My Most Generous of Gifts

"When the student is ready, the teacher appears."

Attributed, incorrectly, to Buddha.  Due to the fact that he was a chubby Chinaman, it is highly unlikely that he would have said much in English.

(Plus, anyone, who has ever sat in a classroom waiting for a tardy professor, knows the fallacy of this statement.)   Sigh.... People are so gullible.  It makes me sad.

**************

"Those who give, will receive way more back than they ever gave."

Anonymous

(I'm hoping that this one is true. I should have proof, one way or the other, within days.  Stay tuned.  If it's not true, I'm ready to take names and blow whistles.  I'm deadly serious about this.)

***************

This is a blog created by me as a gift to those of you who have been urging me to share my feelings with the world at large.  

I've always considered myself to be a private person, but, lately I've started to realize that I've been greedily hoarding my bounty.  I've been blessed with an abundance of treasure, and, believe me, I've enjoyed it immensely.  But, I started thinking about the second aphorism above, and it occurred to me that I should roll the dice.  Share a bit of what I have in order to increase my ample takings. 

So, even though there's a part of me that worries that this may be reckless and irresponsible, I've decided: the time has come for me to share a little bit of myself with all of you.

Hey... Hey... Hey!   Control yourselves!  There's no need for tears.  Not even happy ones.  

Look, I know emotions are difficult things for most of us to control.  We can't see them when they start, so by the time we're aware that they're about to inflict themselves upon the outside world, it's too late.

They can be controlled, however.  I know, because I've mastered them.

How?

Well, for me, it was quick and easy.  For the rest of you, the process will most likely prove to be time-consuming and difficult -- but, ultimately, worth it.

It's starts with understanding how your body functions.  (No, don't worry, I'm not going to give you a heavy lecture about molecular biology, although I'd be happy to answer any of your questions in private.  My e-mail box is almost always open.)

Once you understand how your body works, you have to learn how to "listen" to what it's telling you.

Rather than talking of "theories" and "abstractions," I prefer to focus on real world examples of scenarios that all of you have experienced at a visceral level.

Let's start with your body's reaction to the news that I was finally writing a blog.

It sounds weird saying "your body's reaction," rather than "your reaction," doesn't it?

I said it that way for a reason.

Right now, you don't know much about your own body. 

And what you do know is mostly superficial stuff.  How shallow!

How do I know that?  I don't.  But I do.  (I still believe in Buddha and Zen and the Beat Generation, as you can undoubtedly sense.)

Your Body's Reaction To News Of This Fantastic Blog:

Unbeknownst to you, there were several things transpiring simultaneously throughout your body, the moment your eyes spoon-fed word of this remarkable news to your mind. 

Naturally, your brain went electrically giddy (nearly berserk) upon getting the announcement. Like a middle school-aged kid who has received a hot new video-game weeks for before its official release date, your brain goes nuts making certain everyone knows about this fact as rapidly as possible.

As the news spread throughout your anatomy, you may have detected some of the more obvious manifestations of your body's physical reactions:  

• a quickening pulse, 
• involuntary leg motions leading to a hastened form of eager foot-tapping, 
• stirrings of sexual arousal (the strength of which would vary from person to person, depending on factors such as: age, sex, general health, and whether or not he or she is active enough to read a blog like this one).  

In laymen's term: the men hardened and the women moistened.

Most of you felt compelled to launch into an impromptu Irish jig.

Does anything say "happy" quite as exuberantly as a group of drunks (of the same ethnicity)laughing and crashing into tables as they  attempt to revive an ancient homeland folk dance in a pub crowded with city workers who are tired, bored, and jaded?

Your jig wasn't like that.  Yours was private.  More Americanized. What you lost by way of authencity, you more than replaced with your youthful pizzazz  go-for-broke attitude.

Do you want to see what I see when I see you dancing because I'm writing?

I thought so!

First, I'm going to ask you to do me a small favor.  

Are you ready? 

