The Man Who Befriended Butterflies

One afternoon, many months ago, I was sitting in a chair on the lawn in my backyard. The sun was gradually turning the pigments in my bare chest a reddish-brown-color. I sat with my head rested against the back of the chair and my eyes closed. On that particular afternoon I remember feeling relatively peaceful. The chronic stream of negative thoughts that normally afflicted me were not present. I was not worried about money or all the things that I needed to take care of but was procrastinating on. Instead I allowed myself to surrender to resting under the afternoon sun.

As I sat there thinking about nothing in particular, I remember feeling a slightly odd sensation in the palm of my hand. I lifted one eye half-open and noticed a brown and tan butterfly perched in my palm. I opened both eyes to get a better look. For a moment I was afraid that my surprise would startle the butterfly and cause her to fly away. I wanted her to stay. I remember saying to myself: “be calm, breathe slowly, let the butterfly feel that you are a friend.”

I said a few words out loud to the butterfly: “Hey little lady. You sure are beautiful. Thank you for gracing me with your tiny presence.” As I spoke I moved my unclenched hand closer and closer towards my face. I wanted to see if I could look directly into the butterfly’s eyes. I admired the beautiful textures that decorated her fragile wings. I noticed two nodules that looked like lollipops sticking out from the butterfly’s forehead. Just below the nodules I noticed her miniscule eyes that seemed to be looking straight up at me. The butterfly was as curious of me as I was of it. Its eyes looked at me in the same way one looks at a friend. I smiled at her and she immediately blinked back at me. I believe it was from that moment on that I was forever changed.

I have always been known to mess things up. In high school my father called me the “messer upper.” I seem to mess up almost everything I touch. I have destroyed almost every opportunity that has come my way. Some people who know me well tell me I have a fear of success. I just think I am not very good at being an adult. At least I thought this way until the butterfly came and perched in the palm of my hand.

Every afternoon after that first encounter with the butterfly I would go outside, sit in the exact same spot and see if the butterfly would come visit with me. Sure enough, within a minute of sitting down in the chair the butterfly would come and sit with me. She would land on my shoulders or head or hand. Once she even landed on top of my heart. We would spend an unknown period of time together and then when she had her fill of me she would fly away.

Over the course of our first week together the butterfly would gradually bring a few other butterflies a long with her. It was as if she told some of her friends that she had met this nice guy whom she wanted them to meet. First there would only be two or three butterflies that would come a long with her. Then there would be four, five, six. And then well into the second week there would be dozens of her friends. They would leap around on the various parts of my body as if I was some kind of playground equipment. I had never seen such beautiful coloring. Every color imaginable was represented on the wings of the butterflies. I had once been a painter and was very aware of how difficult it was to achieve these bright and brilliant hues. Nature’s genius seems to render most artwork mediocre at best.

I would carry on conversations with the butterflies. When they had enough of me they would fly away in unison as if they were all given the same command by a central headquarters. As the butterflies flew away I would thank them for their time and then walk back inside. I felt overcome with appreciation and joy. It was as if I had been chosen by the butterflies and I could not figure out why. But being chosen provides a person with a feeling that they are indeed someone special and this feeling of being special seemed to diminish my negative feelings about myself. For the first time in my life I did not feel like a mess.

As the weeks passed more and more butterflies would come and play around on me. I am unaware as to what kind of butterflies these were but they all looked so different. Their wings moved like skilled ballerinas and when they landed on my bare arms, chest, legs and face they were careful not to cause even the slightest pinch. Their fragility and care with me brought tears to me eyes. I could not remember the last time I was treated with such care by any human being.

If my neighbor was to look over the fence that divided our yard what he would of seen would of looked like a scene right out of a magical realist film or novel. I was completely covered in a plethora of colorful butterflies. Even though my face was obscured by the butterflies if my neighbor looked closely enough he would have noticed a large smile on my face. I had never been happier.

One afternoon while the butterflies covered me I decided that I wanted to see if they would come home with me. I wanted to fill my bedroom with butterflies. So I did what I had never done before when covered in butterflies- I began to move. I slowly stood up. As I did this I noticed that a few timid butterflies flew away but the majority of them stayed with me. I moved slowly so as not to scare any others off. As I walked towards my house I noticed that all the butterflies were staying with me. It was as if the butterflies did not want to let me go. As I arrived at my back door I made a ti-chi like movement with my arm so I could carefully open the door. I then walked through my kitchen, down the narrow hallway and into my bedroom. Carefully I shut the door behind me and then sat down onto my bed.

There were butterflies on my head, eyelids, nose, lips, shoulders, arms, chest, neck, legs and feet. I was a human butterfly blanket. While sitting on the side of my bed I remembered a dream that I often had when I was a kid. In my dream I would be sitting up in my bed watching hundreds of different colored butterflies fly around in my room. This memory caused a tingling sensation to shoot up my spine. Almost all of the dreams and ambitions that I had as a child have not become a reality in my adult life. I had had to accept that more often than not dreams remain dreams. But as I sat on the side of my bed I was realizing that for the first time in my adult life one of my dreams was turning into a reality. I was actually filling my bedroom with butterflies.

For the next few days I would go into my backyard, sit in the same spot and collect more butterflies. Dozens would immediately fly over to me in the same way a toddler would take a leap into their parent’s arms. It was as if the butterflies felt that I offered them the same kind of salvation that they were offering to me. I would thank all of the butterflies for congregating all over my body and then very slowly I would walk into my house and bring them into my bedroom. After a few days of this my bedroom was like a butterfly forest. Even better than that- the butterflies had transformed my ordinary bedroom into alternate universe.

I remained in my bedroom for days with the butterflies. I would lie on my bed, with my hands folded behind my head and watch the butterflies dance around my room. The butterflies covered every inch of ceiling, wall, floor and the entire space in-between. Purples, reds, blues, oranges, greens, yellows and brown colors palpitated in the air. This is what I imagined an LSD trip must be like. At night when I slept I would not need to warm myself under the blankets. Instead the moment I turned out the lights the butterflies would cover my entire body like a blanket. Feeling the butterfly’s pulsations would lull me into a deep sleep.

