The subtle nuances of online interaction are among the things that plum evade me. I’m much better at face to face communication. Of course I’m not great at it, either. Probably that’s because I so frequently say things that cause peoples’ jaws to drop, and I can’t see that online. What I do in person is calculate the time it takes for the first mandibular malfunction divided by the frequency with which they occur to give me a gauge by which to moderate my mouth in any given social situation.
That and I can get a much better feel for folks in person. While I can see traces of auras now and again, I’ve always been much more tuned into and turned on by resonance frequency. Vibes.
Some folks have strong vibes, some pretty weak. The most overwhelming I’ve ever encountered have been creepy sicko repugnant vibes, vibes that say ewwww, go away, but they’re rare. I’ve encountered some that made me feel so mellow I just wanted to just curl up in that person’s arms and go to sleep, motherly vibes of pure nurture. Some folks kick off vibes of intimidation, others fear, others pure love. Some folks are pretty hateful, some so false as to be opaque. I’ve seen death in a face or two. My bullshit detector is typically pretty spot on, and my tolerance for unicorn farts is pretty low, even those purified by sage.
I set out to meet the Enlightened. Sedona was out, what with the unemployment and all, although the heart shaped stone that the Ghost there had given me previously did call out to me before I hit the road and insist to be taken along. The inanimate of the space that held me had been speaking up since the Solstice Ceremony.
First the Shaman’s hit man, a ’40’s vintage male, a beast I know well. What the heck, I could throw two stones at one bird and visit the town of my birth and my ’40’s vintage male brother while I was at it. The Shaman was hanging out with the Quakers, our father’s people.
Indeed, I recognized him, saw him at the disco back in the ’70’s in my mind’s eye. While I wasn’t sure he spoke the Gospel, I could see the spirit of the Ayahuasca within him. I also saw someone else I’d met before, both in person and along the yellow brick road of cyberspace, the Transcendental Economist. He was a youngster, adorable in his sweatpants and Hawaiian print shirt, sharp as an intellectual icicle and warm as a St. Bernard rescue dog. He got me thinking about TM, even gave me a kiss on the cheek in the snow. Om. Om my goodness. I’m so glad I got thinking about TM, but we’ve miles to go before we transcend.
The Shaman’s hit man was an honorable one, and his mission for Gaia. I already understood the shapeshifting he spoke of, so moved on to the bro.
Finding Mt. Holly was easy enough; finding the Bro’s house not so much. Lacking GPS and having put the wrong number into the cell phone I didn’t really know how to use, I ended up not getting to visit the place of my birth, but instead repeatedly propositioned by a friendly wrong number whilst he helped me find my way to Medford Lakes.
“Hey. I’m near Mount Holly but can’t figure out how to get to your place. I’m right near 70.” I thought it was my brother who had answered the phone.
“Cool, come on over. I’ve got some cold beer and the hot tub is on.” He sounded pretty buzzed.
“You sound nice. If you’re right by 70 in Mt. Holly, you’re right down the street. Why don’t you come over?” He actually sounded pretty nice, too. It had been a long weekend and a cold beer and a hot tub sounded just fine. Of course it was probably Budweiser and I didn’t drink any more. Ah well.
“I take it I have a wrong number.” It had dawned on me.
“Who are you looking for?”
“My brother. He’s in Medford Lakes. Can you tell me how to get to Medford Lakes?”
“You don’t want to go to Medford Lakes, why don’t you come over here?”
“Okay.” He proceeded to give me directions. I proceeded to screw up, so I had to call him back a couple of times. He was really nice about it. He had good vibes. He asked me if I’d talk dirty to him, so I told him about soil texture and structure. He hung up on me.
Luckily, I’d found the house, or at least the town. From there it was easy.
We had a nice visit, chatted about weed and poppies. I’d been weed deprived for most of the weekend, and since the bro’s feminine overseer wasn’t aware of his little dalliances with Mary Jane, the dream machine was cranking away in high gear as I settled into the strange bed for the night.
I found myself walking.
The Emerald City of Enlightenment was up ahead, just across a poppy field. I had on a ridiculous dress, with an apron, and the worst shoes in the world for walking across such dense vegetation. A crappy little dog kept humping my leg.The chiggers, no see-ums, all jaws, whatever they call them in the land of Oz, had embedded themselves along every line of elastic and within every folded crease of skin on my body. I was so happy to not have balls. There were people all over the field, all of us seeking Enlightenment. Some were crawling, others moaning or laughing, still others had on really hip jogging apparel and were running, albeit in slow motion. Poppies will do that.
The Hippie was sitting in the field watching bees, saying “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know….” over and over and over again.
The Dragon was watching as a woman in full armor, wielding an axe, pruned the trees of the field with expert horticultural precision, using kung fu and tai chi moves in rapid fire combination. One couldn’t even tell they’d been pruned. She had a Jägermeister logo on her pyrex funnel hat with a satellite dish connected to it. The Dragon smiled and waved at me before burning the brush pile the arborist had made.
“Winter is coming.” He said.
Lion was watching from a rocky outcrop above. The lion king had come of age. Parenthood would do that to a person.
“Poppies aren’t the answer you know.” He was a pretty courageous guy. He’d seen Godzilla, and even the King of the Jungle knows not to mess around with the stuff of the Blue Oyster Cult.
“I know. I’ve been thinking about TM. Of course, it’s very expensive.” I sighed.
“That’s the point.” He was licking his paw, grooming his mane. It really was fabulous.
“Being expensive?” I was shocked.
“Of course. You know how to meditate, don’t you?” His cub had shown up and was chasing his tail as he flicked it around.
“Well, yeah. Sit down and shut up.” And indeed, I was good at it, liked it a lot, it was really valuable. I just didn’t do it as often as I should.
“Well?” When the sages start spouting words of wisdom, I like to listen.
“If you paid someone $960 for a ritual and a mantra and lessons in how to do what you already know how to do, would you do it?”
“Of course!” Frugality is my middle name. Well, one of them, I have lots of them, some not very nice.
“Okay. I see what you mean about the poppies, these people all seem to be asleep! I wish it would snow.”
I woke up.
After I got back home I paid the money for the ritual and the mantra and lessons in how to do what I already knew how to do. It worked. I love my mantra, I won’t tell you what it is, it’s secret. I loved my ritual. I love my TM.
It started to snow, and it snowed for eight feet, but as my mind opened up, the noise of the snow became something else, each pixel of interference a unique and beautiful crystal reflecting the light of winter. Patti Smith rocked me, and suddenly I knew that it would never end. Transcend, transcend.
Ain’t it Strange?
Linda Brooke Stabler, Ph.D.