Destiny 'Round The Clock

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 29 of 30

I hear people sometimes say how much they love to read biographies. Which to me, of all the things you can read, are the worst. “Like everyone else, I was born at a very early age. My parents were so and so. I went to school at the usual place. The pizza parlor in my hometown was known for one thing, always being out of sausage. How hard is it to stock the basic ingredients for pizza? If pizza's the one thing you do, either do it right or forget it. We might’ve been looking at a passive/aggressive thing from an on-and-off vegan wanna-be manager. Which if that’s your thing, do it proudly, with aplomb, but instead of making pizzas how about the salad business?"
There’s no room for surprises in biographies. To be true to their word, they have to drone on and on about the nitpicky daily grind, the boring ins and out of their family system, their various surmises about the neighbors’ affairs and who their (the neighbors’ friends) were, since they seemed to think of themselves as better than us even though obviously we're all in the same boat. And speaking of boats, my dad ran a bait shop for the fishermen who populated the nearby lake, well stocked, full of everything, hard to find lunkers as well as the common crappies just off the shore, barely in the water.

So when we start sketching out lives -- unless you were a rodeo cowboy and have a lot of dirt to dish -- it’s all the same verbiage, a waste of paper, ink, glue, time, and shelf-space. The whole thing tries my patience, probably the worst sin there is, about as bad as waiting for spaghetti to soften in boiling water. I mean, look, it’s a millimeter thick, how can boiling water scald you in a half a second but it still takes forever to soften even the tiniest pasta? This is the biography I want, sadistic pasta makers cackling with evil delight over the quandary: “Just let ‘em try and cook this. They’ll drop dead from old age and famine before they ever get their money’s worth!”

OK, where are we? Destiny is simultaneously everywhere. But to every person, Destiny is there “as if” its presence were for you alone. Day in, day out. Sometimes responding to your biography as it's in progress, and sometimes screwing it up royally because its presence is also with everyone else. Some things have to collide. You’re at the theater, it burns down. Or Lincoln's shot by someone in the projectionist’s booth. You’re at the malt-shop, at a restaurant, or you’re a farmer milking the cow because the malt-shop’s running low, or the restaurant. The situations are endless, but Destiny’s there in the whole mix, mixing it up, yes, but also keeping it straight.

Be careful what you do then. It might be exactly what you should do and that’s good. But it might be just the opposite, something that will mark or scar you for life, and that’s bad. Each of us has the same 24-hours-a-day. If I were you, I would stay close to home, because, say you’re out in society, anything can happen and always does.

Nasty Destiny "What Ifs"

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 17 of 30

As I teach in one of my advanced lessons -- and I think I can hint at it without giving away the greatest secrets -- Life is so often like a giant wounded bear in the cave of the world, seemingly about to breathe its last, but then somehow it struggles and continues with labored breathing while barely hanging on. Destiny has similar problems.

Just the continuous problem of everyone’s individual destinies, trying to keep those in sync on a macro level, then with the necessary interplay with everything from microorganisms all the way up to space aliens, with their own problems (mostly tentacle cancer) even while threatening our complete obliteration, keeps Destiny jumping. You’d really think Life could be a little more secure, sort of the way it feels when we wake up refreshed after passing a pleasant night with good sleep. But what does morning bring, all too often? Well, they’re not selling newspapers with the latest triumphs of the Garden Club, that much is clear...

So we’re torn, our psyches ripped right up the middle, with the consequences of something. Fate? Destiny? Yes, but it's the sad truth that Aliens Have To Eat Too. If we get as good as we give -- and I was munching earlier on a candy bar that gave its life as a breakfast substitute for me, along with coffee beans once minding their own business on the vine -- we have to be prepared to accept that oblivion could be our next stop. That’s the macro level. Then the individual terror sets in. You’re hepped up, the next guy’s beside himself, screams lead to social jostling, then push comes to shove, and pretty soon we’re up against it, the limits we once considered so firm.

As a destiny counselor, you might think I live for this kind of chaos. And, yes, I’ll give you that much, it’s definitely good for business, but remember, I too have to live. And the more the problem is something merely suggested on the individual level for those willing to pay to hear how to tinker their destiny back into line, the better. But when it’s everyone going ballistic at the same time, that’s a two-pronged challenge, crazed masses of people in an apocalyptic nightmare running roughshod over the careful teachings of destiny counseling, and my eventual challenge of ever bringing sedation to enough people to restore an orderly clientele, who for all I know may have been herded over a cliff to their demise. On the one hand, yes, I can accept that was their destiny. But then what? Like aliens, I also have to eat.

If it ever happens that Destiny reserves are indeed up against firm limits, we'll have no choice but to look to the World Emperor -- Long May He Live -- and face our destiny. The way he cuts to the chase with bad news and leads us, calming the bitter turmoil of the masses and all dreadful consequences, so we shall face that destiny if it happens. Indeed, long may I live, too, and may those nightmares be delayed for the rest of my life. Amen?

