Big City, Twilight State

The Big City

Part 18 of 28

Let’s establish a hypothetical situation. You’ve read this far enduring my many pleas for caution; I’m on my knees, listen to me now. Be cautious not to make the same mistakes I made and move to the Big City. My situation was very specific, I didn’t do anything rashly. The city fathers of my little town wanted me out. They led me to the city limits by gunpoint. They were vigilant, blocking every path back. Grandma’s house went down the drain after a few years of bad income and brutal weather. She herself was deceased, old and dead, her eyes wouldn’t open, her heart was shot. It barely worked when she was alive, imagine the rot after her passing...

Yes, it’s true -- setting aside her carcass -- weather can really take a toll on a house. You start thinking, How can I ever overcome these terrible conditions and feel better? What can I do to change my pathetic circumstances? A guy could, of course, learn building skills. Which is hard and not as foolproof as they think. Or I could've changed my outlook on things, mind over matter. No matter how things rot away to nothing, it doesn't have to affect you quite as much. My path was to train my mind to go into what is called The Twilight State. Crossing your eyes, locking your arms at the chest, nodding quickly, and briefly holding your breath. Goodbye cruel world, hello Twilight State!

However -- and this is important, the basic key to failure -- not everyone takes to alt consciousness quite as easily. And the techniques, like most secret techniques, come with strict rules about sharing them. That's an ironclad thing a guy vows to uphold. I took that vow. But, you know, what the hell… They didn't give me a choice, so to hell with them.

I will say, though, that everything here is “For Entertainment Purposes Only,” and any materializing and de-materializing that may happen around or to you is at your own risk. If you become a vapor and evaporate before your time, I cannot be held responsible. This is precisely the point where a friend of mine, Maha Raymond, gave up the ghost in the Himalayas and became an immortal. To give you some idea of such an achievement, it’s like winning a third place ribbon when showing cattle. It’s huge.

And with that, with only two more days of semi-strenuous practice -- grunting is encouraged -- you may encounter the deadliest, most dangerous passages. If that happens, the directions are essentially, “Feel your way.” Anyone incapable of feeling their way is immediately terminated, which is always hard for loved ones. The few who manage to feel their way -- and I saw a family of 12 halfwits make it so don’t tell me it can’t be done -- are deemed immortal with all the advantages pertaining thereunto, including gold merit badges up the yin yang and a ceremonial kiss from the only blonde in them thar hills.

But remember this truth: Mountains aren’t just there, they grow incrementally through extremely slow tectonic movement. Similarly, we advance quickly to the heights, by leaps and bounds, so be patient, stick with it because it’s definitely worth it. Breathe in, breathe out, let it happen. And there you have it, the Twilight State is now yours, and now you can spend the rest of your life mastering it.

For mastery, your purpose must be righteous. Your purpose cannot be to enter the Twilight State willy-nilly or for trivial purposes. If it’s not something righteous and something massive -- a purpose for the ages -- then most of your hopes, however sincere, will be for naught. You seriously need a righteous purpose. One such purpose, completely good, is merely because you moved to the Big City and need something more to help you cope. You’ve heard of the devil? The devil is a metaphor for Big City life, so it takes something bigger and bigger yet to transcend such an obstacle. Try your damnedest, on your word of honor, and see how it goes.

Mona Lisa Saps My Libido

 

Part 27 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Welcome to my office, the inner precincts previously never broached by visitors or curiosity-seekers, till today. And really I’m kind of proud to be welcoming people in for the first time, except for the cleaning lady; she’s been here before. Naturally, I’ve been well-behaved around her, although like everyone, I hear stories of other bosses, bold to say the least. That doesn’t go on here.

Which you can thank my vows of chastity for, since keeping vows to me is just as natural as breathing, actually more wholesome than breathing, since breathing, like sex, is just a lot of in and out, over and over, in and out. The only time you’re chaste breathing is at that tiny pause between the two. Which if I’m not wrong, is mentioned in Asian spirituality, like the Tao Te Ching, a sometimes go-to crutch I’ve consulted over the years, truth that keeps me limping along limply, contentedly.

And not to put too-fine a point on it, but would you rather be limply or empty? Think about it. One is a state of being, the other the end of a process. A state of being, you can merely be in that state, zoned in, zoned out. The whole thing of emptying is a process, and as processes go, it's quite the taskmaster. These are some of the thoughts I have in my desk. Notice I keep my desk pressed up against the wall, taking away space for chasing the cleaning lady or her chasing me. And you see my hands are on the desk, making them otherwise occupied.

The only sexual object I’m allowing is a new addition to the office castle, a gorgeous likeness of the sexiest woman alive, Mona Lisa. You might guess what I had there before, a still-life of a potted plant, and not even that colorful a flower, always worried as I was in those days of temptation. Say it were a red rose; it’d only give me thoughts of a lady called Ramblin’ Rose, and the nights we’d be ramblin’ out for tea, perhaps stronger drinks, then her place, my place, or maybe back to the office to be chased around the desk. And there’s death in them thar drawers...

Mona Lisa actually does me a lot more good. It stands to reason: Leonardo da Vinci painted the original -- what? 5 or 600 years ago? -- no doubt she's gone on to her heavenly reward. To me she's a calming influence. Anytime I get the least bit randy, say I'm performing the Heimlich Maneuver on a choking waitress, I return to the office and take a look at Mona Lisa, dead and decayed, a study in the some somber browns, her smile barely there. Makes me think of my own grandmother, also passed.

Yes, for me, (singing a little), “Life’s a wonderful path of no-sex no-sex no-sex, all the live-long day!”

Dr. Vector -- Seeking Spirit Animal

No. 10 of 31 -- Thermometer series

It’s been quite a month and it's just getting started. I’m overwhelmed by the size of the task ahead. And while I’m getting good help from a few folks, it’s been hard to consolidate my gains. This is a global effort with various time zones, languages, and the strange native dress of people half or twice my size. I’m starting to feel the weight of the world. I could use the word "crushing" to describe it. Because the world is overwhelming, huge, and round. I heard some people say the earth is flat. It can't be because I'm getting feedback. People contact me and 24 hours later I hear it.

But I had to take a break, a day of rest and relaxation. Yes, the pace continues on, unrelenting, since it's always 24 hours later somewhere! And it’s dizzying trying to keep all the chores that need to be done in context. Remember the time I fell and lost part of my memory? I’m feeling that again, and it’s enough that I had to seek assistance. I called the hotline at “I Need Professional Help” and they set me up for a couple sessions with Dr. Vector.

Dr. Vector is quite a guy. He has a look like someone who couldn't possibly care. But right away he makes you feel comfortable by constantly rolling these Chinese metal balls in his hand. His voice is sort of a whirring metallic sound, which I’ve heard either grates on people or they’re comforted by it. I happen to be comforted to the point that, combined with his whirling metallic voice and the metal balls lightly clinking in his hand, I’m hypnotized and they could do brain surgery without sedation. His eyes, so peaceful. He's got a little pouch of baby fat. His other features are unusual, admittedly, but somehow probably explainable by the vagaries of evolution. He’s one of a kind.

But a man is more than his looks. He’s got an education for one, since he calls himself a doctor. And an office and a beautiful wooden desk and, my favorite, big comfortable chairs that you can adjust however you like, with a wooden handle at the side and a place for your feet. If you want to rest your legs or actually prop your feet up and keep your knees sharp in the air, you can!

We’ll be working on my spirit animal. That’s what Dr. Vector thinks I’m missing. And maybe I am, but I have this vague memory of going through this technique at some point in the past. But for the life of me I can’t remember what my spirit animal was. Could’ve been the deer, fleet of food, elusive. Could’ve been the fox, sly, also elusive if you don’t know where to look. I hope it’s not the monkey, since I’ve heard the monkey mind disparaged enough times to turn me off from that. Whatever it is, with me in the chair and Vector playing with his balls, I’m sure it'll come to me.

Dr. Vector put a couple of possibilities before me that he had discerned, but he wanted to leave the final determination to me, because a doctor, he said, is merely a conduit for an individual’s self-healing. Meaning, if that’s really true, I’ll be billing myself for half the visit.