[DON'T ANSWER!] 

Never answer a question automatically.  

That's how Bush got us into all those wars for Dick Cheney.  

You're not a robot.  Think first, then respond.  

(It's OK to be a  phony automaton, as long as you're aware you're being a phony automaton.  Assuming, of course, that you know how to switch out of that mode at the appropriate times.)

Now, are you ready?

....

....

Great!  You waited before answering.  That's good. (Yes, some will callously assume that you're just slow on the uptake, but that's OK because they'll be easier for you to exploit later on.)

 Here we go.

I'd like you, right now, to find a place nearby where you can spend a few moments alone and disruption-free.  You need to find a  peaceful place.  A place that is for you, and you, alone.  

Now, find a spot to sit down.  It doesn't matter if it's on the floor or in a big comfy chair.  Once you're seated and comfortable, I want you to relax.  You're quiet, rested and completely at ease with the solitude and the silence.   

Think of nothing except the fact that you are a very real part of the entire universe, and that you're at one with yourself, within yourself, within the universe, and that the universe is also within you.  You are it and it is you.  Where'd you get that outfit?

Now concentrate on your breathing.  Breathe slowly and deeply.  You feel your lungs expanding and contracting.  The rhythm of life made manifest with each breath.  The exhaust of the city.... Gathering gloom..... Exhaled away!  

Women may find this journey we're untertaking more relaxing if they remove their blouses and bras. (Probably not a good idea if you're at work, in one of those glassed-in conference rooms, unless you're comfortable being observed by groups of middle-aged Lookie-Loos wearing suits. Where does HR find some of these characters?) 

Now breathe deeper.  Concentrate on inhaling and exhaling as slowly as possible.

Close your eyes.

Once you're truly relaxed and at ease with the peace you're feeling within,  try to envision the following concept:

Think back to 1990.  It was a different time.... The Beatles,  Elvis Presley,  air travel, Santa, hobo villages, wife swapping parties, snow machine races with Todd, parades, the funny man selling balloons, the way your voice sounded when you inhaled the helium, the way your penis felt when the funny man put it in his helium-filled mouth, and the way your ejaculate looked when it floated out of the funny man's mouth high high high up into the sky, and then how heavy your coat felt when you later realized that you had accidentally pocketed the funny man's suede money pouch while he was otherwise engaged...you could have returned the pouch, but you were too excited following the floating bubble of you-goo to allow yourself to be sidetracked.  1990, man, it totally rocked.

Now imagine a scenario where Jennifer Beale, fresh off of her "Flash Dance" fame, had just given birth to a baby boy that had been sired by The Lord of the Dance, Michael Flatley.  

Can you see the baby boy?  

It is a touching scene, isn't it?  The baby looks like he's going to have Jenny's eyes, and Mike's lip-smackingly taut bum.  Lucky l'il fella!   

Now let's return to back to 2009.   The "baby" is now 19 years old, lithe, good looking, and he definitely has his father's ass --  on steroids.  The fucker looks like it's made out burnished titanium.   If you were gay, you'd continue rhapsodizing about it's superiority over the asses of mere mortals, but you're not, so you don't.

 

The ass god's mother has just concluded the final season of the hit Showtime series, The L Word.  His father has proven definitively that Americans possess the world's largest attention spans -- they never tire of paying to see the same folksy line dances by people in tight, sequin-festooned attire.  Give the show a different name and the Americans won't know any different.

As for Kid Dancer.... 

Well.... Here's a "what if" for you to ponder.

What if America had a Royal Family?

What if that family was made up entirely of commercially successful (hucksters) dancers? (Unlike traditional and avant-garde dance troupes that have lots of highbrow cache, but no highbrow cash,  these dance companies have somehow choreographed a way to get America's normally tight-fisted middle-to-low-brow masses to whip out their Visa cards whenever there is a new product to peddle.  

Michael Flatley would be this family's aging King.  Kid Dancer: The Man Who Would Be King.

