Enlightening Nonsense

Mark Twain’s name was really Samuel Clemens. “Mark Twain” was a character that he essentially “played” when he would give talks and, being his pen name, this became the persona behind the books as well. Well, “Swami X” was supposed to be my Mark Twain.

No doubt “Swami X” has characteristics that are similar to mine. He can dive into the depths of spirituality or swim in the shallows of tastelessness; he is blunt yet he can also be sensitive; he is at times funny and at other times just an asshole. But he is not me…only a Creation.

As I wrote in my LONG piece called “A Rose By Any Other Name—Would Be A Pretty Stupid Name,” I had played around with creating a name for a while, but not a character. It happened one day that a friend of mine invited me to see Reverend Billy and the Church of Stop Shopping, a performer who is an “anti-consumerism preacher” with a full choir. And when he delivered an impassioned speech that could match the rhymes and rhythms of the Reverend Jesse Jackson, not only did I enjoy the circus, but an idea filled my head and, like Ebola, I was eaten up by it:

I could make my own character—a hip swami with a modern message!

And before he was fully carved from stone into a form that was recognizable, the first hammer and chisel strike was made on the piece of marble that would soon become “Swami X.”

The “drawing board” became filled with scribbles as, just like when Eric Cartman was doing all his “research” to portray himself as the perfect retard so that he could compete in the Special Olympics in order to win the cash prize, “Swami X” took on different prototypes. One was one with a long Himalayan cave-sitter beard to match his long hair, maybe padding to give him a little more girth and the swami robes. One aspect of this rendition I liked was that I, the underlying man, could totally be disassociated with the character, that once I took of the beard and moustache and robes and padding, no one would recognize me for the swami. In this way, “Swami X” could also be put in a drawer, literally and figuratively, until I decided to bring him out again.

The next form of “Swami X” came after one of my students commented on my sometimes-harsh bluntness and called me “gangsta.” I was like, “Gangsta Swami!” and thought about a big bling gold necklace with a big diamond-encrusted gold gangsta “X” hanging down to my belly, a blingy watch, maybe an “X” earring, and a variety of shades stylish hats to be able to adjust my “business suit” like a Wall Street guy does with different colored ties.

One night in Florida when I was visiting my parents, I decided I was going to go to an open mic and read some of my more “slam” poetry and wore part of the costume: the bling watch and the necklace that I had customized as well as an Indian-ish shirt and a knitted cap covering my head. My Dad seeing the outfit asked in almost incredulously, “Why would you wear that?” This was the same man who when I was in my college years couldn’t understand why people drank and so I thought I could pass it off as him just being unhip. Funny enough, as I did more and more exploration into expanding my consciousness, my thoughts on drinking soon matched my Dad’s; it was only recently that his question on wearing a costume started to make more sense to me.

So “Swami X” not only shared characteristics of my-self but they were blown up into a caricature. He was larger than life and a real rebel. A REBEL YOGI. His name, with the power and pride of the great black movement leader “Malcolm X,” represented many “spiritual” ideas:

·      Not being attached to old labels such as “Christian,” “Jew,”                “Hindu,” “American,” “straight,” “gay,” “bi,” “vegan,” “vegetarian,”           “carnivore,” “teacher,” “lawyer,” “Indian chief”—he just WAS.

·      It was about the teachings and he was a no one, an “X”.

·      Throwing away, putting an “X” through, all that no longer served        the development of the consciousness.

·      Dropping the desire to become something and to just BE.

But it was not all spiritual. I considered myself a modern Osho, a spiritual mystic who was appropriate for this time and age and not a rehash of what should have died and been buried millennia ago, and had a vision of marketing “Swami X” as a way to get the teachings out that I wanted to share. The teachings would be challenging to a lot of the “spiritual” crap that’s out there, which serves more to put people into a stupor than to wake them up. And if we came out with a “Swami X with the Kung Fu Grip” doll in the process, as long as the teachings were getting out there—and we were having fun—what was the harm? It wasn’t until later that the “harm” started becoming clear.

At the yoga studios I worked and in the workshops I would run, I started using my Trademark. “CHAKRA WORKSHOP WITH SWAMI X,” “SUFI TEACHING STORY WITH SWAMI X.” I started a Yoga Meet-Up group, which now has over 180 members and only a handful know my birth name—and that is because they knew me before The Creation.

Last year, I went to the Rawspirit Festival in Sedona, Arizona and guided a meditation and a yoga class. I saw on the list of presenters and teachers that besides the usual handful of “I changed my name to something Indian and so now I am spiritual” names, there were a few that were very playful and fun; “Happy Oasis” and “Fun Yung Moon” were two. It felt like the Universe was giving me Her blessing to bring my toy soldier there and march him! And I did.

