I take it personally? It’s funny, they were both in that moment trying to hurt me and all I could do was sit back and watch the show as if it were on television and think to myself, “Hey, I’m like one of the lead actors here!” And I realized that as long as I continued to read from the script, the show would continue to play out.
That’s why I’m so into improvisation, going off script. It becomes very confusing for the other actors who don’t know how to do anything but read the lines they have been fed since youth. But it keeps a stale show that has been running longer than “Phantom of the Opera” fresh.
I knew instantly that I would get a lot of mileage from Duck’s “shove it up your ass” line and because of this was in some sadistic way “grateful” for her outburst. And there was something almost amusing about how Dizzy would get mad at me and drop out of the group she’s been in for over a year because all I wanted to express was that I would like her to share in my joy of teaching.
Look at all the silly sit-coms on television whose humor is almost entirely based on misunderstandings and miscommunication. How can you not consider our lives a sit-com, with God sitting in his easy chair laughing his ass off as he human surfs?
REFLECTION:
Think of the last time you got into a good argument, and by “good” I mean you got really heated up over it. Maybe it was your boyfriend telling you that you look fat in those jeans, not understanding that when you asked him, “Do I look fat in these jeans?” you wanted him to lie. Maybe it was when someone told you that working out is for losers and you spend half your day in the gym. Was is personal or was it an issue that your fellow argumenteer is dealing with? If it was personal, why did you take it so to heart and let it upset you? You probably left there thinking, “What a douchebag!” and yet getting all worked up over a douchebag is pretty douche behavior in itself.
MEDITATION:
Imagine a person with whom you tend to get into deep arguments. Be in your body and hear them say their moronicy. What does it feel like? Is your stomach tightening? Is your breathing higher in your chest? Is your mind racing a mile a minute, ready to throw its daggers through your own mouth once that idiot pauses for breath?
Now engage in an out-of-body experience. Rise about five feet above the situation and just watch as a spectator, not a player. Notice how without all the body sensations filling up your being that the situation does not seem so “pressing.”
Now float yourself 100 feet in the air, so all you can see are two small mini-people that you perceive are arguing. Now you can’t feel the body sensations, you can’t even hear the words. You can see a little movement, such as a firm point towards the other or the hands of one of you being thrown in the air and can guess it is not the most amicable situation, but from this distance notice how uninvolved and unaffected you are.
Now float yourself up halfway between the moon and the Earth. All you see beneath you is a blue marble colored with greens and browns and whites. You know the two of you are still arguing somewhere down there but all you notice is the beauty of the Earth. How “big” are the problems you have down on Earth? How “important” is that argument you’re having down there on the big, blue marble?
Now bring yourself back into your body with the person across from you yelling and screaming. Can you take any of the “bigger view” and bring it into your being in your body in the here and now? Notice how now you would probably prefer to give the other person a hug instead of a counterpoint. But that would be going off-script. Perhaps life as an improvisation would spin our big, blue marble a little more joyfully. And even if tearfully, we wouldn’t get so caught up in it, for after all, it’s just a game of marbles.
Johnny Weir—Skater, Stylist, Sodomist
February 8th, 2010
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JOHNNY WEIR—SKATER, STYLIST, SODOMIST
By Swami X, AX International Writer
February 8, 4:30 pm EST
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CHICAGO (AX)—The fruity 2008 Olympic bronze medal winning American figure skater, Johnny Weir, decided to use the skating ring to make his statement: “I’m queer, I’m here—-deal with it!” But instead of making his declaration in words, he did it by designing a totally faggy black sleeveless dress with sheer white sleeves.
This story would have passed away overnight with all the other “Gay Man Does Something Silly” articles if it weren’t for a specific choice he made—-having a tuft of fox fur placed on the shoulder of his gown. The animal rights group, Friends of Animals, didn’t take too kindly to this accentuation and wrote Mr. Weir a letter asking him to have it removed.
Weir’s response at first was, “Deal with it, bitch!” that was, until he started to receive threats from less stable elements within the animal rights movement. Said his agent, Tara Modlin, “Since when was a man wearing a dress a crime?” One needs go no further than our Holy Bible for an answer to her query:
Genesis 37:3 And God said to Joseph, “What’s with the gay dress? You have forced me to throw you into a pit and then sell you into slavery” to which Joseph responded, “What-e-ver, God!”
Weir said that wearing fur was a personal choice. “There are other causes that concern me more, such as homelessness, soldiers dying and the devastation of Haiti.”
One might ask what exactly Weir has done for these “other causes” that he professes to be so “concerned” about, as his busy schedule of ten hours a day at his sewing machine and a half-hour a day skating doesn’t leave much time for social activism. One might also ask how not contributing to an industry that anally electrocutes and often skins animals alive in cruel and unusual ways would detract in any way his “concern” for the aforementioned causes. The questioning “one” would have to be outside of the mainstream media, of course, as the depth of reporting coming from that controlled group of whores is about as shallow as the hidden graves of the oversea victims of the CIA. To their credit, on American soil they bury the bodies a lot deeper.