The first possibility is the crowing rooster. A beautiful specimen, I’d say. I love the sights and sounds of roosters. I used to raise chickens and the roosters were the rarity in the flock, the individual by choice. Because you can't allow a bunch of fighting roosters teeing off against each other to get the hens. The rooster has to be the cock ‘o the walk, literally and figuratively, and they know it. As for myself, I’m a lot more modest than that, but I get the point; they're central to everything when it comes to the farm. They take care of the hens and they let you know when the sun is up.

I had to leave to think it over: What spirit animal would I be? And where would it get me? Like everything in life, it would be a reorienting measure. Because I’m frequently confused, as though there should be an "Out of Order" sign on everything I see. But you might say, If everything's out of order, then what is this order of which you speak? Touché, that’s true, order to be order can’t be out of order.

And the better condition I’m in, the more I can focus on this thermometer drive, filling them as people make various commitments, either with me, with my team, or between themselves and the Lord above. It all counts! Whatever they do, and the calls and notes, while they’re coming in slowly are at least coming. But I have to take care of myself, understanding myself, etc., so that I at long last can be all things to all people.

Going Beyond Common Sense

 

What is common sense but the lessons learned from common experiences? Everyone beyond a certain low level of awareness, a step up from the turnip, has it. It guides behavior in this, that, and the other situation. If, for example, it's a matter of paper-clipping pages together, common sense says the paperclip goes at one of the corners; it's not thrust through the center of the pages, then bent over. If you disagree, please consult one of the style manuals used in intro college courses, or look it up in any dictionary under "Duh."

Today, I'm thinking of what lies beyond common sense. Which, to be brief about it, is found in two directions: 1) Expertise in a subject (or generally), which comes through interest, discipline, and is laboriously pursued; 2) A terrible trauma, which can happen at any time and is dangerous. Of course, discipline and study build up a person. Trauma commonly makes a shambles of one. But rarely, anyway, there is a positive difference. Didn't Rudolph face trauma being excluded from reindeer games? But didn't he also save Christmas?*

I'm thinking of trauma of a different sort, which cannot be precisely described, since trauma can also immediately kill you. Look at my graphic. Study it reaaaaal good; it'll be on the exam. A guy is kicked in the head by an ass. There are stars, which indicate a nasty blow. His crossed eyes show a physical reaction, probably one of pain and confusion. At this point he isn't looking for the silver lining of the unfortunate incident. If he's thinking at all, it has to do with immediate assessments of what the afterlife entails.

Let's surmise, however, that with this trauma everything in his head was now in perfect alignment. Before, he was what? A dunce? Who else would stand that close to the ass of an ass? Now, however, he could a genius. Probably not, but would it be impossible that a brain that before was good for nothing might through a million and one unlikely internal coincidences now be an honest-to-goodness, certified, Einstein-like specimen? Anything's possible in fiction, just shooting the bull, speculating, "What if?"

I would never (not in a million years or more) wish any trauma on anyone. I myself actually had a head trauma a year ago, and it didn't do me a bit of good, nothing that's manifested itself yet. But if you ever do have a trauma -- anything from falling off the top of a Ferris wheel, all the way down to something more commonplace, like a paper-cut -- you might look for the possible hidden blessing. Are you now a genius? Have you suddenly acquired deep spiritual insight? Or, as you may prefer, but to me is actually an inferior result, are you simply the same simpleton as before? I myself have noticed no positives, only continuing memory loss, which may or may not be psychosomatic.

Note: The title "Going Beyond Common Sense" is only one possible outcome, and not the most likely. May none of your traumas be self-inflicted, only the result of genuine accidents!

New Year: Circle The Wagons

Friends, I've taken a big step for myself. After all these years of being at everyone's mercy, being tugged and pulled, rather relentlessly, and being all things to all people, I've resolved at long last to "Circle the Wagons." From this point forward, everything changes. I'm going to make soul progress, find my perfect place.

This is a rather personal, spiritual statement, I realize. But having spilled my guts so often on the blog as to my dissatisfaction and dissolution, I feel it helpful also to note my progress, the things that will make for satisfaction and perhaps even healing. Maybe it will be of benefit to others also deciding to Circle the Wagons. I feel I owe everyone that chance.

The Wagons is my term for That Realm above. According to sources, you can profitably visualize it directly at the top of your head proper, or, as I've chosen, between two and four inches above the head. The connector, as it were, is said not to be merely imaginary, but an actual (unseen with the eyes) channel of the subtle currents of the body. Being seen in artwork as a circle made up of petals, and everything in wonderful order, containing currents/energy, those are my "Wagons," not just unconsciously but consciously Circled. Protecting and providing.

Sounds weird, I know. But, seriously, you wouldn't expect me to carry on the way I've been, not if I can make things better, whether it's weird or not. I look at it this way: Either you've got the tail wagon the dog or the dog wagon the tail. It's not just a case of six-of-one half-dozen-of-the-other; it makes a difference to the dog who's wagon who. If the tail's wagon the dog, the dog could end up permanently propped against a tree, the elimination instinct never satisfied. Whereas if the dog's wagon the tail, he'll pee and get on with his day. My dad used to say, "Piss or get off the pot," and that's good enough for me.

There is, however, a time for everything. Who knows the adjustments we go through? When it's mid-year, I might be mired down with the tail wagon the dog. But New Year is a time for a new start, and hopefully with a determined follow-through it will be so. And so, let it be stated: From hence forth, from this day, this dog's wagon the tail, the Wagons being decidedly Circled! I believe it shall be done.

I started it this morning, visualizing a thousand (alternately 10,000) Wagons in a perfect circular arrangement, a lot like in old westerns, holding off the slings and arrows -- mostly arrows -- of the enemy. "I am impervious behind my Circle of Wagons! No man -- regular guy or savage -- can pierce this line, this Circle!" (If you remember one of my earlier resolutions -- I believe it was 2009 -- I had much the same scenario, except it was based on the Gingerbread Man ("Can't touch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"), but this time I hope to keep it. And, frankly, I like a Circle of Wagons more than 10,000 Gingerbread Men; that daily suggestion led to substantial weight gain.)

There are wonderful truths at work here, much like Horatio or someone said in Shakespeare, "Something something something dreamed of in heaven and earth." Right there's the validation, all the validation I need, to press on, Circling the Wagons, and having all the defense/offense I need ... for January 1, January 2, January 3, and beyond.

My Comeback Special

Pix of me recreating Elvis' Guitar Man production number

It's been terrible being homeless and broke. I've always had trouble in my life, of course, but nothing like what came from the "Share This Empty Wallet" curse. The Curse Blob took away everything I had, short of the clothes on my back and a few incidentals. I found that life's a bitch, a real bastard. But it also reminded me a lot about myself, the stuff you don't think of till you're down and out. One pleasant surprise I got was, I'm still an incredibly fast runner, given a drumstick in good enough condition and a camp of emaciated bums on my tail. Age hasn't slowed me down.

Among the other things I learned, or was reminded of was, This is no way to live. Which is why I spent some time looking deeply into myself to find a way back. Curse or no curse! And for me, there's one constant, one source of strength and renewal, as true now as when I was 5-years-old, Elvis Presley. Just the sight of Elvis, or the sound of his voice, or being reminded of his great songs and movies, is all I need. If push came to shove, I could literally hulk out over Elvis, OK?

Then I started thinking of the '68 Comeback Special, and immediately set out after my own comeback. In one of the hobo jungles I traded a moldy (albeit well-scraped) donut for a guitar and took off. Standing at the edge of town I sang a plaintive, "Nothingville," bidding a fond farewell to my "rat's race-snail's pace" hometown. Middle finger up, "Sayonara, suckers!" Because it took me a while to get a ride, I lapsed into Three Dog Night's "Easy To Be Cruel," an old hitchhiking tradition of mine since the '70s.

Going all the way from the upper Midwest to Mobile, Alabama, is one ambitious hitchhike. But it had to be done for the sake of my comeback. I had so many rides with oversexed tubby men -- my least favorite variety among sexual opportunities -- that I stopped in this one joint for a decent rendezvous with the ladies. They immediately saw I had the old Presley swagger on and were on me, me encouraging them with "Let Yourself Go." "Cool it, baby, you ain't got no place to go, just put your arms around me real-tight, Enjoy yourself, baby, don't fight. All you gotta do is just ... let yourself go." Ummm! That's the sweet spot, baby.

