Enlightening Nonsense

CONTINUED FROM “WHITE HOLE [PART 1]” AT

http://rebelyogi.com/white-hole

Ogre and I have been having some serious head-banging of late, only partly due to our entry into the World Wrestling Federations mixed couples division where smashing chairs over each other’s heads seems to still be a fan pleaser, albeit cliché. Mostly it is due to both of us feeling hypersensitive and unsafe to express ourselves…and me, apparently, being a douche.

I saw her on Wednesday last week and things were somewhat polite but still very strained. Polite is only good if you’re an English couple sipping tea on the Thames and one says, “Could you pass me a baguette for my lollygag?” and the other replies, “You’re just a randy old bugger, aren’t you now?” and if I were one of those English wankers I would climb up to the top of Big Ben and put a bullet in my head rather than talk like a little sissy-pants.

On Thursday I called her asking if she could wire some money to my Discover Card, as it was about to go delinquent from me buying $450 worth of supplements and living under the delusion that “This plastic card is a magic wishing square that grants me any gift I want free from the gods!” I still believe this but have modified my belief to acknowledge that it is not a square but a rectangle.

Things were already strained between us and not only did the bank wire thing seem a pain in the asshole [see above for definition], but it reinforced the fact that I am dependent on her to keep my “off the radar” existence existential. So I told her that I would go to a Sears in Brooklyn to pay it off (don’t ask me, Discover told me this would work. Thankfully I was told that I wouldn’t have to jerk some guy off in the back room like I did the last time I had to return something at Sears.) She graciously offered her help and told me to call her if I decided to take her up on it. Or maybe she said to call her back and tell me what I decided to do. I wasn’t totally focused on what she said, as at the time I was thinking about baguettes and lollygags.

I probably should have text-messaged her back that I had solved the problem on my own by deciding that I not only don’t follow New Age rules but also credit card rules have no weight for me and that if these banks are going to magically create money out of thin air by entering electronic ones and zeros into computers, I will create in my imagination that I have paid off this fairy dust money. Perhaps I dropped the Emily Post rules of common courtesy as well.

In my defense, I was a little out of my mind with “things to do.” I called Discover and spoke to a nice woman who gave me an extension on the bill, unlike the last douche I talked to there who told me,“Sorry, you’re shit out of luck,” proving to me the old adage that if you’re getting fucked in the ass and the sodomizer talks sweetly to you, it’s still a pain in the asshole, and by “asshole” here I mean rectum.

I ran to the post office to get money orders to pay the Discover bill as well as other bills that I can’t afford. I then raced, and was late, to meet with Owl at Columbus Circle. When I got there, she had gone to the Whole Foods in Satan’s headquarters, the Time-Warner building.

Being late is the one time I am thought a douche without even opening my mouth. Usually I follow my lateness by opening my mouth and removing all doubt about my douchery. I think it shows a lack of respect to be late and makes one’s word lessen in value and I value my word above just about everything as that word is my honor. Unfortunately, my honor at the moment seems like the teenage girl I had sex with last month—late. Oh wait, it was a boy.

While waiting at the fountain for Owl to return, I took off my shoes, as not only does this allow my feet to breathe but it also allows me to scrape off the 3” layer of foot fungus that has recently started to mushroom.

When Owl got back from Whole Foods we went for a walk, me remaining barefoot. Walking barefoot in nature is one of my favorite things to do outside of going hunting with Dick Cheney or watching porn with Osama Bin Laden. I have often shared with her the challenges I experience with Ogre and she would often have a “You guys will get through this because you love each other” answer that tended to seem a little gay for me but I suppose it was nice to be around someone who still believed that love conquers all—including PMS, bad moods and answers of “Of course you do” to questions like “Do I look fat in this dress?”

But, for a change, I didn’t talk about myself but focused on what was going on with her. This is always a challenge for me, as I don’t really care about any story unless it is about me and how great I am.

Before I met with Owl, I wasn’t feeling much like talking and thought I’d just stay silent. But things just flowed easily and talk came naturally, something that Ogre and I both desperately have longed for with each other but which has somehow fell out of ease for us.

She shared her frustrations in shifting her artistic talents into a professional photography business that has involved a great outlay of money buying equipment to set up her studio and has included shooting a yoga teacher she knows from her Buddhist classes for a 10-hour day with multiple locations only to have him hand her a $20 bill at the end of it.

