Friday, February 14, 2014

Day 33: Ajna…the day I foundered on day six Paryushana, beatifically bartering my water-fast in lieu of slurping a half-cup of 50 calorie soup and scoop of peanut butter...

“In a millennium or two, a seeming paradox of our civilization will be best understood by those men versed in the methods of counter-archaeology. They will study us not by digging into the earth  but by climbing vast dunes of industrial rubble and mutilated steel, seeking to reach the tops of our buildings. Here they’ll chirp lovingly at our spires, mansards, turrets, parapets, belfries, water tanks, flower pots, pigeons lofts and chimneys...” 

                                                                       Don Dellio, Great Jones Street

On day six I failed. The drape of reality completely disintegrating  around me, my stomach felt
like an arid dried-out chamois. I entered a state where I was tranced out all the time. I entered a very fuckable, falling on the caps of my knees as if proposing to the void of equilibrium on Valentine ’s Day state. I grew to loathe the liquid form of oxygen with a double-shot of hydrogen. I grew to detest water. I grew to abhor the substance that my skin is concealing like a Russian Babushka doll; the substance the bulk of my planet is composed of—the substance I’ve been meditating over, astutely focusing on ameliorating higher calibers of consciousness, sloughing myself of the emotional fetters that have pinned me to a grade school cheaply cut Valentine’s Day bulletin board of paralysis the last ten years, hoping to channel kindness and giving and love into the plastic silo of liquid before chugging, monopolizing he majority of the day pacing around my apartment feeling like a perambulating water cooler,  finding myself splayed leg in the bathroom, a  yellow beam shooting out from the faucet below my torso every fifteen minutes as if all I am is a windmill, a corporeal sieve.
It was six days of Paryushana, of intense mediating, of digesting nothing but water, of feeling like I gorged out in glutton-pining fashion at the local Chinese buffet only the buffet looked just like free swim and the community pool and I still decided to open my lips and seemingly gnaw away.
In 2003 street magician David Blaine ensconced himself in a diminutive Plexiglas cage above the River Thames in London and, reenacting the rudiments of Franz Kafka’s THE HUNGER ARTIST, fasting for 44 days, living off of 4.5 liters of water per day. Blaine completed the fast successfully shedding 54 pounds, 25 percent of his body weight. During the time he spent the days meditating, looking out the carnivalesque atmosphere stirring b’low, being relentlessly taunted by passerby’s who hurled food, beer cans, laughed, ridiculed, females hoisting up their tops and flashing him, all the while David Blaine maintained his focus, maintained his linearity, continued to go without vital nourishments needed to maintain continuity on the life of this planet  while the outside world engulfed him like pebbles to a sea.    
The sixth chakra notched on our lotus ladder to enlightenment in known as Ajna. It is located at the third eye, the frontal, lobe, the area of the brain where choices are mediated and actuated. The awakening of the frontal lobe has mystified the scope of our species for centuries. Something happens when our thinking is shifted towards the periphery of neurological consciousness. It altars our ability to intuit the world in a different perspective—it heightens are awareness to ontologically capture the scope of this planet in a new way.
Whether it’s the heralding a chunk of middle-eastern stone pelting the forehead of David’ Goliath, ushering an era of Old testament Kings,  the sight of Indian maiden adorning the center of her eyebrows with an unblinking bindi or even Harry Potter coming to the realization that he’s some sort of unbidden wizard via the serrated lightening slash located in the center of his brow, astute concentration on the frontal lobe significantly connotes the  harbinger of change often presaging epiphanic waves of enlightenment.
When the frontal lobe starts to jism, something monumental is about ready to come.
It was Valentines day 1997. I was a freshman at ICC, monopolizing the interim between  classes wading in the circuitous parabolic russet  mandala of the campus (those of you familiar with the architectural semblance of ICC are well familiar that the main East Peoria campus is configured like the shaved bulb of a brick question mark—all the classes are arrayed on an arched slant). Four months earlier (decades when you are all of nineteen) I was poet and I left, spent the thousand dollars I had accumulated from a lifetime of working menial jobs plus a 500 dollar literary scholarship and flew to be with the woman of dreams. This was October 96 and it didn’t workout. I returned home, and, like David Blaine, locked myself in a room for two weeks and wrote, slicing up sheaths of pages I had scribed poems of longing, welding them via staccato taps into the pregnant monitor of my father’s 94 apple computer, saving the literary manna on a floppy that looked like a flattened tampon, printing out the poems (40 or so) as if watching my new born enter the planet through the fumbling slit of the printer before taking the manuscript and stowing it in a Doc Marten shoebox in the back of my post-teenage bedroom closet.   

Four months later, close to Valentines Day, I thought about the creature I had given it all up for months before and the poems she had given me. I was 19, I wouldn’t be able to drink legally for another year and half. Somehow I had gotten ahold of two 24 oz. bottles of beer. One was the emerald esophageal neck of Rolling Rock, the other was Dundee Honey Brown. I have no recollection I procured these two relics, only I go then sometime in early December and that sat, burrowed in the back of my closet, next to my manuscript for almost two months, when I drank then while watching the original Before Sunrise thinking about her.  
I was 19 and much in the similar manner in which I have been fumbling around my house because of lack of food, fumbled around the house of my childhood. I never would have fathomed that ten years later I would have been drinking the equivalent of ten (plus) times the amount of beer per day than I imbibed that night while watching Before Sunrise, trying somehow to heal the welts of loss that still stung with hurt inside my chest using alcohol as my gauze to sop up all the pain.

I thought about that Valentine’s Day 19 years ago  as I stumbled around the kitchen and, after almost six days, bartered my Bodhi quest for enlightenment for a 50 calorie bowl of soup and a scoop of peanut. At first my body didn’t seem to know what to do with the nutrients. I remember when David Blaine finished his fast it was stated that the ‘re-feeding’ process was just as lethal as the fasting process since his body might not know what to do with the food and have to learn how to break down and digest nutrients all over again.

While slurping the sound and then dishing out peanut butter like barreled ice cream I was astounded that I didn’t feel any blood branch and stream across the lower whittled paunch of my stomach. The moment I sipped the 50 calorie bowl of Vegan friendly tomato and squash soup all the blood seemed to sprint, up into the pyramidal bowling-pin pinnacle of my body, up to my frontal lobe, up to the area of  chakra consciousness I was too busy to straggling around the house to meditate over today. It seemed like my third eye was serving as a sort of lighthouse, informing the rest of my body what to do with the tithe it had received after being forsaken for so long.   

Early Valentine’s day morning my mom was taking me back to my apartment in West Peoria. There is always Christian radio blaring in my mom’s house and in her vehicle. A pastor was talking about ‘idolatry’ and mom asked me if I thought alcohol might be mine, the thing in this life I chose to venerate and worship.

I thought about idolatry. Thought about the quote from Don Delillo’s Great Jones Street ( a novel the writer has disowned but which deserves to be read more) about how in a ten thousand years after sifting through the dregs of a nuclear detritus what passes for our homo-sapien ancestors will discover our civilization and be nonplussed by the items they find once they scale our abodes.

“They’ll go into every house and think that television is our God.” I tell my mom and propounded my theory, “And that we had Gods with names like Sony and Zenith and that we communicated with them via a flat rectangular plate adorning the center of our domicile. They will think we worshiped that God as an idol. That we spent all day fasting in front of it, praying, hoping it will ass meaning to our short period we find ourselves abiding in this time and place called now.”

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