I found it amusing that people would address me as “Swami X,” as if that was somehow normal! I had such a great time at the Rawspirit Festival, a combination of great classes, amazing music and tons and tons of glowing raw-foodists, a few of whom within only a couple of days I had some really nice sharings.

I even talked to the inspiring musician, Scott Huckabay, who I have like five of his CDs and voted for him for President. Unlike what would probably happen if you met someone like Bruce Springsteen, who would probably seem friendly enough but then look at you like you had three heads when you asked if he wanted to hang out with you, he was like, “Hey Swami X, I want to check this table out—come with me.” It was finally me who had enough of him and was like, “Later, Huck.” I was in Heaven and maybe a part of me unconsciously thought that my halo and wings were constructed from the light and feathers of “Swami X,” that I would be unable to fly on my own accord.

In hindsight, a part of me was in denial. I was like Dr. Jekyll thinking that he could contain Mr. Hyde and it was all in the name of good science. I didn’t anticipate that the one who would be most hurt by my creation was my-self.

I started finding difficulties when my “two worlds started to collide,” to use George Costanza terminology from Seinfeld [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4hqPrdj54-0]. The people who knew me from the dog run or dog training called me by Dr. Jekyll and my yoga peeps called me by Mr. Hyde. I thought this would be easy juggling but then all of a sudden a dog person would come to one of my yoga classes and…uh??

I started having to compartmentalize people and places. “I can’t bring so-and-so here, because people will call me by ‘The First Man’ and I don’t want to bring so-and-so to that yoga party because people will call me be ‘the second man.’” And soon even common things, like a walk with someone to my health food store, had to be choreographed. As a variation to a Freud saying, “Sometimes a walk just wants to be a walk.”

One big wake-up call was when I started to communicate with one of the girls I met at the Rawspirit Festival, who only knew me as “Swami X.” I hadn’t been in a serious relationship in a long time and, truthfully, I knew if I were with her that she would probably eventually drive me to the point of pulling an O.J. and killing her, and I didn’t want to risk everyone associating my name with blood instead of all the silly “Naked Gun” movies I had made (my “Naked Gun” movies have nothing to do with Leslie Nielsen but do have a strong following on a few artistic fetish websites.)

When I finally told her the name of the “first man” in an email and that I was willing to explore where we could go, she immediately wrote me back a short email which said, “We’d be toxic. Have a nice life.” [See “You Can’t Pee In The Same River Twice” http://rebelyogi.com/you-cant-pee-in-the-same-river-twice.html]

It seemed that if the man dressed as Mickey Mouse took the head off of his costume, people would beg him to put it back on so that they could maintain their Disneyworld fantasy of a world with six foot mice. This was the first time that it became clear to me that some people were falling for the projection of the Wizard and couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the real man behind the curtain. And it hurt.

My un-blog was also a source of a further blurring of the lines between “The First Man” and The Creation. When I write I am usually in such a state of flow that I don’t really have to think about what is coming through me. When I was writing from the caricature of “Swami X,” at times his brilliance would shine through and at other times he would cross a line so severe that even I would be like, “Dude, that’s harsh.” I would often laugh about it because a part of me was like you can’t take any of this seriously.

I didn’t so much mind his sometimes-tasteless expressions but the problem was that he was like a self-learning computer that was growing out of control and, as we all know, when this happens the next thing you have are Terminators rounding up the humans. As he grew in his capacity, “The First Man” seemed to be pushed to the rear.

I realized, too, that as much as I revealed about my-self—and I did—that I was hiding behind the anonymity of the “X.” Unlike my poetry, which is pure Creative Source energy with no bullshit, the writings of “Swami X” had stepped in mounds of it and was tracking his mess around my house as if he owned it. It seemed that the beast was uncaged and out of control.

A co-worker of my brother’s loved my writing and was one of the first registrants to my un-blog. He preferred the antics where I had put my-self in strange situations with even stranger people and wrote about what transpired. Drunks, crack addicts, angry lunatics—I started to become like an adrenaline junkie, seeking his thrills in more and more dangerous situations. I am not saying I did anything risky as a result of trying to get material; I do that anyway and will continue to. But when I wrote a few pieces that had no material value other than to entertain, I started to realize that I might have been playing to my audience over playing to my Self.

The most heartbreaking expression of the problem happened when I met a girl who I was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt was my soulmate. With all the work I had been doing on my-self, with all the growth in spirit and understanding I had opened up to, I was still aware of old patterning that no longer served me and which I wanted to wipe clean but was still clinging on like a piece of toilet paper to an ass. And there were aspects of “Swami X” that were not facilitating the “wiping,” or rather, because “The First Man” was not fully able to compartmentalize “Swami X,” he had not been able fully put in the work required to extricate himself of the dirty tissue and finally have a clean ass (okay, even I’m getting tired of this image at this point!)