Those few days in my bedroom with the butterflies are worth more to me than anything I could ever own. The butterflies helped me to believe that I was no longer a mess waiting to happen. Instead I felt like a sense of magic that gets blurred out by negative thinking had returned to me. The butterflies showed me that there was so much more to life than what I had come to believe was true.

I believe it was on the morning of the third day that I realized I would have to let the butterflies go. I knew they would not be able to survive in my room for much longer. I wanted to keep them in my room but I knew that if I did it would be a very selfish act. I had to let them go. I opened my bedroom window and like air from a balloon they all swarmed out. I watched them fly through the trees, across the street and towards the distant horizon. After all the butterflies had left I shed a few tears, closed my window and turned around to go sit on bed.

As I turned around I noticed that there was one butterfly that had remained behind. She was perched on the nightstand besides my bed. I felt what I can only describe as joy begin to flood into my chest. It was who I hoped it was- the brown and tan butterfly who I had met on that peaceful afternoon many, many weeks ago. I reached out the palm of my hand and immediately she came and rested in it. I then lay back on my bed with her in the palm of my hand. I looked at her in the eyes and told her I was so happy she stayed.

I decided to keep the butterfly in my room. I have done some research on Google and learned about what she needs to survive. She seems happy in my room. Every night before bed she will fly skillfully around my room. Watching her delicate movements will lull me into a deep sleep. During the day she hangs out on my head or shoulder as I read a book. I am now more satisfied than I have ever been in my life. Who would have ever thought that all it would take was befriending a butterfly.

My Idea Of Fun

“I am worried that you are not having enough fun in your life,” my wife said to me. “I have had too much fun in my life and now I am having fun not having fun,” I replied. She looked at me like one does when they know that you are lying to yourself. I considered what I had just said to her and then realized that I did not know what I was talking about. “When you go out and have fun, it sustains you into the future. It makes your life a little easier to handle.. a little more enjoyable to live,” my wife said. ” I have fun staying home and reading, writing or watching a movie. I don’t feel the need to go out to have fun,” I replied- but then I thought about what I said. “Am I really having fun staying in all the time, do I really even remember what it feels like to have fun?” I asked myself. “I think you are afraid of fun,” my wife said as she kissed me and left for another evening out with friends that I once again elected myself out of.

I have been staying home a lot lately. My wife goes out and has fun quite often but I stay in. I make up excuses and tell my wife that I have work to do. In reality I am avoiding the world. All through out my twenties and early thirties I indulged in the world. I went out night after night and indulged in what people like to commonly refer to as fun. I socialized, drank too much, smoked weed and went off on insane adventures that lasted until the sun came up. When I turned thirty I decided that friends were a waste of time and I began having fun alone. I spent my weekends and a few weekday evenings and afternoons in various strip clubs where I knew no one and no one knew me. In the darkness I somehow felt complete in my solitude and as I watched naked women dance for me upon a red lit stage- I was the happiest man alive. I would end my evening in massage parlors where I received shiatsu and a hand job- and then return home early the next morning and sleep until noon. This was my idea of fun.

Now that I am married I have lost touch with a feeling of fun. No longer can I hang out in strip clubs and massage parlors without ending up with a twelve pound suitcase filled with guilt and shame. It ain’t worth it. I hate keeping secrets from my wife so I have broken up with my idea of fun. I have few friends that I enjoy spending time with and solitude has become my favorite form of company. Last weekend when my wife and I went on a dinner date with another couple I felt like a man who was wasting his time. I drank too much so that I could force my self to have fun. All I really wanted was to be at home swimming around in the pages of a book.

“You are becoming reclusive and a curmudgeon,” my wife told me the other day. “Why because I don’t like to have fun?” I asked. “You don’t like to do anything,” she said. “That is not true!” I protested quickly. ” “Though doth protest too much…when was the last time that you had fun?” she asked. “I had fun last night being at home alone watching a movie and doing some writing,” I said. But then I thought about what I said. Was I really having fun being home night after night watching movies, writing and reading? Or has doing these things become my idea of fun because I have forgotten how to have fun? Have I given up on fun because I know that it only lasts for a brief period of time before you are right back where you were before that fun began? Fun drops you off right where it left you- stuck in the middle of your life (and usually with a hang over). Is this why I have given up on fun?

And then I realized that my idea of fun was no fun at all. I have become discouraged with fun, I have lost hope in fun. After decades of having fun I am still stuck in the realities of my life. I got tired of the fun ending. No matter how much fun I had the night before my life was still awaiting me in the morning. By refusing fun, I have learned how to stay present in my life. This way I am not disappointed, I am not let down. Fun for me is kind of like a lover who is always making you feel bad in the end. After years and years of this maddening relationship I have broken the cycle. I have left fun for the reality of my life. I have left fun for quiet evenings at home- a relationship that I feel is more dependable and certainly more consistent. “That’s my idea of fun,” I told my wife as I tried to describe why I was no longer interested in having fun.  “Well do not forget,” my wife replied, “tomorrow night is your sister’s birthday and we are going to go out illuminate ourselves out from this funk you live in and have some damn fun!”

An Invitation To A Beheading.

I used to love sitting alone in a chair and reading a good book. Nothing brought me greater pleasure. I would read a novel a day while enjoying the background sounds of birds chirping and cats meowing. Nothing was as effective in diminishing my stress and anxiety as a good book. No matter how bad the conditions of the world or my life- the printed words on a page could lift me out from my psychological squalor and re-plant me in a space of wonderment. I look back upon these times with utter envy. I even become emotionally enraged towards the man I was in my twenties. I am not only jealous of the large chunks of time that he had to drift of into the pursuit of knowledge but I am furious that it has all gone away.

Now I cannot read a book without having to get up and do something after twenty minutes. I become aggravated, nervous and I am distracted by these demons that seem to be hovering over me and disrupting my concentration. My thoughts begin to race and I struggle to stay focused upon what ever story or non-fiction work I have chosen to read. But no sooner than I can get past a few pages is there the loud voices of little demons that whisper scary things into my ears and poke sharp objects into my chest making me fearful what might happen next. I try to tune them out and push them away with positive visualizations or a smile- but they are ferocious and do not easily relent.

