Monthly Archives: June 2015

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The Master vs. Resistance~ or~ psychological fuckery meets lofty aspirations of Spirit, yet ends up in a crash n burn situation

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We all have two very archetypal images which motivate our behavior;  there is the Master of the things we know we should do, and the Argumentative Teenager stuck in arrested development, who says “no” to everything, and has a penchant for self destructive behavior, just for the hell of it…(yeah, there are more reasons than the hell of it, but teenagers are rarely self aware enough to ask why…)

My Motivated Master attitude… would be kind; gentle, forthright,  patient, strong, articulate, witty, full of laughter, and deeply rooted in spiritual wisdom and righteousness.  My Master attitude would leave room for expansion and understanding… it would not be quick to judgment or frustration.  I would have a Buddha-like smile.  Basically my master attitude would be like female version of Yoda as a “cool Aunt”.  My attitude would smell like fresh baked cinnamon rolls. But, let’s be honest. That is all ideal; My ACTUAL Master attitude performs much like a teacher who hates kids and always shows up hung over to class. My responses are short, and reeking of agitation.  (If you were curious agitation smells a lot like hot sticky dog shit.)

So what would my Resistance look like?  Probably Honey Boo Boo crossed with an angsty emo American teenager caught in the middle of a temper tantrum. So both my Master and my Resister are both huge bitches. How do I get anything done at all, you might wonder?

Let us step into my imagination for a moment to take a look at how these idealized, internalized archetypes fuck with my whole day; every day.  Here is the set up.  Everyday I know there are things that I SHOULD DO, and Things I HAVE TO DO, and things that I would really just LIKE to do, but somehow I have a hard time motivating myself to do any of it it.

Honey Boo Boo:  I’m bored.

Yoda: Life is stranger then fiction, young Padawan. A powerful ally is the Force. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. There is great focus in the Force.

Honey Boo Boo:  I don’t even know what y’all sayin’ right now.

Yoda:You must unlearn what you have learned.   The dark forces are strong within you. The way is not hidden. Refuse to see, does your mind.

Honey Boo Boo:   I don’t get it.

Yoda: The reason matters not.

Honey Boo Boo:  Your gibberish is weird, fairy godmother.

Yoda: Only a Jedi need know the reason. And a Jedi, you are not.

Honey Boo Boo:  yer dumb! Everything is dumb but ice cream.

Yoda: Accept the anxieties and difficulties of this life. Empty your mind and let it be filled with the Force.

Maybe this is not the best example…Honey boo boo is a red neck and Yoda speaks in broken, open ended answers.  I mean, there isn’t even a potential of conversation here, because of the nonsense. My actual self interaction may look a little bit more like this.

For the sake of diversity it will still be played out by my actual Master Bitch Monster and Emo Boo Boo.

–Get the FUCK outta bed, and get going!

I don’t want to.

-Up and at em you lazy piece of skin… You have a shit ton to do for me today, no excuses. 

I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna.

–

Cooperation with myself is not my strong set.  I am not really a “team player.”

So, what’s up? Maybe I like being miserable. Maybe I am a little Sadomasochistic with myself and maybe I like doing the same old nothing.  But really it would all be a lie.

Who the fuck cares?

I am about ready to beat the shit out of you, because it seems to me, that is all you are full of these days.  Just shitty shit coming out of your mouth.  It stinks, and I am sick of it.

Bring it on, Bitch.

Dude, you are all bark and no bite.  You are lazy and pessimistic.  You have no idea what it means to have a good time, or to be kind, or empathetic.  You are a sad, miserable Miser, and I am tired of catering to your mood swings.  You need to leave.  You need to go figure some shit out before I can deal with you, again.

Fuck you, I am not leaving.   I have just as much right to be here as you!

Bullshit.  YOU are PLAYED OUT!  People like me have had to deal with people like you since the beginning of time.  The game is old, and your attitude toward me is completely unacceptable.  I can’t even believe I have let you hang around so long.  You’re like a heavy weight, and you sure as fuck don’t act like a friend… so why the fuck should I have to carry your heavy ass?

Whatever, Dude.  You’re weak.

No, DUDE. You are weak.  I have carried your ass around for so long, and all you do is keep me from really having more fun and experience in my life.  I don’t know how many times I didn’t do something I really wanted to do, in order to sit at home and listen to your sorry ass cry about shit that you could change.  I listened to you whine about how you are bored, and you have nothing to do.  Meanwhile, I would feed you really great suggestions and you would just blow them all off with excuses.   No wonder you have no friends.  No wonder you have nothing more to talk about than your misery.