Dizzy Dies In Pink Silk Bloomers

Part 8 of 31

They Found Another Body

We all know death is out there, but it seems like there's a definite point in our lives when we consciously realize that, yes, we are going to die. "This robe of flesh I'll drop and rise..." It doesn't mean you have to dwell on it. Maybe a nodding acquaintance is enough, with each day (thump, thump, thump) being a day closer. And we’ve certainly heard enough people having premonitions and suddenly, [throat-cutting noise]. Sometimes your doctor just hasn't got enough time to search for a spleen donor.

Another thing that comes into play is how we interact with our fate. So, realizing and interacting, that’s the ticket. But how do we interact? We have the classic (negative) interaction in the young whippersnapper above. We’ll call him Dizzy. Even Dizzy’s workmate allows himself a quick look of disbelief at his tone. Note to self: “Please allow me to be ‘umble. Being ‘umble is always better. ‘Cause if you’re not ‘umble you’re in for a t'mble!” And I’m not talking a t'umble in bed with Minnie La Aha or Chesty La Morgan, the two extremes of varying sizes. But in the old grave, Old Sunken Acres Cemetery down in the valley.

OK, Dizzy has a whole vibe of taking things for granted, being vain in his assumptions and surmises, and a self-image ripe for a fall, the opposite of humility, being entirely thoughtless as to the ways Life can put the clamp on your privates and make you scream “Bloody Sister,” who had problems of her own. In this regard, it would be fatal for me to say ‘I’ve got it going on’ in this regard. Surely the skies would immediately open and a battalion of battle angels similar to what they saw on D-Day would rush upon me. And I’d be dead before I finished this post. That’d be a tragedy! I’d rather live at least till this is posted. Then if everyone hears I was subsequently vain about it, OK, sure, bring on the angels! But I will remain ‘umble.

What is Dizzy saying? He’s unconsciously summing up his life as he sits there. He’s worked for the firm long enough to be a recognized success. He’s been at it and blessed enough to be able to look back on a long career of success and now he's in the position to sum it up. If I were the other guy I would’ve thrown my dress over my head like Scrooge's maid. This man’s batty! I must get out of here! Then I would’ve counseled him, look for a good family-owned funeral home…

“I can afford to lean back…” Right there you know Fate’s cause of death. … “and having leaned back, smoke a $90 cigar…” Waste not, want not… “and luxuriate in these expensive pink silk panties.” I have no objection to that, what else are silk panties for but comfort and kink? But when he does… [O! the mountains are tumbling! the ocean's seething! the rest of me's surging! Judgment's in the air, we have a new body to find, as foolish Dizzy leans back and rubs his thigh (the silk panties were actually bloomers), and falls back, breaking his neck and crushing his head, legitimately dying a horrible, terrible, not so good death, and at breakneck speed.

Happy Feather of Maat New Year

 

See the scales?

On the left is your heart and the feather of Maat on the right.

Let me start by wishing everyone the Happiest and Healthiest Feather of Maat New Years Day! It's my sincere hope that everything about you, from the least little indiscretion to the very worst sins of your life, are steadily balanced out with the feather of Maat. Because that's the thing; you don't want any of your nastiness to be heavier, because ... [throat-cutting gesture].

Isn’t that the greatest wish, for your life to be balanced? Because right off, we’re dealing with judgment, getting it out of the way, trusting that Maat and her feather will save the day, then the week, and finally the whole year. Then at the end of the year, when someone wishes you a regular Happy New Year you can say, “What? Nothing’s been the slightest bit bad for me till now, and I imagine next year will be great, too, thanks to the feather of Maat!”

Oh yes, this is a life giving wish. A friend turned me on to the whole feather of Maat philosophy, and you might say I didn't take it seriously at first. But I've found that paying attention to things is key to transforming your life. Even if your goal is to be the world’s worst ogre, you have to pay attention to it; it doesn't just happen. And it goes for good things too.

So this friend — we'd been discussing the nature of applying world teachings in a practical way, then he applied it to himself so diligently he went crazy and died. Because when you step into the craziness, you’re caught in it, and that's a heavy bag. But you're not him, so please don't despair quite yet. Because when you’re in the worst thicket of craziness, close to tearing your hair out, a clearing also appears, and, if you see it, sunbeams stream down, the sky takes on a hazy shade of heavenly, and your life is new! This is true and good. I’ve been through it a few times, and though I'm falling apart bit by bit, I'm generally OK.

Back to this Maat thing, I heard of it, immediately saw its value, applied it to myself, and by the usual weird quirks of grace, the job was done, the mission complete. And it helped that I had already heard enough in passing about Maat’s feather that I was able quickly to extrapolate from the beginning to the end. And now I’m telling you, just me and the feather, and you...

So what's it all about? To get the whole story, contact an ancient Egyptian priest or priestess. Because what do I know? I immediately staked out my own little place and gave it my personal spin. As far as I'm concerned, the feather of Maat is license to live your life as graciously and coolly as you choose. I think that if you're convinced about the feather, that it's the same weight or only slightly heavier than your karma, it's so.