If he had handed me a twenty after ten hours I would have told him, “Bitch, if you’re going to fuck me at least lube my asshole before you do it!” and by “asshole” here I mean rectum. Seriously, that is wetback wages! If you paid a 12-year old girl in a China sweatshop $20 for a full day’s work she’d say, “Fruck you, you fruckin’ asshole!” and by asshole she would mean “jerk.”

Owl and I spent a couple of hours together and visited for the first time in a long time my tree friend! [See“Lessons From A Tree,” multiple entries]. I had to climb a low fence to get to him, which was pleasantly facilitated by the emotional castration that Ogre had performed on me with her emasculation scalpel. I was psyched to see him and commented how well he looked. He said, “You don’t call, you don’t write?” I told him that he was sounding like an old Jew and the one thing I hate more than a bitching tree is a Jew. We hugged and Owl took some pictures of us together that I hope to someday show the little sprouts resulting from the consummation of our tree-hugging union.

[ME HUGGING TREE FRIEND]

At the end of my time in the park with Owl, I did mention the latest difficulties in reconnecting the loose plug between Ogre and myself. She said, “You guys love each other and this is more important than anything else,” and as gay as it was, I prayed to Jesus the Jew that she was right, preferring to deal with Jews only when I think they can answer my prayers or requests for good prices on electronics.

I left the park feeling better than I have for the first time in a long time. When you focus on someone else and helping them feel better, you usually feel better, if for no other reason than because you forget about your miserable life for a time. This reminded me of one of the definitions of depression:

A narcissist who only thinks about himself; unfortunately, all he thinks about himself is crappy.

I then ran to a personal training client in order not to be too late and by the time I got home it was about 8:00 p.m. Abandon looked up at me from her circle cushion and said, “You don’t call, you don’t write?” I started to explain to her how annoying nagging trees and Jews are but gave up on this when she said how “Hitler should have finished the job” and gave her a nice walk instead, feeling a little uneasy that my dog was a psycho.

By the time I got home, I figured the whole day had passed without communicating with Ogre and because things have been so tense between us, we could both probably use the break from communication. I figured wrong.

The next day I got a text-message from Ogre telling me how my lack of communication was a big “Fuck you” and “I am done.” At first I had hoped that she meant she was done nagging me like my tree friend and dog and was ready to tell her I was glad of this fact, as my past efforts through NonViolent Communication had seemed to fall short: “I am feelingannoyed because my need for you to shut the fuck up is not being met.” It then dawned on me that she meant she was done playing second douche to my Phantom Of The Douche.

The next few days are a blur to me, only in part because I started sniffing glue again. I don’t know if we talked at all with each other. But each day whenever I remembered, I employed the White Hole technique to suck the anger and resignation I felt beaming from Ogre like a lighthouse in the Bizarro world, where Superman has an evil goatee and doesn’t call Wonder Woman after he bangs her with his AIDS-ridden pecker without a condom and the lighthouse is in fact a “darkhouse,” emitting darkness so that boats will crash unsuspectingly into rocks and unexploded mines from WWII. To the basic White Hole technique I added transforming the dark energy pulled from her heart into pure pink energy that would be soothing and healing to her hurting heart.

I am one who likes to get credit for everything I do. If I were to donate to a charity anonymously, I would also write an anonymous note to the same charity saying that the anonymous donor was me. So while Ogre was hating on me, I was trying to suck away her hate and give her some healing and soothing and getting no credit for it, mostly because I couldn’t figure out how to send her an anonymous note telling her what I was doing.

Instead of having the desired effect of her acknowledging what a bitch she’s been and bowing down to me in both a servile and a fellatial way, she told me that she put all the stuff I had at her house—from T-shirts to cock rings—in a bag and that I could pick it up anytime.

It was on Monday when I texted her and asked if I could come over and pick up my stuff and if she could please wash the cock rings before putting them in the bag, as I had worn a couple of them jogging and never got around to cleaning them off. She told me that she had left my stuff with the doorman and so I could come over anytime. This was clearly a statement of, “I’ve removed your stuff from my apartment. As far as I consider, you do not exist. And I most certainly don’t want to see you.” Douche or not, I found this kind of harsh.

As I was approaching her apartment she wrote me a text that asked, “Were you hoping to see me?” I said, “I was certainly not expecting to see you.” She wrote back, “That is not what I asked.” I wrote back, “Well, my hopes and expectations were not the same.”She wrote, “Just answer directly.” I wrote back, “You are a crazy lady” but due to my phone’s autocorrect it instead came out as, “Yes, I was hoping to see you.”

