Archive for September, 2010

Chapter 44. I Believe I’m In Love With Both Of You.

Chapter 44

I Believe I’m In Love With Both Of You.

That joyous day of manful meditation put me on some kind of a big time open the doors of the Aron Kodesh (the cabinets where the holy books are kept at temple), you have moved to the next level, onward and upward hot damn manful spiritual roll.  I couldn’t wait to hit the mancave again the next morning for another session of MM.

Following the departure of she who is usually gone by 8 but who had left that day by 7:15 after downing her traditional breakfast of a big strong cup of coffee (with milk), some crackers and some cheese I was ready to rock and roll.  And no, I couldn’t survive on that diet either, but somehow she does it day in day out, claiming it keeps her skinny.  I certainly enjoy the results.

My early in the day (hey it wasn’t even 8 yet) enthusiasm for another MM session surprised me, but maybe it shouldn’t have considering the wonderful subject matter at hand. So I made a quick breakfast of a lightly toasted sesame bagel covered with cheddar cheese and tomato salsa and wondered gleefully about where my bubbling subconscious would guide my deepest male thoughts today.  What feminine beauty awaits me?

I consecrated myself with a second dark sweet black double espresso and headed to the mancave.  Once there I planted myself on the cushin’ so quickly that I kind of tweaked my left knee, light pain but manageable. But I didn’t care and immediately closed my eyes.  Deep down I knew what I am going to meditate about and as such there was little doubt about the result that followed.

The choice of subject was so easy.  The next segment of this manful meditation journey began with a riddle that I asked myself:

‘Riddle me this oh Zen joker:  When is a pear not a pear? A melon not a melon?  When?’

When I imagine the glory of a beautiful female breast, that is when, I answered.

I smiled a Cheshire cat’s grin that wasn’t going to disappear.  I was ready to gaze upon the second great temple of a woman’s body, another test of manly concentration, skill and focus. A time to see what has been learned in my practice and how strong my dedication to contemplation is.  Time to go deep!

Sitting quietly now, I clear the mind, draw in my first couple of deep breaths and then boom, without warning and way way early in the process, boom, multiple images of countless breasts come showering into my mind like a flock of a thousand beautiful tropical birds swirling upwards into tall tropical banyan trees circling in vortex up and up towards a deep blue sky.  I am amazed.  There is no hesitation starting the engine today. I begin the meditation revving my personal engine over 4500 rpm and heading towards the redline.

The sheer variety of shapes, sizes and colors in the vision is awe-inspiring, almost staggering. There as many kinds of breasts as there are eyes and noses. Eventually this swirling visual parade of mammary glory slows and my vision clears and simplifies.  Now, they float above me in pairs cast against a bright blue imaginary sky, very Pythonesque. Some are large pendulous heavy and seemingly ripe as cantaloupes.  Others are tight and tiny with nipples poking straight out red as Bing cherries.  Many others are upturned and brown as fine leather.  In my mouth I taste the sweetness of a mejdool date and the hardness of the seed, I don’t know why. The mind should not be constrained here.  It wanders freely, this is not time to hold it back.

So many beautiful images come wandering into this meditation.  My mind moves back and forth alternately excited and wondering what will happen next. I don’t wait long, it is easy to go further.  I shoot for another perfect manful meditation moment and it comes easy.  I think of the instant that a beautifully formed breast peaks out from underneath a tight white cotton shirt or the instant when you reach behind her back and unhook her bra and they fall gloriously free in all of their beauty to look at and enjoy.

Now in my mind’s eye I reach out and touch them.  I remember how a particular pair that stand out in my memory felt.  And I honor the spirit of the first pair that I was lucky enough to get my hands on.  Better than I ever dreamed.

The rest of the meditation seems pretty easy.  The discipline in this exercise is keeping my manful monkey mind on the focus of exercise, i.e. her breasts and holding thoughts on that subject only.  It is hard to keep my mental hands from moving down her waist towards her stomach but somehow I do. It feels like hours pass in manful contemplation.