So when I started to have some strange feelings inside of me regarding the relationship and that my soulmate wasn’t making herself available enough for me, rather than let “The First Man” speak his heart and say, “Baby, I’m really needing to see you now!” that son of a bitch “Swami X” wrote a piece where he goofed and joked and made light of the whole thing. He didn’t post the piece to his un-blog—MY un-blog—but instead sent her a copy. Which, for all his silliness, was a serious mistake.

There was barely anything in that piece from “The First Man”; “Swami X” did not allow much collaboration. Even the one understanding “The First Man” contributed was hacked and belittled by “Swami X” with so many curses and street talk sprinkled over the top of it that it no longer resembled the sweet ice-cream cone it was created to be. And that one point was the one my soulmate circled on her printout when we had our first face-to-face after the fateful SEND button was hit, my reflection that maybe the feelings I didn’t understand was just he Universe letting me know that She had blessed me with connecting with my soulmate but that didn’t mean my work was over. The work might not have been over, but the relationship was.

The letter had gutted my soulmate and like a fish sitting on the cutting board, she felt dead without any feeling in her heart. A week later she had me meet her and told me that she felt nothing and we were though. I felt so empty that I didn’t even have the emotional energy to cry. I, too, was a dead fish on the cutting board both of us essentially killed by the knife of “Swami X.”

Today I received notice from Jonathan, the Organizer of the Sacred Heart Yoga Meet-Up group that he may be bailing out of running the group—even before his first scheduled Meet-Up a week away. When I inquired about this in an email, he wrote back that he wasn’t able to put in 90-minutes a day for a yoga session and felt like he wasn’t up to speed to guide a gathering and that he needed his “spiritual guide” who was in Idaho.

I wrote him a supportive email, coming not just from a fellow journeyer but someone who was well versed in Sacred Heart Yoga as, unknown to Jonathan, I was a certified Sacred Heart Yoga teacher. I told him, among other things, that he didn’t need to do 90-minutes a day, that he could focus on just one section of the Sacred Heart Yoga routine and not worry about doing the whole routine every day.

Over a couple of emails back and forth, I also shared with him how this tends to be a problem I see with people in pursuit of “spirituality,” that they make themselves miserable in the process by allowing their seriousness for their mission to override their senses of humor and they forget that the road to Heaven does not have to be paved with broken glass. I shared how it seemed that his very “practice” of Sacred Heart Yoga had made him feel incompetent and unready to share not only the yoga but also himself. I was helping him not only back on his feet but also to become a little more independent from feeling the need for anyone other than him-Self for “spiritual guidance.”

I ended the second long email to him with: “I am open for communication, Jonathan, but I won’t stand for you using me as a crutch to prevent yourself from running. Listen to me: You are good enough; you are NOT expected to be some fake “perfection”; being a little nervous is fine–and expected; the members of the group are not your opponents but your supporters…”

And then “Swami X” had to chime in and author the closing line. I wrote at the end, “Now stop being a pussy and get out there and guide!” What I meant was essentially: “Now get off your butt and do it, brother!” But “Swami X” has become so convinced that if anyone gets wet when he starts spinning wildly while urinating, that he’s in no way responsible. His mantra has become, “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke!” And while I don’t fully disagree with “Swami X” on this point, it was only when I got Jonathan’s response that it hit so deeply that it was able to penetrate the covering of “Swami X” and hit “The First Man” hidden inside.

Needless to say, Jonathan chose to take the “pussy,” without the benefit of a tone, as a put-down. And he did what is fairly typical: he lashed back at me and to add to the beauty of the Universe’s latest lesson for me, he quoted from one of my latest un-blog pieces that “Swami X” wrote when “The First Man” was sleeping.

I wrote Jonathan a LONG email back explaining what I meant and how it was a shame that after 999 words of wisdom and support, he would focus on one word of moronicy to base his opinion of me.

To his credit, Jonathan wrote back and asked me what I wanted to do at this point and said that if I wanted to communicate further with him that I have his number and he would prefer to have a phone conversation. And I called.

We had a nice sharing, as it was just “The First Man” who had been strong enough to knock “Swami X” unconscious for at least this phone call. We offered each other some advice and Jonathan said to me something that I have heard for years coming from everyone and his mother. He told me, “You might want to think how your words impact others and make your choices wisely.” “Swami X” started to stir awake and I recited a somewhat more moderate version of his “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke!” mantra.