I know nothing good lasts forever, but there are still so many books left that I want to read. I want to return to that time when I could read peacefully for hours, day upon day- without the little brats whispering in my ear: “is your heart beating irregularly?” or “shouldn’t you be doing something more constructive.” Some times these little demons keep shouting things at me like “watch out, watch out- your head might explode!!” or “run, run, run for your life…death is coming, ha ha!!” My own inner monologue is not loud enough to silence these intruding voices and rather than continuing to read I give up and go do something else.

I have not been able to read a book from front to back for months. These little intrusive demons are getting the best of me. They also sneak into my head when I go for walks and drive my car. If I am not constantly reciting a mantra in my mind or singing a song- they will sneak into my silence and cause me great anxiety and grief. The little demons are wearing me down, forcing me to drink more wine and taking me away from the one thing that has always been of great importance to me- my intellectual life.

Without my practice of diligent daily reading my intellectual acumen has become as watered down as a cheap cocktail. I have not been able to think or write upon the great themes of philosophical dialectics or cultural theory like I had once planned upon doing. I have not been able to write great novels that compare with the best of works by Tolstoy, Kafka or Bernhard. I have not been able to go into my career as an honorable college professor who specializes in Ontology and Samuel Beckett. Rather- to defend myself against these little demons and attempt to save my own life I have had to go towards the New Age. I have had to practice meditation, do Yoga, recite mantras and start wearing beads and stones to defend myself against negative energy. I have had to seek out healers and been told by many that I must get out of my mind and start to become more grounded in my body. The very thing that I put so much work into cultivating has become my demise. My intellect has become the very portal from which these demons can access my nervous brain causing me such scary afflictions as to make me consider taking medication. These voices and disruptions get louder and louder every day- if it continues I may send out invitations to my own beheading.

photograph by Keith Purdy.

Squeezed.

I am a man who is being squeezed from the inside out or maybe the outside in. I do not know which comes first- the outside pressure or the inside pressure, but if Karl Marx was right when he said that society determines the behavior and health of man/woman kind- then it is the the world that is squeezing me. Between the pressure that the earth is placing upon human beings to change or be eliminated and the pressure that government is placing up the individual to pay up or go broke- the outside is squeezing me like a balloon which might just burst. Between rising gas prices, food shortages, recessions, depressions, wars, deficits, unequal distribution of wealth, rising costs and poor environmental conditions, my chest feels as if there is a large leather belt buckled tight around it. My fingers and and toes pulsate and I have noticed that my face has grown pale. My vision is clouded and I can constantly feel my heart beating. The stress of the world seems to have nested upon my skinny left shoulder.

I have noticed that I am not alone. I have noticed many suffering from similar ailments and running around desperately searching for relief (yoga, meditation, eating, drinking, consuming). People do not seem to be getting along, wherever I look another relationship has ended, another person is struggling to survive and another person is experiencing some kind of transformational event that is threatening the sanity they seem to be slowly loosing. All around me people seem squeezed. I can see it in their eyes. I can hear it in their voices and I can certainly feel it in my gut. Human beings are fighting for their lives.

I have heard it said that 2012 marks a monumental time in the history of our planet. Thousands of years ago Mayans have predicted that this will be a time of great transformation that will result in change that our human minds can not currently fathom. Physics believes that the closer time gets to an end the faster it gets- time speeds up. Along with the sppeed up of time comes a kind of constriction and anxiety within all those who are subject to this elevated blood pressure of time. Animals (humans) become more frantic and stressed, things start to break down and people feel squeezed. Like there is not enough minutes in the day. Chaos can ensue.

It is my belief that the earth is experiencing symptoms of this larger breakdown. The sky is literaly falling and some see it and others have managed to distract themselves enough so as not to have to deal with it (but they still feel it). Others feel the squeeze. There is a pressure upon us that seems to be forcing us into submission, to the transformation that needs to occur within ourselves and upon this planet. Maybe being squeezed is not so bad. Maybe I can look upon my pulsating toes and finger tips as a gift from the universe in which I have accidentally found myself living. Maybe I am being forced to awaken to what is going on around me, outside of me- and change what is taking place within me. After all, physics tells me that I am just a microcosmic reflection of a larger macrocosm…if I can un-squeeze myself- than maybe I can un-squeeze the world.

The Man With A Moving Nipple

I know this may seem strange but I am suffering from a moving nipple. It is my left nipple and it gesticulates and twitches like a firecracker. At the moment, the uncomfortable movements of my nipple have become chronic with little intermission in-between. This discomfort has become a part of my life, another bewildering ailment that I must learn to live with.

My nipple began to move after I was in a very upsetting argument with my father. He was in a hospital bed recovering from a surgery and we managed to fight with one another about what, I cannot remember. Consumed with guilt for upsetting my father during his darkest of hours- I left the hospital in a terrible state of mind. The stress was causing my chest to constrict and I remember having difficulty breathing. It was when I turned on my car engine that I noticed my left nipple beginning to twitch. I placed my right palm upon it, as if I was trying to comfort my broken heart. I drove off into the night trying not to think about my moving nipple. Little did I know then that this was the beginning of what would become a full-blown dis- ease.

As the days passed my nipple picked up speed. The twitches would come in unpredictable spurts and I was often forced to have to sit down and try and relax when the episodes would begin. The twitches turned into strange gesticulations that would wake me up at night and force me to place an ice pack on my chest. The moments that my nipple would not be moving became like tropical vacations for my weary mind, which was being over worked by the torment of my moving nipple. The sensations were like aggravating tickles combined with what felt like pinpricks that seemed to leave me feeling like I was a man being slowly crucified from the inside out.

As the weeks passed my moving nipple became more chronic. It rested little and began to control my every waking hour. I had read some where in Greek mythology of a character that had suffered from a very similar ailment as I was. His moving nipple became so violent that it slowly began to make its way onto his forehead and announce all of his private thoughts to whomever was around. Not only did this character suffer the humiliation of having a talking nipple on the center of his forehead but also he was unable to think without the nipple revealing his every thought! Of course it is not difficult to understand why this character took his life by forcing his lover to cut off his head. Once he was decapitated the nipple did not stop talking for over an hour- it told his lover of all his previous affairs!! Ever since I have read this tale I have been terribly worried that my chronic gesticulating nipple is going to break free from its root and make its way onto my forehead!! If the world were able to hear my every thought I would certainly loose everything that I love!!!