I got stuck along the way and needed to pick up a few bucks. I've done this before -- such as with Manpower -- and you never know what you're going to get. This time I met this big bastard at a bar, who told me to come over and move some boxes for him. When I say "bastard," I know bastards very well. This guy was treating his lady badly, very typical stuff, but something that still gets me. My inner-Elvis, naturally, was riled up and I ended up in a no-holds-barred fight with "Big Boss Man." "Well, you ain't so big! You just tall, that's all!"

But it turned out his lady saw more of a future with the big boss man than a guitar man like me, even though I sought to convince her with "It's Hurts Me." "It hurts me to see him treat you the way that he does. It hurts me to see you sit and cry. When I know I could be so true, if I had someone like you. It hurts me to see those tears in your eyes." I fought Big Boss Man, but the squeeze stayed behind, foolishly choosing that lunk over me. Which really did hurt me.

Anyway, I had Mobile, Alabama in mind. I would keep going -- the highways lit up through the night with headlights and taillights -- as long as I physically could. Finally, though, I had to have a decent meal, and got it by performing at this joint that also featured a stripper called Little Egypt. One look at her and I could tell why the Egyptians have had such an enduring culture. Her dance, yummy, delicious, made me think of the shifting sands and the great pyramids.

With a bit of money in my pockets as well, I thumbed my way all the way down to Mobile, Alabama, and did a couple Elvis gigs at a club they call Big Jack's. Reflecting on my challenges since the Empty Wallet Curse, I came to embody my "Trouble." "You're looking for trouble, you come to the right place. You're looking for trouble, just look in my face. I was born standing up and talking back. My daddy was a green-eyed mountain jack. Because I'm evil, my middle is misery. Yeah, I'm evil .... So don't you mess around with me." I do this real sultry pronunciation of evil like "Evolll," sneering my lip up real cool.

So that's how it went. I didn't need to be there forever. I just had to know I'd been there, I'd made the full pilgrimage. By the time I got home, I knew I'd have the answer. It worked for the original (and there's only one) Elvis Presley, my hero, my spirit guide, and possibly my true father, on the off chance that my mother met him in 1952, which she didn't. She was in the same room with Elvis, backstage in 1956, but by then I was already 3.

The Guitar Man was headed back home, awaiting his answer. Cue the music, "Also Sprach Zarathustra," for a new day's at hand! My comeback's nearly complete!

Newsletter -- The Complete Beautiful Miasma of Drunkenness

I am personally not one to get good and royally drunk. As must be clear at least to long-time readers, I'm a guy of strict discipline and resolve. So going overboard on anything -- except maybe doing good -- simply doesn't happen. And I would never encourage anyone else to get inebriated, wasted, or faced. If they came to me and asked, "Should I?" I'd say "No."

Then we have a guy like Stanley "Tipsy" White, staff reporter for my newsletter (soon to be published). He didn't ask, he just showed up with drunk as his default. Drinking's simply his thing, his basic modus operandi in life, the way he copes, gets along, and lives. Yes, of course, when he's at the work release farm (he's a prisoner) he probably doesn't have perfect access to the hard stuff. But he's obviously getting it somehow; when he showed up at my place he was already drunk, and he's been working on something ever since.

I like watching Tipsy, maybe because we're such polar opposites. A few sips now and then of something, going along with spirituality, that's my thing. I've been giving a pretty good effort lately at yoga (not the stretchy kind), working on self-control, transmuting the various energies of the body. The yogis say alcohol isn't good for that, although I have a slightly different feeling on the subject, and so the sips are allowed. But there's no way I'm going to get drunk. But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy and even appreciate the fun habits and accompanying states of mind that Tipsy shows. I consider him a close personal friend at this point, and I can't think of anything that would drive us apart.

You know how most lushes have a pattern in life? They're struggling to get their lives on track, they swear off the booze, then two hours later they show up drunk? That's not Tipsy. Left to his own choices, anything apart from solitary confinement and lack of access, he's going to be boozed up, lubed real good. And spaced out, talking with a slurred voice, the whole bit. It's a lot of fun to imitate him, stumbling over your words, like the old comedian -- one of the funniest guys of his time -- Foster Brooks. I watched Foster on YouTube lately, and had the same feeling for him as in the '70s: I like the drunk voice a lot but still don't like how he bottoms it out so often. Just me.

Tipsy's not extremely verbose. He's mostly in a more enviable condition, the complete, total, beautiful miasma of drunkenness. He's just there, more or less worthless for any and all practical pursuits, but happy and apparently even centered in himself. That's the good drunk, unlike the bad drunk, which involves staggering and personal endangerment. Tipsy usually looks very contented, sitting in a chair, the bottle dangling from one hand near the floor, with his head pushed back, face toward the ceiling, in his own world, his own personal haze.

It'd be interesting to read his mind and know what's going on in his thoughts. Is he tapping into realms up there that would yield new and more wonderful answers? Is he working through visions and dreams that might make a difference to humanity in, perhaps, coming up with an answer to man's troubles? Or is it just what it looks like, a guy so bombed that if even the slightest thinking's taking place, there's still not two coherent thoughts joined together, nothing of cognitive syntax of any form that would make sense in terms of our current prevalent consciousness?

Looking at some of his ideas for articles for the newsletter, most of them aren't what you'd call deep stuff. He's very anti-cop and he doesn't like to be hassled. I can only imagine what it's been like for him, off on these beautiful multiple-week drunks and having to be hassled by the fuzz. Wouldn't you just like to take the fuzz by the lapels sometime and say, "Lay off, copper, my friend's not hurting anyone. Take your officious, self-righteous, crock of crap lawman pretentiousness, and get the hell out of here! He sleeping it off, as you can perfectly well see, because there's a party tonight he doesn't want to miss."

I said I had some spirituality going on, remember? Even the Good Book says drinking is fine. I'm looking it up. 1 Timothy 5:23: "Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach's sake and thine often infirmities." So water's out and wine's in. Something for your stomach, which is where liquids go. And something to help with infirmities. Let me do some interpretation of the verse. It says "Use a little wine." I like that. Going by that, it's all relative, use what you need. If wine's OK, anything else you need would be OK too. The same principle holds for the phrase "thy stomach's sake." All other body parts might benefit. So, in Tipsy's case, he's got all the bases covered.

Yes, Tipsy's an all right kind of guy. If I wasn't for the whole yoga discipline thing -- and I'm extremely faithful to it -- I wouldn't mind joining him. Tip up and down a bottle of rye, I'd be lubed too! I met this guy one time and we got on the subject of drinking. I asked him, "Do you drink?" He goes, "Nope ... I guzzle."

Of Fantastic Blimps and Galley Slaves

The billionaire once again was true to his word, always giving 150% effort. I arrived at the construction site, and after just a few hours, everything had proceeded on a scale similar to the work long ago on the Egyptian pyramids. In this case we were building a blimp port and a blimp itself!

How impressive it was, too. This port isn't just a one-off temp thing. The billionaire bought land just north of where my $20 million personal library will be. This is a real facility. And it took them less than an hour to clear the land -- before it was a forest, while being in the city limits. We're in a hurry, with things to do!

As I approached, it took my breath away to see that majestic blimp docked above us, with The Pink Professor's unremitting pink symbol. This was easily the biggest blimp I'd seen all day. Off to the side was an elevator fit for NASA. The blimp itself has luxurious accommodations, with amenities too numerous to list. Including a zero gravity chamber in the center, for relaxing from the pressures of life. After we would load, the galley slaves would load, whose rowing would keep air currents at an optimal stream. Wait! Galley slaves? Sort of, they're a local galley slave reenactors group.

In my opinion, these guys were a little slow on the oars, but their argument is, If you rowed close to 2,000 miles you'd be tired, too. Perhaps. But I think a good old fashioned whipping would have sped them up; but these are the sacrifices we make for living in more modern "civilized" times. (If I seem critical, it's because I did my master's thesis on galley slaves, subtitled, "Those Were the Days." And I never have enough real-life opportunities to critique the practice.)