I am at total peace in blissful male harmony when I hear a faint voice calling out.  It is clearly female and she is singing.  It is wispy, high-pitched talented intelligent but girlish.  Where is this voice coming from?  What is she doing in the middle of my manful breast meditation?   Who is it?  Who is she?  It keeps going. Hey, I know this voice.  I see an image.  It is a pale tall wispy sort of blonde, freckles, blue eyes.  Is that Joni Mitchell?  It is! What song is she singing?  I know that one, it is from her Blue album, that sad disc of self-deprecating sensitive depression? What is she doing here? What the fuck is happening to my simple perfect MM world?

Then things begin to get weird but I do my best to follow the way and embrace the weirdness without getting lost in it and let me tell you, it ain’t easy.  I hear folksy acoustic guitars, choruses of female matriarchal voices, feel shades of depression, then responsibility and oh shit, now the visuals of the breasts are starting to really change. Gone are the objects of my inner desires.  Instead now I see maternity bras stuffed with breasts exploding with milk, swollen, red and painful.  I see images my wife feeding our children at home years and years ago.  Then I see sets of angry eyes and faces from women who resent being looked at boobs first when we stare too long and too hard. The Joni soundtrack doesn’t stop either, now she is riding her power, her jazz compositions, her Hejira the sounds of Wayne Shorter and Jaco Pastorius as they mix with her voice, her art, the strength of a woman in place and at peace who took the male sexual role and handed it right back as she saw fit.

Next I hear the collective voices of generations of Berkeley women telling me to respect their minds respect their minds in a repetitive chant. I feel the fear that our unbridled passion can bring when unchecked that leads to their resentment. I try to stop resenting the women that hate the love we feel for their bodies and try to understand them.

It keeps going. I see massive balloon like breast implants floating into the skies with strings attached to them, a series of light brown and beige oblong balloons surrounded by scores of flying floating push up bras that dance like flocks of sparrows. I realize that I hate what we have done to the purity of the female body.

I begin to tire. I search for a balance between the pain and the pleasure and eventually it comes to me and my mind goes silent again.  The complexities and anxieties disappear as I settle back down. Finally after an unknown amount of time spent in a silent recovery, I quietly and easily float out and open my eyes.  I am exhausted but happy.

That afternoon after my first bike ride this winter, taking advantage of a dry cold spell, I return to find a short email reply from the owner of the food business who I have been introduced to. He will be out of town, but has seen my resume and wants to talk sometime next month on his return.  That seems just fine.  He sounds strangely normal business like, focused.  It must be an act.

All of this inspires me to hit the kitchen hard and make dinner.  The afternoon passes quickly in a blur of chopping, mixing and cooking, white dog benefits from many falling bits of onions, cilantro and chicken that find their way to her table on the kitchen floor.  I am working on one of my favorite dishes, chicken enchiladas in a green tomatillo sauce.  The music is on, I am playing Jimmy Reed really really loud the blues dripping pre rock and roll open chords bounce off of the kitchen walls.  My mood is scarily upbeat.

While chopping the onion my mind goes back to the meditation.  It really is difficult for men to find balance in their relationships with women when it comes to the subject of attraction.   Women want men to be attracted to their bodies, that is a given, but not ‘too’ attracted.  We are asked to get excited about them but not to wolf whistle.  For the most part, it is expected that we will keep our feelings locked up until that private moment.  Maybe women can do this but for me, and I think most men, if you don’t keep the fire burning it goes out.   It is a tough balance to maintain when you have Chris Rock standing one shoulder talking to you about sex during marriage and Gloria Steinem on the other.  Lost in thought I am shocked to reality by pain in my index finger and see blood dripping onto the cutting board.  I have a nice sized nick and it is going to bleed for a long time.  Symbolic?  Who knows.  More than likely just an accident.

When she who does not come home early does come home on time, I kiss she who has not been kissed at the door for a long time the minute she walks in that door and hand her a dozen dark blue/purple closed stem Iris, her favorite.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asks after she takes the flowers.  Then she looks deeply in my eyes.  Maybe be she sees something different in there.  Maybe it is my suddenly reborn testosterone level.

“Just what are you meditating about these days?” she asks.

I just smile.

How the hell did she know?

Chicken enchilada Verde for the lazy man

A quick hitter that makes you look good.

12 tortillas.

1 roasted rotisserie chicken (this saves lots of time and can be store bought).

1 pound grated jack or cheddar or mixed Mexican style cheese

1 onion

1 large or 2 small jars of green salsa of your choice

1 carton sour cream.