Last week I visited a Doctor who knew not what to make of my condition. He told me that he had never seen anything like this before. He recalled reading in a medical journal many month back about someone who had suffered from a similar ailment for most of his life- but he could not remember which medical journal it was in. The Doctor wanted to put me on some medication to see if he could relax the tissue but the side effects for the medication seemed to great to take the risk. My Doctors conclusion was that I was suffering from a stress-induced ailment that was causing calcium build up around the nerves of my nipple tissue-, which is putting pressure upon my nipple. The ensuing twitching and gesticulation is the result of this pressure. If it did not go away in a month he recommends surgery.

In the mean time I still have to live in this world. I have to make a living so that I can continue to have a roof over my head. As much as I want to hide away in my closet and write poetic lamentations all day- I cannot. I have a mouth to feed.

It is not difficult for you to see my ailment, or what I have come to call my crucifixion. There is what appears to be a constant vibration and rotation under my left shirt pocket. When people notice this they immediately ask me if I am okay. I tell them that I am fine, that what they are witnessing is an annoying muscle spasm. My high school students make fun of me and refer to me as a freak. They all want to touch my nipple and when I let them there are loud uproars of “EEEEEEWWWW,” or “That’s so disgusting!!!!” Whenever I go out into public people stare at my nipple as if they had never seen anything like this before. I feel like an aberration, like all eyes are condemning me to constant judgment. Now I know what it must feel like to be a big-breasted woman.

The only thing that I can do is learn to live with my ailment. Every night before bed I put a chamomile cream upon my nipple, which seems to relax it a bit. I also wrap my chest in a towel before bed, which seems to reduce the annoying vibrations of my moving nipple, allowing me to get some sleep. There is nothing that I can really do (besides having my nipple surgically removed) other than accept my current situation. I see this condition as an opportunity for me to deal with the various causes in my life rather than the effects. If I can learn to change the stressors that have caused my moving nipple than maybe over time my nipple will stop moving. I believe it was Pascal, Socrates or Emerson or maybe Nietzsche- who said that an unexamined life is a life not worth living, so I am examining my self- trying to understand the various ways that I have caused my own dis-ease. Maybe, through this process of self-examination, I will eventually become the only man who can set myself free.

The Cricket Who Talks To God

What is it that I can do that can help raise the consciousness of humanity? How can I- an underpaid high school teacher who suffers from anxiety and various health ailments participate in the evolution of human kind on earth? I realize that these may be big questions but I also realize that they need to be asked, now. I have often heard it said that humanity is at a vital turning point in our history upon this earth. Many of my high school students justify not coming to class or doing their homework by saying that the world is going to end soon anyways, so why worry about school? Sometimes I find it difficult to argue with a perspective that I find may be true- but I try to keep my mind upon transformation rather than liquidation. If I only had some version of an answer then I could cleanse and heal my mind by writing a book and traveling around the world doing consciousness workshops- but I am afraid that there maybe no answers, only cricket’s who talk to God.

There is a cricket that sits upon my deck day upon day as if it is in a deep state of blissful meditation. I am convinced that this cricket is praying to God. It seems to be that the cricket is channeling some kind of divine energy for the sake of all life uponn earth. I have tried to communicate with this cricket in various ways, but each time I get close to connecting I am met by a strange energy which feels like an electric shock. So I keep my distance and pray along with this cricket at certain times during the day.

The cricket seems to be staring at the sun with its eyes wide open. Be it that I can not stare at the sun I keep my eyes shut and do what certain Harri Krishna’s refer to as sun divining (it is when you stare at the sun with your eyes close and feel the heat against your closed eye lids). I ask the cricket if he/she/it can take a moment and listen to my prayers and then relay them to God. There never seems to be any form of communication that suggests the cricket is unwilling to do so, rather I feel like he/she/it is saying “okay go ahead, lets hear it:”

I feel so blessed to be alive, to be breathing and free from a hospital bed or jail cell. I feel so blessed to have all of my family alive and well at the moment because I know that at any moment this will change. We never know which time the phone will ring and bring news that will forever alter our lives. We never know when our own lives will be altered in the blink of an eye. Everything is always changing and it is this movement that keeps human beings terrified- living in constant fear. How is it that we can be free from this fear, let go of our constriction and tension so that we can live with and in the chaos without terror…with peace and health and wealth? How can I participate in giving something to humanity that will help us evolve out from our fear and into a state of connection to gratitude and love? How can this be done? Fear is destroying us and the natural world- quicker than I could ever imagine….what is the answer. I am asking for an answer that is greater than just recycling, going to protest marches and workshops on weekends and doing Yoga. If you tell me I promise to give free lectures around the world. I will spread this answer like a wild fire. There is no greed here, just my will to save myself, the earth and all those who live upon it. Thank you for listening and considering my prayer, peace…Amen…well maybe there is a little greed.

When I am finished with my long winded prayer the cricket is in the very same position that he was prior to my prayer. I do not know if he received and relayed it to the appropriate authority, but I suppose this is where the power of faith comes in. I offer the cricket some water or wine and when I get no reply I leave it alone in what looks like a state of divine rapture. This is a cricket without fear…and I want some of what he’s got.

This evening I went outside to see if the cricket who talks to God would not be interested in relaying another prayer for me. I opened my front door and noticed the cricket was not in his same spot. I felt a sadness come over me that I had not felt in some time but then I remembered that nothing lasts forever. I looked up at the moon and took a deep breath and then went back inside. I decided that I would make a nice dinner for my wife and I- and as I took out the fish from the refrigerator the phone rang. It was a trauma nurse in Los Angeles telling me that my mother in law is in the intensive care unit and in critical condition. The doctors were awaiting the results of a Ct Scan that would show if there was internal bleeding, hemorrhaging and a broken or fractured spinal column. A speeding car cut her off while driving on the freeway and she lost control of her automobile and ran into a tree. When I got off the phone I put the fish back into the refrigerator and went outside to search for the cricket before giving my wife the news.

I’m Searching For A Cure.