By afternoon, we were off! Headed for San Francisco, where, according to the billionaire's plausible theory, we would find The Pink Professor. Just like the Tony Bennett song, I told him once, "I left a piece of my soul in the San Francisco area." Obviously that hit him as a search worth making, and he left. He was lost to me, a relationship I never thought would end. Now I must find him.

I kept my seat till we were over Colorado, when the higher altitude started doing things to my head. I needed the refreshing tonic of a zero gravity atmosphere, so I left my seat and went into the chamber. To enhance the experience further, the billionaire had various suits we could wear. I picked one of the heavier suits, an amniotic sac simulator. That and floating in zero gravity gave me the world's best space to chill out. And drift.

Frankly, it was stunning. I witnessed my whole personal development -- phylogeny recapitulating ontogeny -- that whole scene. I remembered things about myself, things that can't be verbalized beyond "Goo goo ga ga." I felt so extremely thankful for my mother, whose body allowed a place for me so long ago and brought me forth. Now she's passed on -- in 2013 -- and I miss her terribly, but on the bright side, I've got this blimp, running a close second.

In the mix, in the stew, in the wash, in this kaleidoscopic array of mental and metaphysical wonderment, I also saw the development of the Pink Professor. His spirit towered over his physical embryo, a foot taller if it was an inch! I swear on a stack of ultrasounds. It could very well be that that's the way he is today as well, a larger spiritual presence hovering over a little literature professor's body. This insight I will carry to my dying day. It certainly explains his success with rowdy bikers. And the impetus of going to San Francisco to look for the missing piece of my soul. Once he got there, then, he simply had to serve. I would have to be careful bringing him out.

I stepped out of the amniotic suit and made my way back to my seat. Billionaire: "Things are going great." Me: "It feels like we're going a little slow. Where's the whip?"

February Totally Bites

WORKING WITH A NATIVE GOD,
IN HIS POWER, WE RUN FEBRUARY
THROUGH WITH A BUTCHER KNIFE

AND CEREMONIALLY TURN IT OVER

TO THE FLAMES FOR JUDGMENT

I have been working in the deepest intuition through 2015, discerning things at their most basic level. It's frankly blown my mind, or, rather, expanded it, giving me once again that Super Brain feeling I've known numerous times in my life. As a kid I used to conduct a census on dust motes floating in my room -- learning much in the process -- before letting them collapse and vanish when I went down for breakfast.

That said, January has presented me with one enormous insight: That February is an aberration in time and time-keeping. The evidence against February flashed in rapid procession in my spirit. Like the dust motes of old, but a lot more apparently high tech, like 100,000 JPG thumbnails flashing by. This has to do with the honing and greater use of my mind over the years, along with incidental aspects that may have come from movies or TV. (If I have been bionically enhanced, I don't consciously remember it.)

Be that as it may, I don't feel I need to justify this too much. After all, we're only talking about stinking February. The worst month on the calendar, a short little hobbled period of time, maybe not even technically a month, a la Pluto not really being a planet. January's a month, March is a month, February's a rest stop in the middle! And not even one with major facilities, but one like truck drivers use to blow carbon out of their rigs, perhaps catching a bit of shuteye, and whatever other quickie XXX activity they may be into.

My great revulsion against February is fairly recent. But I do seem to remember being at least slightly queasy about February all my life. What other month do we feel so sorry for that we add a day every few years? There's none, just this stubby little passel of days. And if they weren't actual days of time, but existed simply on a pretend calendar, I'm sure we wouldn't be so merciful. We'd take it, rip it out, and burn it.

You know what? I feel led right now -- this is true, from on high -- to symbolically, ritually, cleanse ourselves of February. Which doesn't mean we won't have February this year, but it might be more tolerable. That's what a lot of ritual is for, to make life easier; you feel badly for your sins, so you sacrifice a lamb. You call in sick from work, then to compensate for it you actually get sick.

You're invited to join me in this sacrifice. As I type this, I'm also cutting the little month of February off my checkbook calendar. (The ceremony is illustrated above.) Now I'm holding it up. Notice how small and harmless it is, physically as well as small compared to the other months. OK, the rest of the ritual will be in two steps. 1) I'm holding it up and lighting the bottom corner with a match. Now as the flames rise higher, I'm rotating it and trying not to get burnt. Repeat after me: "I burn you to ashes. You shall never again arise." 2) I'm putting a little piece of PostIt® note in the hole and drawing an arrow from January to March.

Wow, that feels good. Except I've got this cursed little bit of ash leftover, which could simply go in the trash or be cast to the wind. But I will carry the ritual through to the end, by putting it in the garbage disposal, with these words of power: "How dare you, unspeakable so-called month, pollute my life? Now I am cleansed of you. Now I am free."

I'm giving my readers a special thanks today for standing with me. To be in agreement as we are is very valuable for the cleansing. We now have the power to carry on, at least for this day. Let us resolve, if not this year then next, to go directly from January to March!

Post-It® Brand is a trademark of 3M.

"Giftus Thinga" Learns True Meaning of Christmas

Since about August there's been real despair at the manger scene in Bethlehem. Despite the best preparations for Christmas, they could find no new creature to share the true meaning of Christmas. Which, as we've heard all our lives, is very important.

The Lord is born! Wise men came from the East, and then over the years various other characters appeared, representing all creation: Chipmunks, beavers, birds, Frosty the Snowman, Little Drummer Boys, Little Drummer Girls, misfit toys ... The very last of the ordinary animals to come was in fact just a few years ago, the mole. Being an underground animal, no one thought to dig one up and take it.

With the mole used, every year they've been looking for other new things. Even microscopic things. Last year was touch and go, until they discovered Grubby the Pool Virus, found in a dank corner of the dressing room. Related both to dirty feet and poor janitorial work, Grubby, like Frosty, "came to life one day," and Christmas was saved.

I've been keeping track of the search most of this year. They've been using some of my global contacts, thanks to the blog, meaning I've been scouring the Ukraine and a few of the other more exotic countries of the world. Remember Mauritius? I get hits there, too, and I'm always thinking it's almost obscure enough to have new life.

Manger authorities even asked me to get hold of any scientist friends I may have, not wanting to leave any stone unturned in the search. I thought "stones unturned," and immediately thought of Neil Shubin, famous for turning rocks and discovering that each of us is descended not just from other mammals, but reptiles, then fish. Someone in Sunday School a couple weeks ago (true story) said, "Jesus wasn't a reptile." I immediately thought of Neil, but was wise enough to keep my mouth shut. Anyway, I called Brother Shubin, but the best he could do was a fossilized fur follicle from a Tribble. We already got Tribbles to the manger in '68.

So the search has continued fruitlessly. Imagine, then, my huge shock, when just yesterday, right here at my place, one of the heads in a Christmas present I was getting ready to send to a reader was granted life!  How about that? I bought 40,000 of these gifts and, like, the tenth one I'm handling starts moving! One little snaky, floppy, head thing, now going by the preliminary scientific moniker "Giftus Thinga-ma-Whatsit," came to life!

Yes, it's small, dinky, extremely tiny and insignificant. It's actually little more than a head and stem. But there's a few strings falling from it, like delicate roots. Probably the beginnings of a spine. I thought I saw movement, but denied it. Then it moved even more and was even looking around, all very tentatively. The signs of life increased by the second. Twisting and morphing, morphing and twisting.

I sat it down and told it the true meaning of Christmas, just in case it died, then called Bethlehem and got it on a plane to the Holy Land, and they said it arrived at the stable about an hour ago. With beautiful light beams coming from the manger in response!

Friends, this is it! Whether you're a pool virus, a chipmunk, or a brand new Giftus Thinga, the true meaning of Christmas is here, love, light, greatness and power, the Divine Word within everything. What's in it for you? How about free plane tickets to Bethlehem? .... if your story's convincing enough to the powers that be.

Chasing the Thrill Divine

"This is that once in a lifetime,
this is the thrill divine."

"Again" by Lionel Newman and Dorcas Cochran

The great song, "Again," tells in lovely lyrics that the thrill divine is a once in a lifetime experience. At first look, we might say once in a lifetime isn't very many. But upon reflection, we can say, at least we had that one chance!