Frying pan and oil for frying.

Baking dish.

Chop the onion.  Sauté until brown.

Using your hands, strip the meat from the chicken.

If you are feeling normal, reserve the carcass for stock.  If lazy, throw it away.

In a pan heat oil.

Dip each tortilla and wait until soft.

Remove and fill with cheese, chicken and onions.

Roll into cigar shape and place in baking dish.

Repeat with all 12 tortillas.

Make sure you reserve enough cheese to put a layer over the tortillas.

Cover with green salsa.

Bake at 350 for 20 minutes or until cheese has begun to brown.

Remove and spoon sour cream on top.

Serve with beer, whole pinto beans and rice.

Random music to cook with while thinking of women.
Can’t touch this.  MC Hammer

Ebb Tide.  The Righteous Brother.

Big Balls or You shook me all night long.  AC/DC.

Oh, Pretty Woman.  Albert King.

Pretty Woman, Roy Orbison

Soul Sister, Alan Toussaint

Sexomtaic.  The Bar Keys.

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Chapter 43 The shape of the body of the Buddha’s girlfriend.

Chapter 43

The shape of the body of

the Buddha’s girlfriend

Having just finished two difficult and trying weeks meditating about my relationship with my mother and father I was absolutely exhausted.  But I knew that I wasn’t done with the two of them (is one ever?).  My meditations had focused on the two of them as individuals and I felt deep inside that something was missing.  I hadn’t taken the time to look at them as parents and as a couple.  So somewhat reluctantly, I took the first two days of the following week to meditate about my parents in tandem.  Not an easy subject on their own, combined together their eccentricities increased geometrically.

They were symbolic of their time, part of a generation that didn’t leave the house no matter how fucked up the circumstances of marriage were ‘for the sake of the kids’.  They may well have been right.  In any case, for this I am eternally grateful as I bear witness to the damage that the big ‘D’ has done to so many of the kids I have known and watch grow up over the years.   I can’t think of very many circumstances where I have heard one of the kids say hey, that was the right thing to do.  Even as they become kidults, after a D they wonder where their family lives went, what happened to their homes, their memories and their stuff.  Most of all they have to wonder why they weren’t important enough for the parents to stay in one house with them.

While our small stucco LA home was routinely filled with behavior that went well beyond the bizarre, I am glad they stayed together if not just for my sake.  I can’t imagine how my mom could have raised me by herself if they had split.  She had no ability to make money and grandma was still living with us. Who would have supported her?  And realistically, Dad’s legendary temper plus his Eastern European thirst for vengeance would have equaled total disaster for her and for me.  He would have hunted us down mercilessly and made our lives hell one way or another.

It’s not like they didn’t think about it.  In fact they got close to ending it. She even filed for divorce when I was 11. According to Mom, Dad broke down and cried on the court-house steps, begging for her to take him back just as they were ready to begin the hearing.  For better for worse she relented and withdrew the proceedings.  He never denied this even when pressed, which for him was tantamount to verification of its truth.  I can say this for sure, for the next year or so he was a changed man.  Yes, there is nothing like fear to put even a man like Dad on good behavior, opening doors for mom, smiling, taking out the garbage and never cursing.  Then, as one would expect, he gradually reverted to his old ways over time and they never mentioned the D word again. Unless he was threatening Mom for even thinking that she could leave him and get away with it before exacting another act of psychic revenge, smiling all the way (Dad having forgotten the courthouse details by now).

While they weren’t the greatest parents, despite their flaws and foibles, they covered the basics well.  Made sure I got to school on time every day and because we were Jewish, that I knew that failure to get good grades equaled failure in life.  We stuck close to our stereotype and that mean education education and then some more education on Saturdays.

What they never ever did, for reasons that have been inferred, was express any love of any sort in the household. Not to each other or to me or even to the pets.  Whether it was just the tempo of the times or not, the L word was never a popular one at our casa. Nor were they ever affectionate towards each other.  The only times I remember my father touching my mother were not expressions of love but of anger.

While these meditations weren’t pleasant, they were necessary.