I have a new perspective I would like to share. It may change the world- and your life. It is a rather simple perspective and will take only a brief time to apply to your life. We can all learn how to build upon this perspective to create a better life for ourselves and our family (if we still have one). My perspective is rather unique. It is based upon years of struggle and unfulfilled potential. It has been cultivated like a fine wine through the several circular evolutions that have gotten me to where I am today. It is a perspective that is based upon not just love but also hate, not just right but also wrong, not just you but also me. It is a perspective that comes from my heart and I would like to share it with you.

What exactly this perspective is I am uncertain at the moment. I am patiently awaiting its arrival and the moment I receive it I shall let you know. It would be nice if this perspective was something that you could use to transform your own existence into that which you most desire. If you could use this perspective to free yourselves from poverty, pain, debt, illness and addiction than my expectations will be fulfilled. I know that this perspective can somehow change the world and save it from collapsing in upon itself- but I just need to find it. Time is of the essence. As a species we are struggling to survive and I feel the great burden of being able to come up with a solution sooner than later.

I spent the afternoon in the library searching stacks of books for this perspective. I found tidbits of wisdom such as “learn to identify a good feeling from a bad feeling,” or “we create our reality by feeling not thought.” I tried to incorporate these ideas into my own experience but all that happened was I became hungry and wanted a beer. I searched on the internet for various perspectives that could somehow provide the solution- but nothing appeared upon my screen that seemed to be adequate, other than Oprah’s recent interviews with Eckhart Tolle and a few things by Deepok Chopra. Today I will search no more because if a perspective is to take form in my mind- I feel like it will happen without the involvement of my own will.

It is terribly important to me that I offer you a perspective that will change your mind, give you hope, reunite you with your soul and start you off upon a path that will fill your life with meaning and purpose (this is ultimately the revolution that I would like to wage). I want for this perspective to do the same for me as well, but I am willing to sacrifice myself for other peoples enlightenment. As soon as this perspective come to me I will write a blog entry entitled, Perspective Found, but for the time being, while I wait I am going to go sit in the sun.

How To Loose 65 Pounds Without The Long Wait!

The six months prior to my wedding- I was a nervous wreck. Anxiety is something that I had lived with since being in my mother’s womb- but the panic that can often follow chronic anxiety was a new addition to my life. The very first panic attack that I ever had came only minutes after I proposed to my wife in the cemetery. As we sat on a rustic ledge that overlooked a beautiful turtle pond my throat swelled up and my insides began to shake. I felt my heart skipping around in my chest and before I knew what to say the thought, “I am going to die,” zapped my adrenaline into 5th gear. I ran through gravestones and daisies like a man who was literally running for his life. When my then fiancé found me hyperventilating besides an eighteenth century gravestone- I was already suffering from the affliction that would significantly reduce my weight.

Prior to asking my wife if she would marry me, I was 65 pounds heavier than I was at my wedding six months later. I rarely engaged in any form of exercise and I loved to drink beer from breakfast till bedtime. I reproached any attempts to confine my dietary choices to the category of unhealthy living because the choices I made were my own- and I was an adamant individualist. My pre-marital days were filled with creative explorations and I was determined to live my life with the determination of the great artist that I believed myself to be. It was only when I began to think about inviting the tradition of marriage into my renegade existence that I began to feel the strange sensations, that some call fear, develop in my body and mind.

After my wife and I were engaged I felt the expectations from in-laws and my parents gathering heavily upon my shoulders. I felt the fear of change begin to set up camp some place in my brain. I was concerned about how I would continue to live like the great artist that I considered myself to be when I had no money in the bank and a resume that was shorter than a paragraph. My dreams threatened to cave in on me and my access fat was the first part of me to run away.

There is nothing, and I mean nothing that will reduce one’s weight faster than panic and anxiety. When the brief attacks come on, the shit is literally scared out of you. I would be constipated for days and then when panic attack overcame me I would find myself shivering from fear, on the toilet- downloading a weeks worth detritus. As the attacks grew more frequent so did my bowl movements. Everything I would eat would stay in my stomach no longer than my intense fear would allow. But what was I so afraid of?

Death. For as long as I can remember I have been afraid of death. The thought of the mysterious non-existence of me has sent shivers running down my spine and prayers rambling from my mouth. Whenever I felt the presence of a strange sensation upon my timid body I became (and still become) terrified that this may be the key that unlocks that eternal door. The extinction of my self, of all that I pretend to be- has rendered me powerless when it comes to accepting this natural transition. Some place deep in my hard wiring marriage seems to be wired to the notion of death. In marriage I somehow managed to think that a part of myself would become extinct. I feared the loss of my rugid individualism because like Nietzsche always said- tradition has a way of destroying all things individual.

The thought of loosing myself and changing- rattled my nerves. Over the many years of living for myself only- I became attached to my way of being. The thought of having to change the way I lived my life made me fear what the future would bring. Someplace deep within me I welcomed this change but on the surface domesticity was a nightmare that I was yet to reconcile with. Every day that the wedding grew closer was another pound lost. Butterflies took up to much space in my stomach and my throat seemed to be closed for business. I lived on a diet of pineapple and wine and I prayed like a man who was soon to fall off the side of the moon.

Thanks to my six months of fear, worry and concern I was able to loose 65 pounds. Besides all of my frazzled nerves and my graying hair I was the mere image of perfect health. On the inside a daily war was being waged between the forces of life and death- but on the outside I appeared picture perfect. My wedding went over well with numerous complements about my new figure and lots of requests for advice upon how to loose weight so fast. At my wedding I was in to good of a mood (I threw caution to the wind and drank and danced as if it was my last night on earth) to bring up the subject of panic and anxiety so I said I would write a book about how to loose weight without the wait and then send them a free copy. There was a sign up sheet in the lobby.

One year after my wedding I am still yet to write the book or put back on the weight. Married life has not assuaged my fears and worries but it has given me a steady partner to share my suffering with. With marriage I have also become more aware. The decisions that I make (I no longer drink beer all day and I payed my taxes for the first time, much to my discontent!) not only affect me but also the love that is shared between my wife and I. Even though my fear of death and change is just as strong as it was before my marriage- I have found that the tradition of marriage has given me not only a smaller waistline but less time to focus upon my fear. After all- the tradition of marriage demands family and home ownership and with my nervous disposition I have had to spend a lot of time reading self help books, meeting with therapists and taking meditation classes. I am trying to get into some kind of physical and psychological condition so I can play at being a responsible married man who has found the secret ingredient for rapid weight loss.