On this day, however, there is trouble in the land.  The dancing prince is told that he will be forced to dance what will be the dance of a lifetime on live TV in front of millions of viewers.

To make matters worse, for him, his performance will be judged by four Simon Cowell clones.

If he doesn't dazzle all four of the Simons, both of his parents will be brought out on stage, and then executed before a live studio audience.

In his kindly heart, Kid Dancer knows all to well that if he doesn't dance well enough to save the lives of his parents, he will be blamed and ridiculed by most every citizen in the land for  causing the death of his parents.  "That would suck, big-time," he said to himself solemnly.

(For the record: If the kid's dance wasn't impressive enough to save his parents' lives,  I wouldn't be one of those who blamed the kid for killing his parents softly with his dance. Why wouldn't I? Because he's a kid, God damn it!   And besides, Simon's an asshole.  He produced the show, and he knows darn well that America was practically drooling for a double celebrity execution.)

The kid takes the stage.  He looks fantastic!   There are lumps in the throats of the nation, at large.  The United States of America has come to a collective halt.  All eyes are glued (not literally) to tv screens.  The lights dim, the music starts, and the Kid swings into action!

Look at him dance!  That's not dance!  It's a low altitude solo trapeze act.  It's a vertical sex act that defies the laws of both physics and biology.  He's so good he's giving the entire nation a rousing display of visual foreplay.  The studio audience is on its feet!  So are the tv viewers! So are the Simons!  They're going on stage to form a  conga line behind the kid!  The whole nation is doing the conga behind its new King!  

The performance ends with a shuddering, toe-curling and un-furling collective national orgasm, followed by a brief standing ovation and a mad stampede to the restrooms.  As the credits roll, we see the Kid reunited with his folks.  We then catch a glimpse of one of the Simons handing Kid Dancer a card,  and then making the telephone to the ear hand gesture, and mouthing the words: "call me."  

The dance that Kid Dancer performed was exactly how I imagine you danced when you learned of my gift of blog coming into your life.  (Although, since you weren't a child of dance, yours was, in all likelihood, far more clumsy and amateurish.  And you weren't even dealing with the pressures that were being forced upon Kid Dancer.)

It's looks like we've run out of time for this offering.

How does that make you feel?

Gather your things, it's time to rejoin the "real" world.  Ha ha. Hee hee. Ho ho.

You can come out of solitude, now.

Do make sure you're not leaving anything behind.  No cups.  No glasses.  No seepage.

Next time, if I'm so inclined, I'll try to talk more about how you can get in harmony with your body's instant messages.

Maybe then, you'll be able to recognize the precise moment when feelings of any kind are created magically from an extra-special place deep within the bowels of your soul, so that when they begin to percolate, you'll know whether they are good emotions or bad ones.

Then, when the moment is right you'll be ready to channel them to your body's appropriate staging areas as they burble up through your innards towards their assigned destinations.

Remember, even the most heartfelt expressions of joyfulness and the deepest and most profound feelings of gratitude, love, and/or admiration can be highly embarrassing to you if they aren't given a formal seating assignment.

Whether they're caused by sadness or happiness, unchecked emotions will always find their way to the body's natural release valves -- your eyeball spigots -- where they burst into the world in the utterly common physical form of salty tears.  Ho-hum.  ****yawn****

The world has seen enough tears.  The world is kind of sick of crybabies.   As it happens, I think the world is just copying what I'm feeling.  In fact, I wish the world would learn to form its own opinions, for once, but that's a topic for another day.

Today's Zen-Like Bottom Line Take-Away :  "Learn to control all of your emotions.  If you don't, your emotions will control all of your learning.  And that would suck big-time." 

Peace.

**********

OK.  Good. Now that the first one's done, I'm going to sit back and wait for the windfall.  I accept pay pal.  (No personal checks, please.  Certified are OK, but I hate the thought of you waiting in a long line at some corporate bank. You can avoid the hassle by sending cash.)