I bought her two dozen pink roses, as she has mentioned that she thought this was romantic or nice or smells good or something when I wasn’t really listening to her. I got pink because of the color’s heart healing connection. I also brought a pink rose quartz from my collection for the same reason. And I picked her up some ready to eat coconut that she would always buy as a snack from the local Korean market.

When I got to her apartment building, the doorman seemed to smile at me and wave me on. I took this as a sign that she didn’t give him the instruction that, “If that son of a bitch Swami comes here, you show him the fuckin’ door!” Either that or that she had already written my suicide note and was planning to push me off her high balcony to plunge nine floors to my death and had paid off the doorman to wipe all the doorknobs of the building clean of my fingerprints.

When I got to her apartment door I was a bit nervous. She opened the door and I gave her the flowers. She said somewhat robotically,“Thank you,” and took them to the kitchen to put them in a vase. I then gave her the pink rose quartz crystal. “Thank you.” I then gave her the coconut. “Thank you.” She sounded like a Speak & Spell whose letter “u” was stuck and just kept repeating “U…U…U….U…U…” until you took out the batteries. She responded like a tired hooker at the end of a long night that couldn’t even pretend anymore, despite you offering her an additional $20 to tickle your balls, apparently the accepted pay for 10-hours of photography work but too cheap for a little scrotal delight.

We were in her kitchen standing a few feet apart from each other. Perhaps she took me in there to put me at a disadvantage, knowing that anytime I was in her kitchen I was either eating or cleaning and if I weren’t doing one of those activities, I would feel as awkward as Will Ferrell’s character in Talladega Nights when he was being interviewed for television and didn’t know what to do with his hands [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QqhkdHlCHLk] And for the next hour straight, Ogre stood there and essentially told me what a piece of crap I was and even if I was Hanky the Christmas poo it would have still felt stinky.

I understood that she was angry and frustrated and upset and, just like I did during my stint at Sing-Sing Prison, I stood there and took it like a bitch. Only this time I actually cared about the “release” of the person with me, which in this case happened to be pain and not semen. Instead of keeping my asshole open, as in rectum, I kept my White Hole open and tried to pull out any poison that needed to be released from her system in order for her to heal.

Now I can argue just about anything. You tell me that the sky is blue and I will bring up “gray skies” and “the Aurora Borealis” and the “mammary areolas” and “rods and cones” and “perceptual interpretation” and by the time I’m done with you, you will swear the sky is in fact a lime green with a few splashes of hazelnut. But I saw that what Ogre needed was not more argument but an outlet to plug into and release her wattage and so, for the most part, I kept my mouth shut. And she seemed happy not to be interrupted in her free-flowing Old McDonald’s Farm “You’re an asshole!” poetry slam—here an asshole, there an asshole, everywhere an asshole, asshole—where asshole here means “jerk.”

Periodically I chimed in, like when she asked me, “Did you just want to sleep with me?” as silence is often an acceptance of what is spoken and I didn’t accept that assertion; I wanted to fuck her and also use her for food. She told me how annoying and inhuman I am when I talk about feeling detached from “bless you” when someone sneezes and the phrase “I love you,” as “True love can’t be directed only to a ‘you.’” She told me how unconscious I am, how I have so many issues that I am unaware of that not even Sigmund Freud’s after his daily mound of cocaine could help me.

She told me how my spirituality is just cut and pasting of others’ words and philosophies; it is all just thought-stuff and not anything authentic for me. She told me what a big ego I have, how cruel I am, how unappreciative I am, how she should have known to end the relationship when the Geisha Sex Texts were first revealed [Editor’s Note: Look forward to “The Geisha Sex Texts” in a future issue of this comic book life!]

She told me how I want to make my mark in the world—which unless this means writing my name in snow with urine is totally wrong—how I want a groupie, not a partner and how everything I write her in text or email is over thought out and completely unnatural. She also told me how I presented some fake me at first who was not the monster that I soon showed myself to be. In my defense, the fake me I presented was taken from a Clark Gable movie where the only thing I seemed to really nail was the small moustache.

And then she told me how she kept a journal throughout our 4-month relationship and she read through it and was dumbfounded at what an asshole I was (as in “jerk”) and that she put up with my bullshit for so long. I was going to say,“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” But I kinda did and my Clark Gable sucked.

At one point she poked my shoulder repeatedly and hard to make the point that what I had done to her was being continuously poked until you just want to shout, “GET THE HELL OFF OF ME!” which she made sure to shout, as I have been going deaf in my old age and at that distance of 6” from my face I might have missed her point if she didn’t project it like Mel Gibson during one of his insanity rants.