It wasn’t until I hung up the phone that I found my-self open enough to finally receive the lesson that my thick ego had never allowed to enter my equally thick skull:

I had potentially hurt someone who was vulnerable—and I don’t want to do that anymore. And while many were not ready to hear the messages as they come through me, how many were and possibly shut off from receiving what I had to offer based on my delivery—or even a single word? And that while they might not be strong enough to fight their own human frailties and realize that by spiting me, that not only did I suffer but they did as well, I didn’t have to put them in that situation.

And how one of my hugest pet-peeves of being misrepresented, which I tended to blame on being surrounded by idiots, might be resulting from my own insensitivity to their vulnerabilities—which results in many of them judging the whole man by a single action.

I wonder if they solely judged Jesus based on his table-turning in the temple how things would have turned out. Well, I guess they wacked him, so things couldn’t have turned out any worse for him; but probably no one thereafter would pay attention to any of his other acts of wisdom. And that would be a shame.

All the pieces of the puzzle started flooding in and I nearly drowned but was so open that with it washed away a lot of the crap that was gunking up my ability to see. Jonathan’s slap was necessary for me to feel the sting of my own inadvertent slap. That while I was frustrated that people never seemed to make the effort to see beyond The Creation, it was my job as “The First Man” to rightfully take my spot and create a new Genesis, to create the Paradise as I wanted it to be, and not allow some prick serpent to take control of my mind and fuck the whole thing up.

I started thinking about my soulmate and how because I had not let the scared little voice of “The First Man” speak his fear without a forked-tongue, that I had sent her running out of the Garden and now I was alone without my Eve and even if I remained in the Garden by my-self, it would feel empty without her.

Right before writing this piece, I got off the phone with my friend Laurie, who I hadn’t talked to in months on months. Laurie was one of my main energy healing teachers and honestly probably the greatest single life teacher of mine in this incarnation.  I have known her for about 15 years and she is one of the only—if not the only—people who knows not just the man, but also my soul.

I started to tell her about my recent dramas, focusing on my heartbreak regarding my soulmate. Like a good teacher and friend, she asked me, “What lesson did you learn from all of this?” As much as it would have been tempting to say, “That there is no God and the Universe is a vindictive bitch,” I stayed on course and released all these new understandings, the purple parts in this piece, that made some of my past behaviors feel somewhat shameful.

After I hung up the phone, I dropped down to my knees and had my first full-body cry in what seemed like forever. Like the understanding that I had gained even just today, I knew it was under there but I hadn’t been able to access it before. And it felt SO good to be able to finally release it! It only lasted about 30-seconds but I figured if the Universe had only let me taste a soulmate love for a month, a 30-second cry was probably in correct proportion.

I felt once again open to Unconditional Love and the fire hose that had been cinched with my feeling of disconnect with this old soul friend immediately unknotted and I was once again open to its flow. It’s distressing to look back and see where a hose full of love could have doused out any fire.

In the toddler years of “Swami X,” a friend of mine who knew me before and had shared in the teachings and love of “The First Man,” who went by the name his parents gave him when he first came into this world, asked me what was the purpose of creating “Swami X,” seeming to fear he was a distraction to me sharing—not really Truth, but the true beauty of my-Self. I told her that I had a plan and that “Swami X” fit into that plan and if I found that he started to no longer serve his purpose, that I would kill him off and let the “first man” resume his place at the helm.

Of course I’d kill him with some drama, such as a jealous disciple shooting him in the head during meditation and his last words before falling into an eternal savasana being, “It’s about time, you pussy.” Or, if I wanted to be boring, I could make a sex scandal involving him sleeping with his students. But liking to be an original, I would twist this tired story, which had already been played by every other Swami who has come from the caves to America, and have him sleep with his male students as well as his female ones.

I’ve come to realize that “Swami X” has become more of a distraction than he is worth, that I have brought to life my own Frankenstein monster and I have started to lose control over him and his murderous ways. I wouldn’t mind him murdering my old self, just as long as he didn’t step into the void and start to claim himself as the emperor of my Soul.

I knew the day would come but I’m feeling it more pressing now: that if I can’t compartmentalize “Swami X” then it is time to kill him and that every day he breathes while I delay his execution by thinking of how I want his dramatic exit to occur, he is draining the lifeblood of “The First Man” and that is no longer an viable situation.

“The First Man” is Adam. That is Who I Am. While “Swami X” cares about preaching Truths and being a showman, all Adam cares about is holding hands and walking in love. Adam is the only True voice of my Be-ing and, I will no longer let his quiet voice be silenced by the loud rantings of “Swami X.” I think the world needs more handholding than the addition of one more jackass preaching the gospels.