Assuming you realize the thrill when it's there. Presumably you would, since it is "the thrill divine." What kind of divine thrill would it be if you totally missed it? Although it's easy to imagine cases in which the person, be he drunk or something, might miss it. If it's indeed "once in a lifetime," you should've been ready...

On the other hand, the song doesn't say everyone's entitled to the "once in a lifetime" experience. It strikes me, rather, as a serendipitous thing, like the coming together of two lovers who suddenly experience the thrill divine. No fumbling with straps, no bushwhackers, just greatness and intensity they'll treasure forever.

I don't hold to the notion that it has to be only once in a lifetime. I think the thrill divine can happen often, and in experiences broader than love and sex. I'm saying your life can become completely immersed, drenched, enfolded, and wrapped in the thrill divine.

Yogis, gurus, holy men of old, and even today -- a man I know locally, Pastor Wadd -- have been touched by the thrill divine. My guess is this, that they're actually all over town, the countryside, and around the world. But probably not all of them want to be known.

I can see myself very secretive of the thrill divine. I wouldn't want anyone to dissect me and look for things wrong with me to explain it, blood vessel strictures, high sodium, low sodium, or brain tumors. As long as it's truly the thrill divine, I don't care what causes it.

I can envision a time -- maybe closer than you think -- when the thrill divine springs up everywhere. Little children with more visions than usual, old men dreaming dreams, etc., the thrill divine constantly hitting us. It might even be on the news! "Ten more great outbreaks of the thrill divine in the metro, details at 6." Then you catch a glimpse of the anchor as they're going to commercial. His eyes roll back in his head, the thrill divine hits, and when they come back he's gone.

Say, though, the thrill divine is happening all over the countryside, like tornadoes. We have tornado chasers, bringing us videos of tornadoes. They're just chasing wind, twirling, swirling wind, which we've seen a million times.

But if we had the thrill divine chasers, we could see euphoria on earth. So many people knowing the thrill divine -- and in the strangest ways -- others would want it too. You see this guy's cabin, and he's at the window, a big beatific look on his face, eyes rolled back, hair in an aura of non-consuming fire, etc., and people are amazed. How did that happen? It was the thrill divine!

Let's picture me as a thrill divine chaser. I'm like the storm chasers, with all the usual excitement. The thrill divine's at the Jenkins' place! His chimney's glowing, supernal photons are streaming out, old man Jenkins himself is on top of the barn, one with the clouds. Someone get over there! Assure him it's the thrill divine, and he'll have it on the ground too.

I have to tell someone! "Friends," I'm talking on a special radio broadcast, "We've had 44 known thrills divine just today in the central region. The key thing is no one's being left out. It's spread over the entire spectrum of traditions, and even those with none. If you're listening to this broadcast and the thrill divine hits you, do not be overly concerned. Enjoy it."

Little Old Fantastic Me Strikes Again

I'm remaking society in my own image. Isn't that great! Always thinking, always tinkering with things behind the scenes. Very nefarious, potentially, but always meant, strictly, for good.

On Twitter I've become something of a wild man, casting away all the norms of propriety, and I've struck out on my own. I whittled my "likes" down from something like 3,500 to 40. Making everyone crazy, no doubt. But to me it's fantastic, giving me something manageable to work with. Feeling great. I currently have 81.155555 times more followers than folks I follow, meaning I'm in huge demand, for once in my life.

Lest you think that's simply vain, let me assure you, it's not. Because in my way of thinking, this means I'm on to something, not being content merely to rest on my laurels. Instead, I'm contributing to world progress, happiness, and peace. After all, the more content you are, the more you are able to contribute in positive ways. I continue it today, through my peaceful writings.

You remember my post yesterday, to give an example, how I re-imagined what driving (traffic) could be like, virtually heaven on earth, if only we had something like a commandant/peon system, people like me being the commandants, with freer access to the roads, and peons like 81.15555% of the population, with more restricted access. I came up with that!

Then, as I recall, I also imagined the same commandant/peon system for the adoption of children and pets, both. That's radical, yes, and entirely level-headed at the same time. You can see the efficiency, and dare I say compassion, of such a system in an instant. What I'll be thinking of next, even I don't know. I only know I'm always thinking. And using tricks to jog my memory of everything I haven't thought of yet. See that? That's radical! And level-headed at the same time.

I can tell you a few of my mental tricks, things that give me the edge.

1) Tarot cards. When I get up in the morning, after having about a half cup of coffee, I shuffle the major arcana of my deck and draw a card. Let's say one morning I get the "Temperance" card. Every time I look at it I think of something new. There's a big angel with one foot in the water and one foot out. I'm always secretly hoping the lobster from "The Moon" card might come over and pinch his toe. Put those two cards together and you'd have something!

2) Meditation. One of the things I used to think was ideal was for meditation to empty your mind. Since I could never manage that, I went hog wild the other way. When I'm meditating -- and my exact routine is top secret -- I'm forever delving into some new way to enhance society and make humanity happier. My latest project involves Republicans and guillotines, but I haven't yet fully perceived the fullness of the ultimate goal. Only time, more meditation, and the availability of guillotines will tell!

3) Miscellaneous reading. I pick up at least 25 different books every week, intending to read each one. But I never get far, because the next one always looks more interesting. In this way I never actually finish a book, but I learn everything you can learn from the first 10-15 pages. This generalized smattering of knowledge doesn't do me a lot of good, but in guessing what I might have missed, I think of unexpected things. One plan I came up with for society is stocking the world's libraries with only the first 15 pages of each title, because the library would then be able to hold 100s more books. And if you get them on Kindle, the free sample usually covers the first 15 pages, so it's super cheap learning!

Everything in the world is getting better in every way, thanks to me! Which I've adopted as a daily affirmation, reading precisely like that: "Everything in the world is getting better in every way, thanks to me, little old fantastic me!"

My Better Angels

There's a bitter struggle going on inside the soul of man, I'm told. Friends tell me how they're torn from two directions, good and evil. It sounds dreadful, frankly, and I guess one of my biggest fears is that something like that might someday happen to me. Hope not!

Even in my innocence, however, I have not been entirely clueless about these things. I too see multiple paths and choices, which, however good my own options are, are enough to make me understand that not everyone is as fortunate. I'm often torn -- riven -- between two very good choices. Do I do this, something good, or this other thing, also good? It gives me pause. Fortunately a flip of the coin resolves the question, which, for me, is divinely determined.

But for my friends--- It sounds hideous for them. They've told me things that have made my hair stand on end, and goosebumps have been another reaction. I've had to wonder at those moments if indeed I do have it somewhere within me, like them. I wonder, How do I understand these things, never having experienced them. I can only resolve it like this, I'm just smart, or, again, it's divinely determined. Whatever the truth, Saints Be Praised!

It could be the saints, or it could be the angels. We've all heard the line about having "better angels." But they're not always successful (in others), leaving the field wide open for "worse angels," who, although they're worse tend to best the better! Ironic and weird. Boggles the mind. Definitely something for further exploration, as long as the taint of evil doesn't get on me.

My own saints and angels are very good at all this stuff. This is all literally true, in case you're wondering. As I think back, they came to me at a very early age, and just stayed. I don't think I'm bragging by saying I made a good home for them. They found me in innocence and they never left! What a great job for them. If you're an angel, you don't want to be assigned to someone who's going to immediately fall. That's a good way to be called on the carpet, the Big Carpet! But if you can luck out and get a charge like me -- someone never falling -- imagine how that looks on an angel's record. Looks fantastic.

I should apply -- I really should! -- to have all angels removed and see if I could do it on my own. I bet I could. I've had enough experience by now, no matter what the temptation. Even if there was no angel to help, I'd avoid it, stand up to it, and prevail! No doubt. I really think I'd be OK.

But, and this is important, I'm listening to my better angels right now, and they're saying not to go for it. So at this point, I'm not doing it. They've never deceived me yet, that I know of, so I'm very sure they're telling the truth now. The clear message is that I might not actually be that strong on my own. And once I tasted sin, there's no telling what it might do for the future. I better keep my better angels, and stay pure. Great advice!

Stay true, OK? Yours for clean living, Dbkundalini out.

