There are times when the world does an okay job of not being a big bag of fucked-up crap.
Let's get sincere for a moment.
I've been what scientists call "content" lately.
....yep.
As such, I've been struggling to be super cynical. (Gasp!)
Cynicism, we've learnt, fuels Next Tuesday.
Contentment overshadows cynicism and forces Next Tuesday into hiatus.
So with sleepy Valium eyes and matching lobotomy smile, I stare at our world and take in all the beauty that surrounds...FAIL!
How will I ever maintain relevance if I don't have a strong opinion about Rihanna?
Or some kind of emotional crisis about being a slut?
Or the emoticon thing?
Well calm the fuck down already.
Really, calm your mind.
Check-in with your breathing.
Steady your heart rate.
Readjust the way you're sitting.
Lift your chest.
Lengthen your spine.
Engage your core.
Distribute your weight evenly across your feet and press into the Earth.
Do it.
With confidence.
Be still.
Be strong.
Be a fucking Tree.
And with purpose and clarity:
Breathe.
I'm one of these people who heard about the torturous practices involved in Bikram Yoga and said,
"My eventual career as a Backstreet Boys Tribute Band backup dancer could benefit from this. Sign me up."
Bikram Yoga (the hot one), like much of what we work for in life, makes you sweat.
For those unfamiliar it's a 90 minute session in a space heated to 45.6°C (105°F).
Participants perform the same 26 postures and 2 breathing exercises each class.
It's kind of smelly.
It became popular in the 1970s.
It doesn't let you leave. (Well, it does, but, just don't.)
It makes you question some of the basic shit you believed you did well. For example: laying down.
It forces you into positions that explain why the expression "What the fuck?!" was reduced to three letters.
It consistently pushes you beyond the limits of what you understood to be your physiological and psychological thresholds, lengthening and strengthening these states of being....not to mention your spine.
Also consistent with much of life are the various opinions of Bikram, specifically the debate about it being good for you or not. I'm not going to contribute to this. Should this be what you're after, Google can now be found on the Internet. I'm going to talk about something far more (get ready for it) cynical.
In a life both plagued and progressed by the doubled-edged sword of excessive and unnecessary word use (see), Bikram manages to achieve something previously thought impossible: shut me the fuck up. Even more amazing is the lack of train-of-thought! For 90 minutes, Bikram simplifies existence to my breath and the posture.
That was until my last Bikram session.
She was one of these teeny-tiny people who, due to a tragic case of spatial-unawareness, had no fucking idea how much room she was taking up. Bikram studios are rectangular, wide enough for two rows of humans. Naturally she lay her mat down in the mid-space between the rows, consuming that which four participants would usually inhabit. And of course this was next to me. And of course I was bothered by her continually interrupting my view of the mirror with her incessant need to exist.
I didn't know it, but I had just begun one of those 'Journeys of Self-Discovery'.
I knew I was in trouble when I started providing the voice for the stupid babushka doll tattooed onto her shoulder.
"Hi! Wanna hear a secret? There's nothing inside me. It's like a metaphor for this bitch I'm attached to."
I couldn't help but project all my rage toward the babushka. It symbolised everything my inflamed perception of reality needed to rationalise feeling shitty about something stupidly trivial. In an effort to achieve some version of serenity, I immediately started denying that I had a problem with Ms. Babushka at all.
"I enjoy finding people obnoxious. It makes experiences better. Like super-eager shop assistants who don't know how to back-off."
As the class continued it became apparent that the spatial-unawareness extended into a form of auditory-unawareness as well. Groans, heavy breathing, the occasional chuckle - are all common place inside the Bikram studio. However, the sounds permeating from behind the Babushka were similar to what crows would sound like if they were forced to have sex underwater. This got worse as we transitioned from the standing postures to the floor postures, Ms. Babushka started actively trying to engage those around her, including me. My eyes rolled so far into the back of my head that I was momentarily blinded, falling out of the posture and collapsing into a pool of failure on the mat. I believe I landed head first (for maximum foreshadowing effect).
There was no denying my rage at this stage - and yes, I rhyme every-time - but surprisingly my anger deflected off the Babushka, rebounded against the mirror and hit...myself.
"Congratulations on letting this impact you so severely It must be relieving to know that your undoing becomes done by standing next to someone mildly annoying. This class that you paid for to achieve a meditative state - money well spent, dumb-ass. Prepare to fall again cause you're not concentrating. How's the ground? Comforting? It's better for you down there, isn't it. Exhausting yourself by RAGING like some skinny gay Hulk. You suck. Go write a blog about that one you fuck nut."
No matter how angry I got with myself, Ms. Babushka didn't miraculously dematerialise. And I was right, I had misdirected too much energy into being annoyed and barely had any stamina left to complete the class.