Blogging Burnout

The desire to write has been burned out of me like a cigarette turning to ash. I have lost all whimsical motivation to explore my unconscious motivations, in the blink of an eye. When I think about writing my head becomes heavy and my thoughts stagnant. Blogging has become as interesting to me as horse back riding, and this is not saying much. How did it happen so fast? Not more than a week ago my fingers were on fire exploring the very themes that travel through my psyche day upon day. There has been little room in my head for thought the past few days, considering the sun has been out and the last place I have wanted to be is with my id (The term id (inner desire) is a Latinised derivation from Groddeck‘s das Es,^[2] and translates into English as strictly “it”. It stands in direct opposition to the super-ego. It is dominated by the pleasure principle). To turn the heat up even higher I have decried the use of technology by spending the past few days working on a farm and refusing to use my cellular technology(Neolithic Revolution). How is one to blog if they have decided to wage a revolution by denouncing all technology?

Like all revolutions, mine was short lived- I am back on line. I find myself with little to say, burned out by the sound of my repetitive thoughts. Not wanting to face my self and all my demons- I have turned off the computer and refused to write. It is only when I write that truth slips out, causing me to face the things I can normally hide so well in my normal life. I am almost a victim of my own hands which type out truths I am unwilling to confront. I almost give thanks for these days where I feel as if I have nothing to say, no truth to face, no will to write. Instead I work with the soil, plant flowers and reconnect with the earth, entertaining the novel idea that I shall abstain from ever writing again. But then the stories, the novels, the plays and the blog entries that want to be written start knocking against my brain so that they can be let in and eventually brought to life. So my burnout may be temporary, but real and painful none the less. I will eventually open the door and return with more investigations of my id sooner than I would probably care to admit, but for the time present my wife is laughing in the next room and I should seize this opportunity to experience some joy in our rugid relationship.

A Writing Disorder.

I once wanted to be a Writer. I thought about writing every minute of every day. I exhausted my thoughts with words and dreamed of epic stories that I would one day tell. In my sleep I could smell stories and while awake I carried a pen with me every place I went. I purchased empty notebooks which stacked up on my bookshelves. I read all the classics, fell in love with the beats and drove myself crazy trying to live like a bohemian. I dressed as I thought a writer should dress and shaped my words with the pretension of a man with something to say. I had epic vision of numerous novels that I would one day write. I drank in bars and argued about Joyce’s prose style and the validity of Borges. After the sun set I rummaged my way through book stores and strip clubs searching for inspiration. I smoked cigarettes and talked with a drawl while watching ordinary mortals waste their lives away at day jobs. I never wrote a single word.

Now in my middle years I could give two shits about being a writer. I drink less than I did years ago and am never awake to see the sun rise. Meditation is my daily practice and I seldom set foot in a bookstore or strip club. The prose style of Joyce is as uninteresting to me as the sex life of a squirell and I have a tendency to wear the same jeans and t-shirt for a few days in a row with no concern for how I look. Smoking is a habit I no longer abide by and hanging out in bars is as exciting to me as playing golf. I read some fiction but most of my time is spent thinking about anything but books. I am completely unconcerned with the act of writing or becoming a writer- yet I am unable to stop writing. I write almost every day and there is no sign of a word or story shortage in sight. Strange how things resolve themselves with time?

One Hundred Years Of Solitude.

It was a strange thing to realize my solitude. I was confronted with it as if hit by a wave. Decades of hours and minutes ticked around in my head and days gone by re-lived themselves through a window I was looking into. There I was, a man in a black coat saved by his ability to write, yet fully aware of the nascent attitudes of the multitudes who refuse to read. I looked at my face reflecting in the window pane and noticed lines on my ears and hairs on my forehead that I had never recalled knowing. It was ironic to be looking at me when I was someone I had never known. Trepidation creeped up my spine like a lingering waiter and I suppressed two tears that could not wait to come pouring out. I left a time past alone in the window and went to the bathroom which is my favorite place to think. I watched grease form around my tub as if it was trying to tell me something and noticed a horrible ring around the toilet that could only be the result of months of neglect. A beetle made its way and I swore it was Franz Kafka reincarnated in my bathroom sink. I refused to let him live out his rotten life again so I turned the water on and watched the beetle fall away into the void of a bathroom drain.

All is well that ends well is what I often hear expressed behind closed doors and in graveyards where spirits refuse to say anything else. In my bathroom the sounds are rather extinct but as my solitude becomes more material I am willing to listen to the voices which are not there. Now you may think that this is the brink of madness, but I refuse to let a wrongful judgment come between the reader and myself. It is only the realizations of a man well aware of the nature of his malformed appendages that is willing to think of things in this way. Alone, in a bathroom a man is capable of such great feats that even the greatest of Greek gods grow nervous. I have a tendency to come up with my most profound notions while sitting on the pot, but my own solitary reality was never one of them. I was all too forlorn to come up with anything unique so I brushed my teeth, sorted out my hair in the muddied mirror and pretended that I was a holly man who was sound asleep.

In the kitchen I made tea and dealt with the cards that had been given to me. It was not a bad hand but I was disinterested in playing the game. My birds cried for air and so I set aside the card game and released my birds into the darkness of mid-day. Old faithfuls flying free with yellow stripes and furlong sweaters reminded me of my youth- a time when I could run far without fear. Now I sweat at the slightest notion of a jog and wonder away hours exhausted by the thought of my own solitude. There is air to breath but I am to busy worrying about a time when I will no longer have to worry about breathing. My birds elucidate on various themes as they wonder around my house afraid of a flight which has denied them in the form of a cage. One bird imparticular refuses to fly to far and the other does not mind the low ceiling that averts its flight. I suppose all is well that ends well so I put them back into their cage and remove myself to my writing desk.