On Tuesday morning, after finishing a second meditation about my parent’s relationship with each other and thus with me, I hit up the computer.  While scanning the emails, a good thing happened quite unexpectedly.  Mixed in with usual daily electronic crud was a note from a network acquaintance about a company that needed some help.  Not only that, they were in the food industry and in my old field of coffee to boot.

Good news right? Incredible opportunity!  Right!

I guess so.  I should have been so excited but when I read the email I felt nothing.  Months ago this would have sent me into a frenzied state of possibilities and imaginary scenarios.   Things had changed mightily since then.  I had learned a brutal but practical lesson during the Jesse the pickle debacle. (Note to self:  send a bill to that prick.) That bitter lesson was this: Do not mix personal emotions with your career.  While I read this email with interest and immediately replied, I now knew better than to fantasize about what might or might not happen.  Only time would tell and I didn’t have control over that.

In months past this would have been a time when I lapsed into another set of meditations about work and career and what it meant to me as was my natural tendency.  Make no mistake, I still missed work badly.  But I had hit the point where I couldn’t spend any more time thinking about it.  Yes it was fucked up, yes I wasn’t making money and yes, I felt emasculated by my inability to re-enter the work force.  At the same time I had done all I could to find work in the middle of a recession or otherwise.  This subject had so dominated my mindset and my life for the past year that I had to move on for the sake of my own sanity.  To change the very basis of my relationship with work so that it was not the all in all focus of my life.  I knew now that the process had already started just by living my life happily without working, something that I never ever thought might occur as long as I was still breathing.

In any case, the completion of the mom and dad meditations left me full of positive spirit.  I honestly enjoyed a sense of deep calm and accomplishment as well as a greater understanding of their lives and mine.  This was one of most fulfilling sets of meditations that I had attempted to date.  At the same time, I was also beat, it had taken a lot out of me to just to do so.

The heavy rains that had soaked us for the past few days broke that afternoon and that meant one thing and one thing only, I could get out of the house.  Along with meditation, dedicated exercise was the other pillar that held me together during those grey winter days.  I was ecstatic with the chance to walk up through the hills smelling wet sycamores and eucalyptus pulled along by the ever-powerful white dog tractorette on her red leash.

And finally, I was thrilled to have found this unique but highly effective meditation practice to keep me centered. The MM practice itself had gone through changes too.  Not just how well it worked for me now, no, there had been a fundamental shift that had just happened recently.  For the first time, I found myself consciously choosing the subject of a meditation instead of having these subconscious visions choose a path for me.

The realization that I was now in control, or sort of, set off a spasm of manful meditation possibilities as I walked along crushing a stray snail with my shoe.  What to do next?  Cars?  More sports?  Music from Ray Davies to Joe Strummer to Coltrane?  Beer?  Strange business experiences and bizarre bosses?  Gambling? Cooking?  What what what?  When I got home I took out a note pad and for the rest of the day I would jot down ideas as they came to me.  By the end of the day the list was long.

I was tempted to get started on something new but too tired to attempt a mediation doubleheader that day. I closed the afternoon with a gentle smile of anticipation that stuck with me all through the evening.  Even she is typically oblivious to my presence at dinner kept asking me why I am in such a great mood that evening.  I told her about the job lead.  That alone should be good enough to keep her off of the track.  Then I told her just how much I am enjoying my meditations these days and what good they are doing for me.  She got a brief synopsis of the mom/dad/son group and I was amazed by the power of her response.  She replied that I should keep pushing, how she never has confronted her own issues with such focus and how much she respects my work. Then she gave me a hug and kiss with her eyes open for once.  Not bad.

Later, after watching another pitiful GSW loss, when I was washing my face before going to bed, I reluctantly concluded that the small red bumpy thing that was on my nose really may well not be a zit.  I had been applying a variety of medications to it for months now and it just seemed to sit there, not big enough to worry about, but it wouldn’t go away. I made a note to myself to keep an eye on it.

When I awoke the next morning at 6 she who just loves to sleep was snoring lightly along side of me, relaxed blissed and blessed.  I looked over at her and studied the rise and fall of shoulders as they met her back bone, a movement that I knew so well.  As I watched her breathing in and out it dawned on me.  In one instant, one move of her back, I knew what was coming next.  A new and much more complex subject in the journey to find manful truth and understanding, something that I had been subconsciously waiting for since I made the decision to up the spiritual ante in my MM practice. The challenge of challenges, the Mt. Everest in the climb to a manful life. The holy grail of manful meditation that could only be found in a walk through the most treacherous of trails.  There could only be one topic like that.