In an act of desperation I attempted to bargain my way out of the situation.
"Dear Gods of Bikram. Please lift the roof off the studio and with your giant God hands, pluck this bitch from my sight. I promise I won't be such a dick to my Mum anymore."
Surprisingly, this didn't work.
I was out of ideas.
That's when the depression hit.
Everything I had achieved leading up to this moment no longer mattered.
Everything that was waiting for me after this would be characterised by my failure.
I sat out for a posture and gulped at my water bottle, aimlessly searching the walls for a clock I already knew wasn't there. I put on my humble face and got into position to begin the next posture. For a second my eyes closed and I made a silent request - the request I usually pretend I don't have a use for:
"help"
I honestly don't know who I was asking.
I don't believe in God.
It's possible I was asking myself.
Surprisingly it was my late Father's voice that offered a response:
"You don't need help right now. Let it go."
...yep.
So, long story short - I did.
With each exhalation I released the judgement I had been directing at Ms. Babushka and myself.
I did this until there was nothing left but quiet.
With each inhalation I reminded myself that commitment, be it beneficial or not, is a choice that I make.
Just as my mind and body found each other and figured out how to work in unison, the teacher switched off the lights and left us in Dead Man's pose (laying down).
The class was over.
I smiled and let the tears stream down my cheek.
"It's okay to miss your dad."
I decided to walk to the train station instead of catching the tram. My endorphin high made everything seem beautiful and it felt like a good time to appreciate the simple things. Even the faint garbage under tones that lingered in the air, delicately balanced against a harmony of urine, vomit and over-ripe banana, reminded me that life is series of choices. Everything that can fuel my satisfaction, my anxiety, my equilibrium, the things that just fuck me off - at their core, are just choices I make.
The universe then sent me a drunk homeless guy who required first aid. He tripped on the footpath and landed on his head. He accepted my assistance getting onto his feet, but was defiantly against an ambulance. He was insistent that he didn't care if he died in his sleep from the concussion I feared he had attained. Reasoning with him wasn't working, so I choose to change my tact. I got a bystander to surreptitiously call an ambulance whilst I kept him talking. All I needed to do was capitalise on my excessive and unnecessary word use. The conversation flowed as steadily as my breathing.
While we waited for the ambulance he told me about the meaning of life.
It's hard to explain but it had something to do with Next Tuesday,
Dx
Let's get sincere for a moment.
I've been what scientists call "content" lately.
....yep.
As such, I've been struggling to be super cynical. (Gasp!)
Cynicism, we've learnt, fuels Next Tuesday.
Contentment overshadows cynicism and forces Next Tuesday into hiatus.
So with sleepy Valium eyes and matching lobotomy smile, I stare at our world and take in all the beauty that surrounds...FAIL!
How will I ever maintain relevance if I don't have a strong opinion about Rihanna?
Or some kind of emotional crisis about being a slut?
Or the emoticon thing?
Well calm the fuck down already.
Really, calm your mind.
Check-in with your breathing.
Steady your heart rate.
Readjust the way you're sitting.
Lift your chest.
Lengthen your spine.
Engage your core.
Distribute your weight evenly across your feet and press into the Earth.
Do it.
With confidence.
Be still.
Be strong.
Be a fucking Tree.
And with purpose and clarity:
Breathe.
I'm one of these people who heard about the torturous practices involved in Bikram Yoga and said,
"My eventual career as a Backstreet Boys Tribute Band backup dancer could benefit from this. Sign me up."
Bikram Yoga (the hot one), like much of what we work for in life, makes you sweat.
For those unfamiliar it's a 90 minute session in a space heated to 45.6°C (105°F).
Participants perform the same 26 postures and 2 breathing exercises each class.
It's kind of smelly.
It became popular in the 1970s.
It doesn't let you leave. (Well, it does, but, just don't.)
It makes you question some of the basic shit you believed you did well. For example: laying down.
It forces you into positions that explain why the expression "What the fuck?!" was reduced to three letters.
It consistently pushes you beyond the limits of what you understood to be your physiological and psychological thresholds, lengthening and strengthening these states of being....not to mention your spine.
Also consistent with much of life are the various opinions of Bikram, specifically the debate about it being good for you or not. I'm not going to contribute to this. Should this be what you're after, Google can now be found on the Internet. I'm going to talk about something far more (get ready for it) cynical.
In a life both plagued and progressed by the doubled-edged sword of excessive and unnecessary word use (see), Bikram manages to achieve something previously thought impossible: shut me the fuck up. Even more amazing is the lack of train-of-thought! For 90 minutes, Bikram simplifies existence to my breath and the posture.
That was until my last Bikram session.