On my writing desk are a few pens that refuse to speak and a pile of ideas that have not been written. My heart speaks of times that may never come if these ideas are not given ink, but for some reason my laziness refuse a potential that knows not what to do. It is an errant idea but one that I fool with now and then, if anything to keep my mind entertained behind the sheets which are dirty and cold. A mind is like a container in which dreams float. There are boats made out of tissue that carry these dreams around in the bloodstream. Sometimes these dreams touch the heart but most of the time they remain lodged in the head. All of my dreams have collected in my heart and after too many years of solitude, I am finally starting to realize that it is time for me to take this stack of ideas and mold them into form. It may take years, hundreds of years, but it may be that when we no longer know what to do, that we have come to our real work.

Screeming For Freedom In New Orleans.

I have been appalled lately by these billboards that I am seeing all around that say “New Orleans, The City Where Anything Goes!” These advertisments are brought to you by your better tourist bureau who is basically trying to create enough revenue to turn OLD Orleans into a modern day NEW theme park. It’s a simple ingredient and it has been made in various cities such as New York and San Fransisco and soon to come in Baghdad. Remove the elements of diversity and culture from the city (gentrification) and bring in big business which will create a clean corporate mono culture. A city safe enough for tourism. Clean enough to eat off of the streets. But lets not be fooled. It is no longer a city (which means a diverse economic and culture population of people all co-existing together in a small space)- it is more like a simulation of a city which is a simulation of a corporate think tank on how to turn the citizens into consumers. Our cities are becoming occupied by the forces of greed.

No better place can this be currently seen than in New Orleans. Just today, what took place could not be a better demonstration of the workings of this corporate restructuring. A large croup of citizens all gathered together to raise their voices about a particular issue that was being debated by the city council. They patiently waited outside while city officials decided their fates inside. The irony is that what was going on inside had nothing to do with what was going on outside (this is a symbol of the split between government and people).

Inside the city council was debating whether or not to tear down large amounts of public housing. Thousands of citizens in New Orleans have been without housing since Hurricane Katrina and thousands more have been living in trailers without running water or electricity. On the outside the crowd was gathered together not only to protest the moral authority of a body politic that would even think about tearing down public housing when so many have not even had housing for so long. They were also protesting the utter destruction of their quality of life and the constant neglect that is the result of a corporate occupation of a city. They are fighting for the very substance and survival of the city that they love and are being systematically cleansed from.

Police officers, growing wherry of the large crowd that was gathering tried to control the situation through a means that only made the frustration of the crowd turn to anger. “They are tired of being controlled and manipulated into submission by strangers who claim to be the authorities,” one activist/friend said who called my from the event. “They are a people that feel as if they are being ethnically cleansed from their city. They feel that they have a right to be a part of any decision making process that involves their fate,” he said before hanging up the phone because things were heating up. Gathering together their human dignity they pushed through the barriers that the police erected and attempted to make their was into the city council meeting (in case it is not obvious to you, the majority in the crowd where African American).

Those unlucky enough to be in the front lines were wrestled to the ground, hit with police clubs and “electrocuted” by police who were committed to violating the human rights of American citizens. Watching this sad scene on my computer I felt as if I was watching footage from the civil rights clashes of the fifties and sixties.

What we need in this country is a new civil rights movement. A commitment to apprehend power from corporations who are stripping each and every one of us of our freedom (did you know that over 300,000 American citizens go to Tijuana every year for medical care because they can not get it in America). The citizens of this country are viewed as tools to maximize profits for corporations (this is what education has become- an organized system the trains students to become workers, or maximizers of profit. No wonder our educational system is in crisis) and if they can not do this are “washed out of the city,” as one citizen said who was apart of todays peaceful turned violent gathering. “What is happening in New Orleans is a symbol of that which is taking place in all of our souls. Anything that is diverse and unique is being flushed out and turned into a corporate ethos which turns human beings into classified consumers,” said my Buddhist Teacher when I talked to him about todays events.

If we continue to allow what is going on in New Orleans to continue we are allowing the corporate take over of our very souls. We are allowing injustice to become the norm and allowing innocent people around the world to be displaced and murdered in the name of Democracy and Freedom. Yes, I am bothered every time I see a billboard on the side of the road that says “New Orleans, The City Where Anything Goes!!” It is a blatant lie and an assault on our intelligence. Yes, I suppose anything goes in New Orleans, unless you are poor, neglected, displaced, sick, American and screaming out for freedom.

Sex Life Of A Man Without One #4

  It is raining out. There is a calm contentment in my chest. The air is pleasant to breathe and I am home alone. I was looking at clever erotic adds on the internet- “Sexy Freak 4You” “Young And Eager To Please” and as I was going through the adds my wife called to tell me that she loved me. She also told me about a new form of therapy, called EFT, which she thought might be good for me. I was in a bit of a hurry to get off the phone because I felt guilty about the naked brown haired lady spreading her legs on my computer screen. This throbbing lust seems to rarely leave me alone.

Last night I decided to venture out into the city on my own. I parked my car and wondered around the Tenderloin. It was drizzling. There is something magical about a city when it is raining. I met all sorts of characters from the streets, including a man with a moving nipple (whom I will talk about at length some other time). I sat in a dark smoky bar and drank ginger ale and decided that my body could benefit from an Asian Massage.

I had been thinking about doing this a lot recently but I was always unwilling to spend the hard earned money. However I was able to sell a few paintings the other day for a large sum of money- so I decided to celebrate.

Next door to the bar was a joint called “The Sun Spa.” I rang the rusty buzzer and was greeted by an older Asian lady dressed in a white dress. She offered me a cup of tea but I declined. I was shaking and a bit apprehensive about the situation I was walking into. “Did I really need to do this,” one half of my brain said while the other half shouted, “Yes…Move forward and Relax!” A line of scantily dressed Asian women lined up before me and I was told to pick which one I wanted. It was a hard decision to make because my anxiety would not allow me to see straight. The ginger ale rumbled around in my stomach as one of the girls said, “he is so tall and looks like a movie star.” I thanked her but she giggled and looked down at the ground.