My shoulder was sore from about a thousand punches thrown with that arm at the 16-hour weekend Mixed Martial Arts camp that I had just finished up the day before but I didn’t open my mouth in protest, as a flash of my father telling me“I’ll give you something to cry about!” came to mind, where my response of, “Yeah, that seems to be the fuckin’ problem, Dad—a lack of focus on what to cry about” never seemed to accomplish anything but getting choked out and waking up with my pants unbuttoned and a strange feeling of soreness in my penis and lightness in my hairless testicles.

As Ogre poked me mercilessly, like an abused wife who was done following Jesus and turning the other cheek and decided to convert to Islam where she could follow Muhammad and blow people up in the name of God, I felt like an ignored child who gladly accepts abuse from his parents over nothing, for at least abuse makes him feel like he matters enough to abuse. I had wanted to touch her since I got there and ironically our first physical “touch” was rather unpleasant, like the time we experimented with the strap-on and it took me ten minutes to remove the red rubber S&M red ball strap from my mouth and shout at the top of my lungs, “LUBE! YOU FORGOT THE LUBE!” I suppose her poking was no worse then the verbal sodomizing that I had taken for the last hour.

I was doing my best to White Hole and send her back pink healing heart energy but I started to feel overloaded, like Lucy and Ethel at the chocolate conveyor belt [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f6r2G2fmPNM] and soon the dark energy was not transmuting into pink light but filling me up and overflowing and I started to feel physically nauseous, as the smiling faces of Orange Tang and Treya looked down on me in their “I told you so” condescension.

Ogre knows that not a day goes by where I am not in pain from kickboxing or just general body malaise and asked if my knees were in pain, as I looked distressed and have a knee issue. I told her no, that I was feeling nauseous.

I am no hero. If I were around the World Trade Centers during 9/11, I would most probably not run inside of the burning buildings to save others but would stand outside with a megaphone shouting, “9/11 WAS AN INSIDE JOB!” If a baby fell in shark-infested waters, I would probably throw rocks at him and make a game out of seeing if I could dunk him. So I am not presenting this story to act all White Hole-iness. I had just gotten to the point where I was too pained to see so much hurt in this woman that I loved and would rather fill up with her poison and die than to feed her anymore toxic waste.

It is my belief that no one can cause another any emotional distress, that all they can do is to help set up an environmentthat stirs the poison already inside of us. That being said, some people are really good poison stirrers. I seem to be one with this special skill.

I once told Ogre that I act as a catalyst to just about everyone that spends any time with me. I stir some people to question their conditioning, drop it and grow and I stir others to hold onto it and lash back and hate me dearly. She told me that all relationships do this, determined not to give me credit for something as obvious that I am a master shit-stirrer. I told her that I agreed with her about relationships being a catalyst of change and that relating to ME in a relationship is a double whammy, which again brings me back to Sing-Sing Prison.

ABBOT:           “Who’s on first. What’s on second. Anal Sex is in Sing-Sing Prison.”

COSTELLO:    “Wait, Who’s on second?”

ABBOT:            “No, Who’s on first.”

COSTELLO:    “What’s the player’s name on first base?”

ABBOT:           “No, What’s the player’s name on second base.”

COSTELLO:    “Anal Sex?”

BOTH:              “Sing-Sing!”

Ogre had $650 of mine as a down payment on anal sex and, knowing I don’t have a bank account, she was going to walk with me to a bank machine to use a magic rectangle and David Copperfield some money for me. I told her to just give me a check and I’ll figure out how to endorse it over to someone in order to launder it, as she most probably doesn’t want to walk with me anywhere. She insisted, wiping my ass with her nurturing hand while slapping me across the face with her punishing hand.

We started to walk and I asked a question that appeared almost as dumb as when I asked in history class, “If George Washington had wooden teeth, was he the only one whose teeth didn’t chatter crossing the Delaware?” and was actually pleasantly surprised that I pulled off a “D”—I asked to hold her hand. I was ready for her to respond, “Are you fucking kidding me?” but I had to ask, as after she had emptied her rifle on me in her kitchen, I had wanted to just run to her and hold her but was too frightened of her bayonet to risk it. Surprisingly she extended her open hand from her side and I grabbed it.

And as we walked in silence, I could feel that the expulsion of a lot of her poison earlier combined with the physical touch of my hand started to melt away a lot of her resistance and that beneath that protective wall of anger where a dead heart laid ready for burial, her heart had been jump-started and it was beating once again. The iceberg was melting and even though the Titanic would still crash into it and kill most people on board, it gave some of the delusional a little ray of hope.