Wow, that’s really a low blow.  Blaming it all on me, like that.

You should really take a course in self awareness and admitting your faults.  I use to think you were an asset to my team.  Your ability to resist temptation USE to be really admirable.  But now you just resist, everything that could potentially be good for us.  You say ‘yes’ to the most fucked up stuff, and you are hurting both of us.

Fuck you.

No, Fuck you!  I want to play.  I want to paint, and write, and sing, and dance.  I want to get out in nature and move my body.  I want to have nice, strong, willing friends.  I want to look at myself in the mirror and not see you looking back at me with that stupid melancholy face.  Here I am, taking the time to tell you, that you are fucking up with me.  And I don’t want to take it any more.  I have spent far too much time just listening to your sad procrastination, which has led to more procrastination.  I have tried patience, kindness, support, opportunity and love.  You reject all these things, so I think I am going to have to tough love you.

What the fuck is that suppose to mean.

Well, I guess, if you aren’t going to take the initiative to get the fuck out of my house; I am just going to have to ignore you.

You can’t ignore me.

The hell I can’t.  Watch me.

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The Wonder of Creation

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AS IF Life itself were not paradoxical enough; IN comes Creation!

On EVERY level, if given enough attention; Creation, is… controversial.

Take God, and Evolution out of the mix.  Creation is an entity and force within itself, and it is a whim of contradiction. It is always moving, and effecting even with out our intention… Creation is beyond expression and consciousness.

It could be likened to the comical mystery of whether the egg or the chicken came first.  Even smallest evolutions are creations… The body creates new cells, which are creation.  Those cells either function properly supporting creation, sometimes those cells adapt and that is still a form of creation.  People come up with ideas and implement them; still creation.

Two people, or a person and science get together to procreate, which is still creation.

Now ask your self, “why not create?”   Especially if nature does it already to the benefit as well as the detriment of other creations.  Creation is an exploding, imploding system of organized chaos.

If the only thing in certain creation is consciousness, then every conscious creation should first ask why not?  Creation is an expenditure of energy, so for every creation there is an effect outward from its influence.

Cheyenne, Writing

Four Miles, For Miles.

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My thighs were sticking together.

I am sure a rash was happening.

The friction of skin upon skin, creating a burn like Sin.

Being in one of the most social of lady places; the bathroom, I queried another female patron.

“Do you have any powder, by chance?”

Answering the question with an action, she pulled a large zip-loc bag out of her purse.

“I need just enough to dry out my lack of thigh gap.” I respond with more dryness than my pasty but saturated Vaginal neighbors.

“Ohhh, hunny.. this aint’t talc… It’s coke.”

Immediately, I imagine the options of relief.

“Too expensive for my needs, but I bet the numbing sensation is worth it;” imagining the potential, I add ” I need four miles worth of ‘numb’ dryness.”

She queries, “Four miles?”

I am pretty sure at this point she is already coked out and her brain is having a hard time equivocating.

“Yeah… four miles home. I think by cab that is about fifteen bucks… and that just seems too much to me, for this podunk town….. too much, even though, I… Even though I am having this issue.” At this point I am attempting to handle the pain with a smile… I am a liar, and this shit hurts.

Eyebrows cocked, head tilted, she questions, ” An issue?”

“A woman’s issue…”

She looks incredulous for a moment until a spark of understanding, spreads over her already tightened facial muscles.

“OOOoooohhh, Auntie Flo!”

I see she is now slightly softened by compassion and understanding.

“Uhmm… No.” I can’t help but pause, acknowledging that if that WAS the case, it would be the least of my concerns; and that is why God made toilet paper.

“No?” She repeats, but with a sense of fear… like maybe I will tell her I just found breast cancer, or one of my ovarian cysts just escaped.

“No. I have heinous thigh sweat, and…uhm… massive chaffing.” I don’t know why I am so ashamed of saying this in front of a person carrying enough cocaine to be indicted on a felony, but it is how I respond, nonetheless.

“oh. OH. OooooOOHHHHhhh!” Images percolate in her mind and her eyes get big. I like that she seems to REALLY “get it”.

“Yeah…”

“Oh, hunny… that’s rough!”

Without losing a beat… I say,

“No, it’s RAW!”

I have pulled her into coke induced empathy, and she nods knowingly. “Yeah… whew, them’s the pits.”

On a roll, I say “More like the crevasses.”