I choose a woman who was dressed in black gown, which revealed her nicely shaped breasts, which hung like adornments from her chest. Her hair was black and straight and pulled back into a ponytail. She took my hand and lead me down a long hallway and into a red neon lit room. She went over to the shower in the corner and turned it on. “You like water hot?” she asked me in a high-pitched accent. “I do,” I said as I took off my pants. There was a small mattress on the floor covered with clean white sheets. Floor to ceiling mirrors surrounded the room and there was a long bar which hung down over the bed. By the side of the bed I noticed a table with all kinds of lotions and towels.

“You shower and I be back soon.” I did what she said and washed myself well from head to foot. I could feel my heart rapidly beating and I started to think about “what if I dropped dead now and my body was found in a massage parlor. What would my wife and family think!!” This thought made me even more anxious so I quickly washed the soap off my body and stepped out from the shower.

I wrapped a towel around my waist and sat on the side of the mattress awaiting the masseuse’s return. She came back into the room holding more towels and a cup of tea. She offered the tea to me and said, “I noticed you shaking, tea help you calm down.” She then set down the towels and told me to go ahead and lie on my stomach…., which I did.

I was starting to feel more relaxed as she walked on my back holding herself steady with the bar hanging over the bed. She walked up and down my spine saying “do you hurt” “is this okay” and beneath the pressure of her weight all I could do was say “yes…fine…fine…” I looked in the mirror and watched her hourglass shape walk up and down the length of my anxious body.

She then rubbed baby oil all over my legs, back and arms. She asked me if it felt good and I then asked her what her name was. “Amy, I know next you asked me where I from,” she said in broken English. “Yes, where are you from?” “Vietnam.” She continued to gently rub my arms which created a release of stress so great that I was finally able to be very comfortable in the present moment. She pulled on my fingers and toes, pounded my back (which made me burp) and did some sort of acupressure on the bottom of my feet, which made me laugh. “You ticklish?” she asked with a smile. “Very,” I replied.

She massaged my legs and testicles and stuck her fingers between my butt checks. I was not sure how to respond to this but it felt good so I let out a little mone of pleasure. “You like balls rubbed?” I took a deep breath, how was I to respond other than to say, “it feels very nice, thank you.”

While she continued to massage my body we had a small conversation. She told me that she comes to San Francisco for a few months a year to work for weeks straight earning enough money to return home and support her family. Her mother is dying and her father she said died at a very young age. I began to feel the guilt come over me but I stopped it as soon as she took off her clothes and asked me to turn over.

My heart began to rapidly beat again. This was the first time I had been in the presence of a beautiful naked body in some time. My first reaction was to reach out and touch her breasts but I was able to hold my self back. My erection was so strong that when she grabbed my penis in her hand and bent over to whisper in my ear “do you want to have fun with me?” I had an orgasm. I had lost all ability to restrain the biological impulse to cumm. It was something that happened without my own awareness, like the explosion of a valve. She was surprised when she noticed what was happening and let out a whooping, “mmyyyy gossshhh so quick!!!” I apologized profusely for my ”accident” and all she could do was look at me and say “you no have sex in long long time.” I shook my head and said, “no long long time.”

Amy was incredibly generous. She cleaned me up and led me back into the shower where I could get the residual sperm off my body. While I was in the shower she changed the sheets and told me maybe next time if I come back I would do better. All I wanted to do was get out of there and return to the bar and drink more ginger ale.

While I was dressing, she sat on the side of the bed and stared at the clock. “You still have ten minutes left,” she said. “It’s okay I feel good,” I replied for lack of something interesting to say. I then asked her how many times a day she has sex with men. “I have sex with ten to twelve men every day. Some days like today are good day. I see twelve men but today a few men like you. They cumm so fast, so no sex. Usually men stick penis in me and cumm fast, so no big deal. But sometime men take to long and it hurt.” I was surprised. “You have sex with that many men every day?” Yes,” she said with a sad giggle. “How many days in a row?” I asked. “I work for three weeks straight and take five day off. I do this for two or three months and then go back home to my family.” “That’s a lot of sex,” I said. “I know but its okay, I am young and like sex.” “How old are you?” She got up from the side of the mattress took the dirty towels from me and said without looking me in the eye, “twenty four.” I did not believe her.

She led me by the hand back down the hallway. I walked behind her looking at all the fish tanks filled with various kinds of fish and statues of Asian deities. I had not noticed this on my way in. I was more relaxed now and felt a calmness that only comes after the release of sperm. There was not an ounce of longing or lust present in my body. I was a man at peace.

She opened the gated door for me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “ You such a nice man, make sure you come back soon…and have more sex with wife!!” I walked out onto the street and was trying to figure out how she knew I had a wife. Then I noticed that I was still wearing my wedding ring. I returned to the bar and drank ginger ale and watched a fat elderly man fall asleep on the bar with a cigarette in his mouth. In the corner two lovers kissed and smoked cigarettes. They were very thin and looked as if they had not eaten for days. I wondered if what I had just done could be considered cheating and the answer to that I am still as of yet unable to come up with. All I know is that as I am writing this I feel calm, all except for the lust that has returned. I know it is only a matter of time before my lust takes control of me once again.

Morning Exercise.

    I step outside into the cold, frigid morning air. I take a deep breath and bend over. My back is stiff and I can barely touch the ground. I hang there for a few moments in time. The cold air rushes to my brain causing what tastes like a metallic tang to settle into my mouth. I remember certain glimpses from dreams I had the night before. I then slowly rise back up, one vertabre at a time.

There is a slight weeze in my lungs, a constant reminder of the city in which I live. I try to cough out the pollution but it is ineffective. I then raise my hands above my lethargic head and breathe deeply into my chest cavity. There is a tightness that is slightly loosened the deeper I breathe. I think about what I am going to do with my day and then try to focus on my breath. The dark sky is still covered in morning fog. I can feel my heart beating rapidly in my chest so I lower my arms.

I then take several full breaths of morning air up into the deepest corners of my nasal passages. With each inhalation I repeat a particular affirmation: “beautiful birdies in a tree” or “loving the free heart of a cat.” A bird causes a branch from a tree to fall near me. i remain undisturbed and keep inhaling and exhaling, slowly and with a calm rhythm. This is how we train our minds how to be still. Clam, slow breathing….but I still find myself thinking about what I am going to have for breakfast. I then bend back over and repeat the whole process three more times.