She was one of these teeny-tiny people who, due to a tragic case of spatial-unawareness, had no fucking idea how much room she was taking up. Bikram studios are rectangular, wide enough for two rows of humans. Naturally she lay her mat down in the mid-space between the rows, consuming that which four participants would usually inhabit. And of course this was next to me. And of course I was bothered by her continually interrupting my view of the mirror with her incessant need to exist.
I didn't know it, but I had just begun one of those 'Journeys of Self-Discovery'.
I knew I was in trouble when I started providing the voice for the stupid babushka doll tattooed onto her shoulder.
"Hi! Wanna hear a secret? There's nothing inside me. It's like a metaphor for this bitch I'm attached to."
I couldn't help but project all my rage toward the babushka. It symbolised everything my inflamed perception of reality needed to rationalise feeling shitty about something stupidly trivial. In an effort to achieve some version of serenity, I immediately started denying that I had a problem with Ms. Babushka at all.
"I enjoy finding people obnoxious. It makes experiences better. Like super-eager shop assistants who don't know how to back-off."
As the class continued it became apparent that the spatial-unawareness extended into a form of auditory-unawareness as well. Groans, heavy breathing, the occasional chuckle - are all common place inside the Bikram studio. However, the sounds permeating from behind the Babushka were similar to what crows would sound like if they were forced to have sex underwater. This got worse as we transitioned from the standing postures to the floor postures, Ms. Babushka started actively trying to engage those around her, including me. My eyes rolled so far into the back of my head that I was momentarily blinded, falling out of the posture and collapsing into a pool of failure on the mat. I believe I landed head first (for maximum foreshadowing effect).
There was no denying my rage at this stage - and yes, I rhyme every-time - but surprisingly my anger deflected off the Babushka, rebounded against the mirror and hit...myself.
"Congratulations on letting this impact you so severely It must be relieving to know that your undoing becomes done by standing next to someone mildly annoying. This class that you paid for to achieve a meditative state - money well spent, dumb-ass. Prepare to fall again cause you're not concentrating. How's the ground? Comforting? It's better for you down there, isn't it. Exhausting yourself by RAGING like some skinny gay Hulk. You suck. Go write a blog about that one you fuck nut."
No matter how angry I got with myself, Ms. Babushka didn't miraculously dematerialise. And I was right, I had misdirected too much energy into being annoyed and barely had any stamina left to complete the class.
In an act of desperation I attempted to bargain my way out of the situation.
"Dear Gods of Bikram. Please lift the roof off the studio and with your giant God hands, pluck this bitch from my sight. I promise I won't be such a dick to my Mum anymore."
Surprisingly, this didn't work.
I was out of ideas.
That's when the depression hit.
Everything I had achieved leading up to this moment no longer mattered.
Everything that was waiting for me after this would be characterised by my failure.
I sat out for a posture and gulped at my water bottle, aimlessly searching the walls for a clock I already knew wasn't there. I put on my humble face and got into position to begin the next posture. For a second my eyes closed and I made a silent request - the request I usually pretend I don't have a use for:
"help"
I honestly don't know who I was asking.
I don't believe in God.
It's possible I was asking myself.
Surprisingly it was my late Father's voice that offered a response:
"You don't need help right now. Let it go."
...yep.
So, long story short - I did.
With each exhalation I released the judgement I had been directing at Ms. Babushka and myself.
I did this until there was nothing left but quiet.
With each inhalation I reminded myself that commitment, be it beneficial or not, is a choice that I make.
Just as my mind and body found each other and figured out how to work in unison, the teacher switched off the lights and left us in Dead Man's pose (laying down).
The class was over.
I smiled and let the tears stream down my cheek.
"It's okay to miss your dad."
I decided to walk to the train station instead of catching the tram. My endorphin high made everything seem beautiful and it felt like a good time to appreciate the simple things. Even the faint garbage under tones that lingered in the air, delicately balanced against a harmony of urine, vomit and over-ripe banana, reminded me that life is series of choices. Everything that can fuel my satisfaction, my anxiety, my equilibrium, the things that just fuck me off - at their core, are just choices I make.
The universe then sent me a drunk homeless guy who required first aid. He tripped on the footpath and landed on his head. He accepted my assistance getting onto his feet, but was defiantly against an ambulance. He was insistent that he didn't care if he died in his sleep from the concussion I feared he had attained. Reasoning with him wasn't working, so I choose to change my tact. I got a bystander to surreptitiously call an ambulance whilst I kept him talking. All I needed to do was capitalise on my excessive and unnecessary word use. The conversation flowed as steadily as my breathing.
While we waited for the ambulance he told me about the meaning of life.
It's hard to explain but it had something to do with Next Tuesday,
Dx
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