Vigor Vivus -- Up From the Bed I Arose

I'm a big believer in Vigor Vivus. That's well known from my many writings on the subject. But even I forget, occasionally. Then something happens -- it's hard to explain the workings of the mind -- and I suddenly remember. And when I do, the effect is amazing, like Popeye with spinach; there's an instantaneous change. Like all at once a sudden shifting of everything. Think of a Rubik's Cube, twisted and hopeless, but in an instant solving itself. That's amazing, and a great time saver.

Recently, I've been even more hopeless than that, although to be honest I have been keeping up with my morning spiritual ablutions and, to the extent I've been able, my reading. Such things are food to body and soul. But as everyone knows, the daily grind tends to wear us down, and that fairly quickly. I have a list of things that need to be done, I set myself toward accomplishing it, and forget there's a whole other aspect of life, my personal self-interest, well-being.

So it's just like someone sets a ton of bricks on my back. Let's say the bricks are first on one shoulder, so I'm weighed down on that side. Then another ton of bricks are put on the other shoulder, balanced, of course, but still very uncomfortable. That's only two tons. Then another ton on my neck, with additional tons speedily piling up on every other part of me. So I'm completely weighed down, seemingly nothing left free. But think about it, there's plenty of room inside. So more tons of bricks everywhere, and by now it's apparently quite hopeless.

This state of being, so put upon, so weighed down, so lethargic in every way is just the opposite of the spirit of Vigor Vivus. We call this state Rigor Mortis, like with death. Finding myself in Rigor Mortis like that, I'm good for nothing. Yes, I'm going through the motions, but without the joy of it, immensely, tediously, hideously, frighteningly joyless. You ask me something, I appear to give you a decent enough answer. But listen more closely: There's a subtle droopy tone, betraying the answer of Rigor Mortis. My smile's even semi-crooked, my eyes are lifeless, glazed over, my puffy eyelids almost blotting out the light. You might see a blackhead. There's nothing left. If only I could drag myself to bed! Perchance to sleep, perchance to await the guys from the crematorium.

Here, then, is how it might happen, changing everything. I might see something simple, like two pictures showing a great contrast, a person like me, down in the mouth, weighed down. But the other picture shows someone with the opposite spirit, getting on famously with life, full of joy, happiness, and, yes, vigor. It quickly registers. Like the Bat Signal in the sky, they've got my number. And I suddenly have -- right in the center of my forehead somewhere -- the flash of two bold capital Vs, standing for ... Vigor Vivus!

Then, just as fast as the tons of bricks were dropped and received, my mental gears are grinding full blast. I refuse to accept the current state of affairs. I turn away Rigor Mortis cold turkey, just like that. There's no patch for my arm, no gum to chew for six months, no E-vapor Vigor Vivus to puff at till I'm cured or hooked in some other way. I remember -- and I wish I never forgot, although real life can obviously be a grind. And when I remember, please, "Would everyone here kindly step to the rear!" Because I'm going to be stomping, and singing something like Brünnhilde's battle cry, "Ho-jo-to-ho"! It's Vigor Vivus to the rescue!

Friends, I'm the world's biggest big mouth evangelist when it comes to Vigor Vivus. I know you're out there, you... And the same thing besets you. I'm not so special, I'm not unique. You've got it too, Rigor Mortis, a real farking drag, a major drain. Just like me, then, you too can have something better, a sense of life in all its rich glory, Vigor Vivus! Your attitude shifts. You see the victory of a renewed attitude, a shift in your spirit. And you're up -- you, yourself, you -- stomping it out! Vigor Vivus is now in your spirit!

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV, Ho-jo-to-ho!

Checking the Wood Manhood Relics

It's that time of year again, to check on the Wood Manhood relics. As trustee, according to the requirements set out in the agreement, I'm required to make sure they're all right. Along with the unusual (but agreeable) codicil that I "reflect thoughtfully on the meaning of the relics, leaving no stone unturned in the pursuit of meaningful thought and reflection." It further states, "Being truly reflective is key."

Obviously, with me that's hunky dory. I'm nothing but thoughtful reflection, and I already think often of the relics in the quiet of my meditations, always thankful, as anyone would be, that it wasn't me. I'm thankful, for one, that I'm still able to zip my own pants and tend to my own personal affairs without restrictions, family codicils, trustees, and safety deposit boxes. Don't get me wrong; if what you've got turns to wood and you're dead, I guess it's a good way to go. Better, say, than being forgotten entirely, even if the memories people have make them to flinch in shame, cross themselves, and run.

OK, I went to the bank where the relics are kept and proved my identity beyond all shadow of doubt. I trembled as I pulled forth the precious drawer. And there they were, just as you see in the above photo, against a background of semi-precious gold velvet. Amazing! Still perfectly preserved!

As you can readily see, the top relic is the manhood in question, belonging to Brother Unsettled, now wooden. The bottom relic was found near his remains, a yoni-shaped piece of wood that appears to have been his last comfort, whatever he may have done with it. And the center chip is all we have left -- the rest being misplaced or lost -- of many pieces of wood from the local forest.

Just to recap, in case you're new to this whole affair, Brother Unsettled and I dwelt in India with other chelas (students) of the master Sri Masturbananda. His teachings involve beholding glimpses of heaven and the Divine in 7-8 second increments, the male chela concentrating and acting until all is manifest. (Women chelas have some correlate experience, of which I know nothing.) For whatever reason, Brother Unsettled simply would not faithfully practice the meditations, leading to him to be a loner and something of an outcast in the ashram. In the end, in despair, his ending was unhappy, and he was found dead, having abused himself against fences, splintery boards and trees. And so, the transformed woodenness of his manhood.

THOUGHTFUL REFLECTIONS:

To me, all this is a cautionary tale. I remember myself and the other chelas shaking our heads, going, "I don't want that to happen to me! What about you? No? Me neither!" And you want to know something, after all these years, it never did! I am blessed, and I hope you are too. But beware! Once you've taken the master's mantle, once you've found a place in his blessed fold, there's only one direction you must go [looking up.] The Divine is on your side, revealed today right where you are, as long as your devotions are sincere and good, in His grace. You might spit and sputter, that's OK. As long as you hope to become more like the master, perhaps even to the point of blowing the roof off an outhouse!

I will check in from time to time -- this is my continuing vow. Because it's in the terms of the agreement, certainly, but because I know how much I need to see these relics. They're not a crutch in any way. I already have the grace, as I'm sure you do as well. But I knew Unsettled. I saw what was possible for him, and I saw what he settled for. It wasn't anything good, unless you think a fence, a splintery board or tree is good for ... that kind of thing. I certainly do not!

-------------------------------------
WOOD MANHOOD LINKS
Sri Masturbananda - The Wood Manhood Affair (2011)
Revivising the Relics in Jan. 2013

SRI MASTURBANANDA LINKS
Masturbananda -- Heaven's Just a Fantasy Away
Swami Masturbananda -- The Life of the Party
Swami Masturbananda -- Never Stoved Up
The Flying Masturbananda
Masturbananda in the Morning
Swami Masturbananda's Family Jewels
The Deflowering of Swami Masturbananda
Clash of the Titans -- Masturbananda vs. Pastor Wadd
Let's Be Sunbeams for Masturbananda
Air Devotions with Swami Masturbananda
Sri Masturbananda -- Turn On, Turn Off, Turn On
Masturbananda -- The Problem of Depressed Libidos
Masturbananda -- The Need for Seed
Masturbananda Transforms "The Little Drip"

How'd I Get So Damned Smart?

I get this question all the time, from people I know in the community, in church, as well as online. Everyone wants to know, "How'd you get so damned smart?" I can safely say it's the number one thing people wonder about. Although with their curiosity they challenge my modesty.

It's tricky to answer a question like that. Because I really do have to set aside my modesty and admit it right up front, Yes, I am pretty damned smart. And I'm smart enough not to do that readily. Hence, I've been sitting on the question for a number of months, reluctant to answer it, knowing it'd ding my modesty and sense of propriety.

But today I'm feeling bold! Who needs tomorrow! I'm ready to tackle it head-on, finally to satisfy everyone's curiosity about the intelligence of someone I frankly call "Little Ole Me." Really, that's how I think of myself. I'm not all that impressed, to tell you the truth. Because I know even I have plenty of limits. But my limits are for another day. Today we'll stick with how much I know.