This writer cares for the rights of the small tribe of Botswelians who, due to an oppressive tribe leader, have been unable to trim their armpit hair for decades but this priority would not lead him to kick a homeless person in passing—-even if he didn’t care about the homeless situation.
Being aloof to suffering is one thing; justifying it is something entirely different. Perhaps Johnny Weir should stick with skating and designing women’s fashion for gay men and not feign compassion while not accepting responsibility for his choices.
http://sports.yahoo.com/olympics/news?slug=ap-weir-fur&prov=ap&type=lgns
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Swami X is a rebel yogi who only wears dresses made with faux fur.
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Happiness Today
February 7th, 2010
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Happiness today
Tomorrow it slips away
What’s the fuckin’ point?
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New World Reject
February 6th, 2010
My book connections got my 10 Commandments Of Dog Training manuscript on the desk of the head of a big publisher they deal with. I found out that boogers are also on that desk and he had more of a chance of flicking those around than flipping through my manuscript.
So they sent it to New World Publishing, which although has the same beginning as New World Order—the evil vision of the elite manipulators to control the world by killing most of the people through poisons in our food, water, vaccines and through biological and high-tech weather-disrupting weapons, controlling and destroying economies, and by world governmental bodies, such as the U.N. and the World Bank—they also published Eckhart Tolle’s first book and I thought could possibly be my quickest route to “Oprah.”
A few weeks ago, I received a rejection letter from New World and so I am forced to conclude that they are part of the evil plan to control the world, knowing full well that my book would be anathema to their dominion. The rejection letter basically said, “We only publish a few new books a year and we wouldn’t risk this on a dog training book by a nobody like you.”
In a bit of classic comedy that even I couldn’t help but find amusing, there was an inked stamp at the bottom of the letter that read, “Signed in her absence,” which meant that the person whose name was on the letter probably was buffered from ever haveing to see or even hear about my book. While a bit harsh, I prefer when someone pisses down my back that they don’t try to perfume the smell by telling me it’s only raining.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kfdpcrOgUp4
But their comments also showed me that whatever lackey actually typed up the letter, in most probability didn’t read my manuscript. While the skeleton of 10 Commandments is about “dog training,” the meat is really a book about relationships and how we can become more aware of the needs and feelings of our significant others, or anyone with whom we interact—be they four-legged or two-legged—and help the partnership become closer and more fulfilling. It is also written in a very “hip” rebel yogi way that is much different than the lame self-help books which boil down to looking at yourself in the mirror each morning and saying, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggonit, people like me!”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RvgMIerTXl4
Even if New World Publishing did take on my first book, I was just going to drop them and find a different publisher for my second book, following Eckhart Tolle’s lead.
[To read the Introduction to The 10 Commandments of Dog Training go to: http://rebelyogi.com/the-10-commandments-of-dog-training-introduction.html]
10 Commandments needs a third edit but even in it’s current form it is chiseled enough for anyone with an eye for gemstones to see the shiny rock that lies beneath the surface. But more than a “book,” it symbolizes for me that I am moving to a place where it is time for me to share the wisdom that comes through me to a larger group of people, as opposed to only the three people who show up to my yoga classes and the handful of insane asylum patients who have managed to control their delusionary outbursts long enough to sign-up for my un-blog, Enlightening Nonsense.
I will eventually work on chiseling away more of the roughage and writing the third diamond sutra of this book. I may write a book proposal, which requires all these steps like showing who the market for the book is and how you will help promote the book. I am not a big fan of following “standard” procedures, so I just as easily may not. I may look into getting a literary agent, hopefully one who has a casting couch and I have to sleep with in order for them to take on a “nobody” like myself.
I received a random email on my MySpace account that I never use and only signed up for in order to contact a girl. He told me that he was writing a book where the lead character was named “Asananda” and his father was named “X” and thought it was crazy serendipity that he found someone out there named Asananda X (Asananda is in the name in the blank space between “Swami” and “X” and during my initiation as a sannyasin, I actually took the name “Swami Asananda”). He gave me a link to a site where he self-publishes and even if I were blind, deaf, dumb and creating animal sculptures with my own feces, it seemed kind of clear that the Universe was sharing with me a possible direction to go with my book.
I have to run now, as I need to go to the post office and send some anthrax to New World Publishing, as I’m growing tired of waiting for our government to go on another anthrax mailings spree, and finish up my Big Bird shit sculpture. But you haven’t seen the last of me, oh publishing world! HOO-HOO, HA-HA, HEE-HEE!
I’m looking forward to when I become a household name like…what’s the name of that chick that wrote the “Harry Potter” books? Then when New World comes up to me begging to publish my next books, I will bend them over the table, sodomize them while fantasizing it’s Duck I’m having anal sex with and declare:
“I WILL NEVER BE A PART OF YOUR NEW WORLD ORDER! AND BY THE WAY, THAT’S NOT RAIN ON YOUR BACK!”