Still feeling a bit desperate and despondent about returning to the bar,  I ask ” So, do you have anything else in that big, magic bag that might help me?”

She begins the notorious “Puffy Purse Scavenger Hunt.” Digging deep in its depths for something significant or (in her mind) useful.

” Uhm, well, how about…Preparation H? err… uh.. Advil?”

By the looks of it, she has a whole different set of ‘women’s issues’; the pain, numbing my verbal filter, causes me to outwardly express as much.

I am disappointed AND defeated, but she is quick to respond, “Damn straight! I do! And I don’t leave my house ill prepared.”

God Jeebus, she must be a Virgo… I know what she is talking about, because USUALLY, I AM that lady (minus large zip-lock bags filled with illegal substances).

Agitated with my observations, I add in a whisper of “apparently…” with far too much judgement and sarcasm.

An awkward silence ensues, and I find this to be prime time to exit stage left. Besides, she doesn’t have what I need, anyway.

Betcha if I needed a safety pin, there would be one floating around in there.

Maybe, just maybe, this is my fault.

Maybe, if I was at a family restaurant, instead of this dark bar,  I would have better luck with my needs.

Maybe under other circumstances I could find a nice overweight and sympathetic mother… with a small baby, and an overstuffed baby bag.

And I would ask for her help… and she would reach deep into that well stocked baby bag of hers, and pull out just ONE of ten travel size baby powder bottles; and she would hand it over with loving care, and say “Keep it. You know you’re going to need a reapplication some where down the road.”

And she would wink at me, maybe even squeeze my hand or my shoulder and I would feel safe, protected and loved.

I would respond with a smile and a humble “Thank you”; thinking my good Karma must be returning in the form of self preservation, and I would walk home properly powdered.

Instead of looking for a family restaurant, with a responsible mother carrying a plentiful baby bag; I walked back into the bar intent on the only legal numbing I know… whiskey.

They know me here and the bartender asks if I will take another double Jameson on the rocks. I say “yes and add on a pint of Fat Tire.”

My favorite short order Cook sits to my right, and says “I’ve got those, put ’em on my tab.”

“Oh you don’t have to do that… I’ve got it.” I respond with a shyness.

“Nah, you gave that warm knit hat that you made, to my friend who was sick… and that hat kept her head and ears warm all winter.”

I can’t argue with such kind logic, and thank him for the drinks.

My good Karma is not in fact going to self preservation right now; or maybe it is, it’s just my momentary perspective…. I do need these drinks right now, if only to distract my brain from the chub rub forming on my inner thighs.

“Well, thanks again. I really appreciate it.”

And I do appreciate it as I slip out the back door to the patio; to go think some more about perspective.

The Zen Buddhists say to “judge nothing.” To see all as life, without duality.

So I adopt this perspective for the moment and take a long swig of whiskey. I hold it in my mouth for a while, letting the alcohol drench all of my taste buds. Slowly, I swallow it’s gentle burn down my throat.

I let the alcohol sit in my mouth like a tincture; letting the medicinal properties seep into the porous membrane of my mouth, allowing the liquid to cross the blood brain barrier and stimulate an exquisite release of dopamine.

Anyone observing may think I am contemplating the “swallow.” Wondering why my process is less smooth and desperate as their own, as they urgently suckle the heads of bottles containing weak watery beer. They drink it like they need water, like a hungry baby at the nipple.

I am outside, and no one is here. No one to watch or judge.

The air is thick with humidity and the clouds compound into a thick grayness above; growing heavy with precipitation, the thunder begins to take over.

I smile at the age old vision of God and his army of angels rolling bowling balls down an infinite bowling lane. Each roll of thunder, a ball. Each strike of lightening, the strike of all ten pins. After some time, it begins to hail. Perhaps this is a sign of a Heavenly game of 300, and the hail is celestial confetti falling to Earths floor.

The hoots and hollers,  vibrating clouds, reverberate the cheers of a job well done. The Heavenly Team has won the League Championship.

Unbeknownst to them, we sit below like ants; watching as our flowers are beat free of their petals and our cars become dented with new geography.

A few people now have gathered beneath the rain shelter. We chat about the weather, avoiding conversations that dig much deeper. It’s okay… I didn’t come for more than distraction from my physical malady; which I have almost successfully mastered, until I again remind myself of the impending four miles.  Four Miles… for miles.

 

I take the last drink of whiskey, and chew on a couple of ice cubes as I stand to take my first apprehensive steps toward home.

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