First, let me say I didn't set out to get so damned smart. It wasn't any conscious push. You know, there's always those kids who set out to get so damned smart. They want to be better than everyone else, all that. As unpleasant as that can be for the rest of us, I won't judge them. They swung their way, I swung mine.

My way of swinging in school was pretty much to grasp the basics and extrapolate from there. One thing I'm not very smart at is mathematics. Anything you might need on a GRE or the SAT, I immediately fail. But I am smart at arithmetic! I can add and subtract myself around the room, passing everyone. The way I learned it was, like I said, extrapolation. They said 1 + 1 = 2 and I extrapolated from there. Everything else was easy to deduce from that one principle. So I refused to learn any of it by heart, just extrapolating, however long it took, on the fly. That left lots of time for learning other stuff.

Because it's facts other than math that you can't easily extrapolate. If you know the capital of New York is Albany, it's tough to extrapolate from that that the capital of California is Sacramento. Those are two facts I had to learn, which I only accomplished after a lot of effort. Even now I could probably tell you at least half the capitals of the various states, even ones I have no intention of visiting.

When it came to reading, I literally grew up with one story book. Only one. Which I read a million times, and loved, "Little Black Sambo." You put enough effort into one book, you learn a lot besides just the great story. I learned to love and respect others who aren't like me, Indians, black people, LGBTQ, Lutherans, etc. The only ones I still have a hard time with are Republicans. Of any variety.

In addition, I grew in my love of animals, butter, pancakes, and embraced asynchronous thinking, because who can believe that tigers, running fast enough to turn into butter, wouldn't think to cut across and head off Sambo? Unless Sambo were simultaneously smart enough to cut across at lightning speed and therefore maintain his safe position. Stunning stuff! You could seriously say, when it came to book larnin', everything I know I got from "LBS."

Now I'm old. And it's surprising all the stuff I know. I don't think I'm too far off the beam to say I don't even know all the stuff I know! Know what I mean? It seems everyday there's always something different leaping out of my brain, a sudden occurrence of something else I've known all along. Examples aren't coming to me right this second, but I know it happens. When do you clean an aquarium? When it stinks or the fish die, whichever comes first.

So to answer the question, "How'd I get so damned smart?" ... It all depends. Math, I extrapolated from 1 + 1 = 2. I can balance my checkbook and occasionally have money left over. Things that needed memorizing, I memorized, then over the years forgot exactly half of it. How to spell. I learned a trick from my Mom, to know how words are supposed to look, then when they're misspelled they look wrong. The various principles of life -- the value of being scrupulously honest, for example, and the consequences when you aren't -- I learned by experience, along with trial and error. Other things, the deeper things of life, spirituality and such, I learned by practice, leaping in gadfly fashion from one thing to another. Meaning, I'm a solitary specimen in that regard.

The other key to being so damned smart is to always keep my mind sharp. As sharp as a knife, as sharp as cheddar cheese. Honed, stropped like a razor, keen. So I'm busy thinking from the minute I wake up till the minute I go to bed. Then I continue thinking till I fall asleep. And, if my dreams are any indicator, I don't stop thinking till I get up, at which point I repeat the whole process, thinking again. I'm also a voracious reader, reading while I eat.

Thank you! It's gratifying that everyone thinks I'm so damned smart. Just don't get jealous, OK? You either can do it too, or you could have, had you not lived your life in a completely foolish way.

Paranoia -- My Fortunes Change

 

I'm thinking it took a renewed humility in my spirit and the putting of my sufferings in perspective to finally defeat Paranoia, but I don't believe that covers the whole thing. Certainly that covers much of what I got from the example of Desi the Donkey and St. Rita of Cascia, respectively. No one's more humble than a donkey who bears the Redeemer. And few have had the sufferings of the saint and yet zero in directly on the grace in it.

It wouldn't be hubris, surely, to say that I also have something innate -- or something accrued after years of life experience -- to help me find my bearings once again. If not, what is experience for? I can easily picture myself at a younger age in the same grip of Paranoia, making much more tentative, and, possibly, fatal moves. The Valley of Fire Snakes alone would have knocked me for a loop. Then, to have the wisdom well up as quickly as it did to avoid low places, valleys, gullies, bogs, moors, and fens, I think it would've taken longer.

Whether I might have done it alone, though, there's no honest way I can know that. Not having done it, I'm not going to say I could have. A benevolent, watchful eye was over me the whole time, allowing those already named to help me along the way. I would add to them, to a much lesser extent, Dr. Pink, himself suffering, but from megalomania. Still, he's a man of science, and he's naturally enamored with his own theories, coming as they do from his incredible volume of research, his impeccable brain, and an ego that never quits.

May I say, my experience with Paranoia this past week was, frankly, nothing new. I say that, but of course there's always something new about it. Whereas I've had a lot of Paranoia in my life -- perhaps more than my fair share -- it's still something I never seem to exhaust. Paranoia's many dimensions are wondrous to behold, always presenting novel twists on its enduring themes: The World 's Against Me, Enemies Are Endless, and, Something Secret's Always Afoot.

Thankfully -- at least I've found this in my experience -- there's always hope. Hence, the Redeemer figures, and the many lifelines they threw me. One of the enduring images in mythic thought, descriptive of the variations in life's possibilities, is the Wheel of Fortune. You see it in the Tarot deck. Around and around it goes, landing today on Life, and tomorrow Death. The Wheel of Fortune image above is a tribute to the Redeemer figures, St. Rita of Cascia, spelled out, and Desi the Donkey, going back and forth across the stage, in Vanna's stead, lighting the letters.

Of course it's a great thing to always have the sense that you're not in it alone. Applying to everything in life, really. You have friends and family. And you have the values you grew up with, and the things you've believed with all your heart. Then, let's say, Paranoia strikes! Like I said, the things manifested in Paranoia were challenging, almost knocking me for a loop. But because of my grounding, what I believe, etc., there was so much within me that welled up to help. Like friendly bacteria taking on evil bacteria, antibodies taking on corpuscle invaders, or a hedgerow of warring angels taking on myriad imps, arms linked, from the pits of hell.

Now, what would really do me the most good in life, probably, would be to quit wasting my time everyday, and really buckle down. I'm getting old, and like Dr. Pink said, my Vigor Vivus levels are currently piss poor. I seriously should be working on that. Then I might be able to stave off Paranoia when next he comes to call, driving him from my door. That'd be great!

And another thing, which would also add to Vigor Vivus, I'd love to wear a long mysterious robe, have a nice thick candle, and a castle room with a heavy wooden table, and walls lined with wise books each 18 inches tall and 5 inches thick. Can't you picture me, hunched over a book, my mysterious shadow looking very cool flickering against the wall, reading and chanting till all hours?

On the other hand, I'm reminded how St. Rita of Cascia had only a small oratory, and yet found great grounding from her spiritual experience in that small place. She said, "My dear sisters: if you wish to have the esteem and confidence of the good and virtuous, have little or no love for temporal riches. Observe strictly your vow of poverty. A nun who wishes to belong entirely to God must be totally detached from all earthly things." Then there's Desi, brought up as he was in a tiny stall, but when the time came carried the Redeemer. Or Dr. Pink, although I don't know how it was for him. Probably played with beakers in his dad's lab.

Last but not least, there's some other "saints" I want to recognize. And that's my dear readers, among whom I have a special cadre of very faithful ones. Through this week they were in constant contact with me, writing me encouraging emails, commenting on the blog, and one, Lizette, even sent flowers! When you're in the grip of Paranoia, you don't know how much that helps! I am blessed. Of course they know who they are, but let me list them: Lizette, again, Azalia, Jerome, Zelda, Stephen, and Fitzjames, who I sometimes call, "He of the funky name," just teasing!

Paranoia -- The Microscopic Level

I've been worried maybe there's something wrong with me. This week's been filled with total, huge paranoia, so bad I've often personified it, something like a hulking being, Paranoia!

That's certainly how it's seemed, and it'd take a lot at this point to talk me out of it. I've been in strange places, there's been a lot of bad and some good. I've faced basically every disaster I can think of short of a nuclear war, which at least would've distracted me from my own troubles solely.