Does that mean you will never get a different verdict? Well, never say never. I only like to look on the bright side of things, but naturally it's something to consider. There's some disconcerting things about it. Which is, if you screw up too much, a dog called Anubis eats your heart. But I don't know how literally things like that should be taken. Taken in its more literal sense, you'll have a vicious mythological dog eating your heart, and when it's gone, it's gone. But it could also be, 1) An idle threat to make you more careful; or, 2) An occasional headache or pimple. But remember, my friend went crazy and died.

In my opinion, though, sincerity counts for a lot, and attention. So you basically need to be sure yourself how good you are. Maat probably takes your word for it, and that's true or false depending... Is my outlook convincing to me? If yes, then I guess it is! So I'd just go whole hog, or something just less than that. And stay home if I got a zit or went crazy.

Now, just to get you started: Keep your own behavior as far below the weight of the feather as you can and you’ll likely be fine. But how do you determine the weight differential? There's some guesswork to it. But who else could know? It has to be you alone, and Maat. And Maat is sort of like your mom, or another force of good, saying, “Yeah, yeah, you’re OK, keep up the good work!” Or, "No, no, stop it now. Danger, danger, you're zapped!" Don't blame me, get a time machine, go back to ancient Egypt.

Happy Feather of Maat New Year!

My Friend D— Died in a Terrible Accident

In my usual way of thinking I try to keep mortality out of my mind. I’m so used to living — it’s become a habit — I’m not thinking of dying. That said, the opposite is also true. I’m a walking precaution against dying. Like the nervous bird forever bobbing its head, watching for danger. The habit of survival. I swerve to miss a three-car pileup or sidestep a hole to not trip.

This is actually something you don’t want to think about a lot. Even if it’s not far from your mind. Because the more conscious you are of the process, the less reliably your defenses work in the background. It’s true. The more you consciously think of anything, the more you are consciously responsible. And background processes are very reliable. If we could go through life entirely unconscious and yet happy, we’d avoid the whole mess.

OK, since most of it’s delegated to unconscious processes, that leaves me consciously able to watch out for others’ safety. So I’m a warning-a-minute: “Watch out for that hole, someone’s following us, have you got your keys?," etc.

But I suddenly failed! Coming out of store with friend, D----, I turned my head for three seconds to check out the sale on bottled water, which I don't even drink, and even though I'd very recently warned her to look both ways, I let down my guard for three seconds, leading to a terrible end... When...

It wasn’t the driver’s fault. Unless the fact that he was going 45 mph in a dangerous parking lot is set at his bumper. No, despite my prior warning — was it a case of her being pigheaded? — she walked right into the truck’s path. But it couldn’t have been intentional, not the way she was protecting her sack of groceries. Clearly she meant to live at least long enough to eat a four-pack of yogurt; she didn’t mean to die before that.

Still, I can’t see any value in restricting cause and effect to the physical. There’s also the mental. She had bad habits, one of which was depending too much on me. Because I usually do give constant warnings. But you still gotta look at for yourself, Doris! What if you’d lived and I’d died? You would’ve died anyway if you couldn't wise up to danger. Did she deserve to get run over? She probably didn’t technically deserve it, but the jury’s still out on whether there was a moral verdict waiting for her to receive sooner or later. Still, who am I to dump on her? People make mistakes, they pay the piper.

It took me a couple days beating myself up to finally reconcile things; this wasn’t my fault. Get on with your life. Easy come, easy go. Another day, another dollar. Plus, I have to save my energy for the guy’s trial.

I hate to face the guy again, as much ragging on him I did. It wasn't a good picture of me, cussing him up one side and down the other. Blaming his passenger for distracting him, without evidence. And I even blamed his truck, an old fashioned model that you usually only see at garden centers, with the hood up and a bunch of flowers where the motor used to be. “What are you driving that rickety old piece of shit through the parking lot at 45 mph anyway, Stupid?!”

It took the police to calm me down. I was in a rage, lunging at the guy. And his stupid antique truck. What kind of tires are those? Model T’s?! The police calmed me down fast, Officer Rix pulling a gun and threatening to blow my brains out. He calmly explained, “Your friend was a complete klutz to get herself run over so stupidly.” Which of course I had to accept as true.

My own purchase that day was Neapolitan ice cream. Three flavors for the price of one. I meant for me and Doris to enjoy a bowl each, had only she lived. As it turned out, though, tragically, that meant two bowls for me. It’s a good way to drown your sorrows; eat more ice cream.

So ... one friend down, several friends left. Who really should listen to me more. Permit me, this is rough. ... Doris will never get another chance to do the right thing. She had to let her mind drift off who-knows-where, thinking, “I’m 100% safe, nothing can ever happen to me, my fate’s a long ways away, I’m young-ish, invulnerable-ish, I’ve got lots of plans for tomorrow,” etc. People like her are always making plans for tomorrow, completely unaware that the clutching hand of fate is already clamped tight around their neck.

But I definitely saw it. In the seconds after exiting the store and the screech of the tires and her scream, the sky was cloudy, ponderous, foreboding. But was it already too late for Doris? That’s for philosophers wiser than I to debate. She was definitely run over and by the time I got home my ice cream was softer than I like.

It made me think, God took my friend’s life to teach me an important lesson, which was probably “Look Out for Trucks,” which I already knew.