Outside the bank, I stood with not only a heavy wallet but also with a heavy heart. I pulled her romantically to me in front of a mound of garbage bags and shared with her the pain in my heart. I don’t really remember what I said, probably due to brain cell loss from sniffing glue. I believe I shared how I did want to be with her, how I was scared of losing her, how I felt unsafe to share myself with her and that it hurt me so much to see her in such agony. I know I often broke our eye contact as I struggled with my feelings and I also shared my tears. Come to think of it, I think I said that I the pain in my chest was Angina and that I needed to go to the doctor and get some nitroglycerin tablets.

I felt like maybe we got through something, that maybe there was hope for us after all, that like the rich people on the Titanic, there was a lifeboat for us and to hell with all the poor people. And I know she felt it as well because she hates poor people. She was still a frayed wire sparking and dangerously electrified but some of her violent charge had already dissipated and now the worst she could do would be to cause someone a burnt out shoulder from over-poking.

It is a common for most to communicate their distress to the one they believe is largely responsible for their pain by filling them in on what an asshole they are, and by “asshole” here I mean “jerk.” NonViolent Communication would guide us to keep the focus on voicing our own feelings and needs while leaving the other’s character out of the mix. We might offer thoughts on how the other’s actions may affect our needs and feelings, “When you don’t call me, I feel alone and like we are not partners because my need to be kept in the loop is not being met,” but we would avoid character assassination and instead focus on killing any disconnection, as well as Abe Lincoln if we had an extra bullet.

Whenever Thai Tish and I would get together over the past years and I would voice how frustrated I felt by her lack of calling me back after multiple messages and texts and couriers and singing telegrams I left for her unanswered, she would respond with a diatribe on the topic of what a flawed human being I was. I focused on her action that had resulted in me succumbing to distress and she focused on my character and how not even Robert De Niro could make this character of mine anything other than pathetic.

With Ogre, I understood she was overwhelmed with anger and frustration and sadness and I wanted to be her Crying Tree so that she could heal. But I wasn’t able to perfectly hold my White Hole open and a lot of the poison she expelled spilled into my periphery and will require me to ground out in order that I don’t build the nerve damage of resentment towards her for directing such ugliness intentionally designed to hurt into me.

It is like in the heat of an argument someone saying, “You are so disgusting to look at that whenever I am with you I am completely embarrassed to be seen with you!” and then later saying, “Hey, I was just mad before, I didn’t mean anything I said. How about we go for a walk?” Try that with a black man someday. Say something like, “I would expect something like that from a stupid nigger!” and then see how effective your, “Uh, you remember when I dropped the n-bomb before? Oh, you do? I didn’t mean it. Is all forgiven?” Then make sure to have his shoe cleaned before you have it removed from your asshole, meaning rectum, and returned him.

It worries me that Ogre will read this and say, “Oh, now you’re the victim?” On some level, I don’t believe anyone is a victim. But forgetting spiritual contracts and all that mumbo-jumbo, in human relationships I think there are only needs that either get met or don’t and feelings that either express hurt from not having needs met or joy from having them fulfilled. The blame game doesn’t help anyone. Nor does the guilt game. Ironically, these seem to be religion’s primary modes of operation.

Ogre was excited, feeling she met the man of her dreams. Her need for a deep companionship had finally been answered. Because I didn’t express myself how she envisioned and she felt constantly criticized by me, she found herself frustrated and angry because her need for appreciation and support were not being met.

I, too, was excited to meet Ogre. My need for a loving companion seemed filled. I found myself feeling frustrated because certain modes of behavior by her challenged my need for respect and I started to feel like I had to walk on eggshells regarding what I could say and do or she would react in a disappointed or corrective way that started to repress my need for self-expression and spontaneity and felt patronizing.

Yes, all this sounds way too technical-speak for two lovers who just want to run off into the sunset together. This is because words are always stiff representations of Truth and love most certainly can’t be encapsulated with alphabetics. But sometimes if the dialogue is screwed up beyond repair, people need to change their language in order to find connection. I would have preferred to speak Spanish instead of NonViolent Communication but I have been dropped into a cesspool of Dominicans where I live and I don’t want to do anything that associates me with this nationality of scum.

The bottom line is I can’t stand to see her hurt and I wish we could go back to the innocent stage where we were both excited about having the other in our life and feeling enhanced by his or her presence. I am not sure if the trust and faith will ever be rebuilt enough to create hope and dispel the cynicism. All I am left with right now is a sore shoulder and a strong hatred for Dominicans.