It's funny how these experiences go. Sometimes you're the center of the universe, so important, and unable to satisfy the powers that be. That field's fertile for paranoia. Other times you're marginalized, alone, at your wit's end on how to manage and survive. I don't know which I hate more. The first involves much more sinister enemies. The second is like Man vs. Self, although, it's likely both are Man vs. Self ... since, honestly, there's no sinister enemy that cares about me that much.

I think the most logical conclusion is that this is internal to me. Was I really in the Valley of Fire Snakes? Yes, although I can imagine a pretty terrible Valley of Fire Snakes. It depends on what we mean by "really," because in some sense I was really there! Now, if it's internal, like I learned that time in the asylum, maybe there's something more our scientific friends can do about it.

I know a man of science, Dr. Pink, who's always good for a go on any knotty scientific conundrum. I went in thinking I shouldn't have kept this entire week of paranoia from him. I knew he would've been there for me, and probably would've had a supply of killer narcotics to deaden it. Although, just between me and you, I prefer to experience these things. But what? I don't want to be failing internally, if that's what it is!

Right away he was looking at my samples from a couple years ago and my samples this week, and he had an immediate verdict: My levels of Vigor Vivus were piss poor, with normal, large red Vigor Vivus being replaced over time by shrunken yellow piss poor Vigor Vivus. Almost so shrunken and yellow, he said, as to not even be Vigor Vivus, but its opposite, Rigor Mortis! I wanted to deny the science, but how could I? Dr. Pink's the expert.

Right away, I'm like, "You mean to tell me---?" Already he's nodding, a concerned look on his face heightened by the raising of hands pressed together, with the twin index fingers lightly touching the tip of his nose. He furrowed his brow and I knew I was in trouble. "With Vigor Vivus shrinkage like this," he said, "I'd be paranoid, too!" -- commiserating enough to tell me that I would've had a friend in misery had he shared the same deficiency.

He was silent a moment, leading me to tentatively venture a question, "So, this means---?" But before I could finish, he was already answering, "I'm putting you on bed rest and a strenuous exercise routine." I nodded, at that point willing to do anything to raise my levels. How often I've written* of Vigor Vivus! How could I not have thought of this! All this time it's been the grip of Rigor Mortis on me! Of course!

He wrote out a memo for the pharmacy, to give me this, that, and the other thing. Then I was to be out in the fresh air, the bright sunshine, walking, meditating, writing anti-paranoia manifestos, sending anonymous letters to the editor about making Vigor Vivus Day a national holiday, etc., stuff I used to do all the time.

I had let my better angels slip! I shared, then, with the doctor, that I was a little torn between Faith and Science. He nodded, and held up a finger, as though he would speak. Then he was silent, as though he was searching for just the right word. He caressed his lips with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. He reached his pinky into his ear to scratch. He also scratched the side of his head. Obviously itching to say something.

I primed his pump, "So I was wrong---" He interrupted to tell me, "Not so! Don't say such a thing! It's completely natural, with everything you hear in the news and popular culture, to be torn. Because they're nothing but idiots, serving only to pollute the air, so to speak, to muddy the discourse with their unceasing idiocy. The truth is, there is not the slightest split between Faith and Science."

I tilted my head, looking curious. He continued, "I am one of the preeminent men of science of my time, agreed? Of course. Frankly, there's no bigger bad ass than me when it comes to the laboratory and a quick diagnosis. I often forgo the lab, as I simply know the truth.

"How? you ask. Because I have crossed every divide, and now live in perfect harmony with all things, the so-called natural and the so-called divine. I share the omniscience of the yogis and oneness with the Divine, able to materialize palaces and laboratories -- you name it -- in thin air. Mere diagnoses are nothing!

"Now, the truth of this whole matter is, I knew about your paranoia before it happened. But I allowed it because I knew you needed to get yourself back on the right track with life and the things that concern you, as well as with Vigor Vivus and your spiritual life. You were once a fearless advocate against Rigor Mortis, but you've fallen.

"It was I who sent those peerless guides of the soul to be with you and help, Desi the Donkey and Sister St. Rita of Cascia. You knew of Desi's relation to the Redeemer, bearing Him, and the depths of St. Rita's sufferings, and the heights of her grace. Both she and Desi share the oneness of all things -- in every aspect of their being, which is eternal. They kept you from the very real dangers you faced. Ultimately, though, it was I who led you through this most perilous challenge."

I was of course dumbfounded, but Dr. Pink was every bit the serious scientist I've always known him to be. I ventured a word, "And so---" He interrupted to say, "Exactly! It was all for your good. Just like bed rest and a renewed focus on your personal Vigor Vivus will be good for you, just as I, the doctor, ordered!"

We hugged, both of us sobbing. I looked in his eyes and he in mine. In mine, he surely saw doubt and disbelief. In his, I saw the wheels turning; omniscience, while nice, is a relentless taskmaster. Of course I don't believe a word he said about arranging this. That's just megalomania, but I'll leave it there for now; I don't know enough on the subject yet, firsthand, to have a "Megalomania Week." But he was right about Vigor Vivus...

In conclusion, we made plans to get together, very soon, at the Roadhouse for beers and pool. Because he moved heaven and earth to get me in this mess, then moved them again to get me out of it, I'll be buying.

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*Click for a Vigor Vivus post with links to others

Our Savior with a Gun Devotions

I've reread my "Savior with a Gun" post a number of times, and I have to say, I think it's the holiest thing this side of the Dalai Lama's priest. The idea of eternal divine wisdom combined with gunfire carries a rare spiritual heft. Because I'm someone who grew up hearing the report of a gun in more or less a pastoral setting. It was a small town and the country was right there, where someone was often hunting or target practicing. But violence with guns just didn't happen. Any violence we had was always someone drunk wrapping their car around the bridge abutment about a half mile from my bedroom window. Not in my direct line of sight, thankfully.

One of the major things I like about the Savior with a Gun is he's a person of very few words, and for that matter, very few actual teachings. So far ... because I'm sure he'll have to do more than shoot his gun and send people to look for the slug, although that's a fantastic start. As was presented in the post, in that he teaches all kinds of personal and transpersonal values. Then think of him in a rural place, the birds singing, the stream running, the sound of the wind in the trees, and all of that pierced for just a moment by the loud shot of a gun. The echo and quick dying away of the sound, imagining that, touches me deeply. It's like Zen, the abrupt moment of realization.

I want to be honest with you; I think I owe you that. There isn't an actual Savior with a Gun Bible at this point. So we're putting up only a few mock verses, all for a good cause, just to show how beautifully adaptable this particular world Savior's teachings would be in the context of other well-known scriptures.

To set the scene, my photo shows a well-thumbed New Testament, which, because it was in my pocket one day, went through the laundry. I didn't have the heart to throw it away, since even mangled up as it is, and maybe especially since it was mangled up, it still made for a beautiful sight.

So now, here's a few verses as I've adapted them (quickly) to go with the "Savior with a Gun" teachings as we have them so far:

They asked him when should the kingdom of God come? The Savior spoke not a word but raised his gun and shot it in the distance, and directed the disciples and others forth to find the slug. When they found it, they knew he could have shot it anywhere.

How about Mary and Martha? -- Savior, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Bid that she help me. The Savior lifted his gun and shot into the distance, directing Martha to go find the slug. When she found it, she realized Mary had chosen the better part, which would not be taken away from her. But by the time she returned, the Savior had holstered his gun and traveled on.

How about the 10 afflicted with leprosy? -- Before this shot lands, you shall be healed, in an instant. The Savior raised his gun and shot, and at once, indeed, they were cleansed. He sent all ten to find the slug, but only one returned.

Whom do men say that I the Savior am? Some say the Lone Ranger, others agree, definitely the Lone Ranger. But who do you say that I am? Peter handed him his gun, and upon the Savior firing, ran forth to seek the slug. When Peter returned, he said, You are the Savior with a Gun. The Savior raised his gun and shot again in the distance. Peter knew he was guided by heaven, the second shot confirming his declaration.

He let his gun fall back into its holster, and breathed his last, It is finished.

And with that beautiful verse -- one of the most touching -- I've breathed my last for this post and must now wander off with Martha, closing my beautiful mangled New Testament, honestly touched in head and spirit. As for the Savior with a Gun, he too travels on, shooting and directing seekers of the slug, as he wills.