Women.

Throughout breakfast I couldn’t wait to get back into the mancave and start up this meditation sequence.   Before doing so I paused and reflected.  I mean, what a situation.  Here I am getting ready to spend my morning thinking about women and she who is much purer than I believes that I am working on resolving longstanding and deep feelings I had about my mom and dad.  Shouldn’t I feel a bit guilty about what I am doing?

Nah.  I had done enough serous stuff already.  I was ready to enjoy a good hour or two thinking about women something I loved more than anything.  I was time to open the psychological door.

I began the meditation by recalling a historical lesson as taught by a great sage. The holy manful spirit James Brown often sang a hallowed chant of manfullness about women in a voice that was not of this life and time.  He sang these words of gospel truth accompanied by what eerily sounded like a string quartet behind him:

“This is man’s world.  This is a man’s world. But it wouldn’t be nothing, nothing (pause and drum tap) without a woman or a girl.”   Then he paused again, grunted and screamed as only a celestial visitor could, did a soul clap and uttered a loud ‘uh’.  From the holy pulpit of the Apollo theatre, he continued this blessed chant.

“Man needs a woman.  He got to have a woman.  Man, man can make everything he can.  But a woman makes a better man.”

What more can you say?  It is pure and it is right.

I took several minutes and meditated on this chant but at the same time I was careful not to think too much about his hair.  That mental image can distract even the most thoughtful and dedicated MM practitioner from the subject at hand.

With those timeless words I began the most complex set of meditations with an open and clear mind.  I was going to need it for this subject is a hallowed but often confusing ground to walk upon.  For men, women are the essence of the yin and yang of pleasure and pain wrapped into a web of often incomprehensible complex feelings merging seamlessly one into another.  Or as they said in the old days, can’t live with them, can’t live without them.

Summoning my courage, I take strength in one last reminder from the Holy soul brother number#1.  “A man that doesn’t have a woman is lost. “ Amen and uh to that.

There is an obvious question that needs be addressed as I begin this crucial work. Why didn’t I choose to meditate about she who is the most important woman in my life?  Shouldn’t that where my focus should be, gaining a better understanding of our relationship and our life together?  Of how much inspiration and perspiration I draw from our interactions?

Maybe.  But not right now.  First, I would have to deal with this question: What would I discover during these meditations if I focused just on her?  What did I really want to find out about our relationship?  Would I want to tell her?  And what could I tell her without causing a rise in her temper? And more importantly, was I ready to so?

That subject could wait for some other time. I was just plain whooped from thinking about the damage suffered in the Ma/Pa/Son triangle.  It was time to get off the serious MM work train and to try to have some fun.

Yes, there it was again, that three letter word fun that had been AWOL for many many years.  Just hearing the word sounded a so good.  Fun was a subject sorely lacking in my life (and that of most men in their 50’s) and in need of real emphasis to bring that life back into equilibrium.  I wanted to have fun. And what could be more fun then to spend some quality time gazing inwardly upon the beauty of a woman’s body?  That was the answer.  I wanted to get away from women’s minds and back to what interested us in the first place, their beauty.  Yes yes yes.

This manful meditation path offered me the opportunity to look upon some of the most revered visions that we have as men without the fear that walks hand in hand with our longing looks.  In other words, thank god women can’t read our minds, as much as they want to or think that the can.  They remain in our private lock box.  I wanted to let those feelings out to run free.

I can’t wait any longer so I move on in earnest now. I cross my legs, lower my breathing, close my eyes and begin to drift. Women women, where to start?  An idea begins to form out of the swirling mental clouds.  It is a vision of the glory of that most wondrous part of the female anatomy.  First one cheek, then another, then her whole beautiful tush rising from the mists in all of its spectacular glory, like some sort of anal sunrise missing only the beams of light yet illuminating my mind nonetheless.  My. I am in manful awe.

Throughout our daily lives, many manful moments are spent gazing longingly at this particularly glorious part of the female anatomy without the need for any additional internal clarity or focus. Indeed, asking a righteous man to meditate upon a woman’s butt is like asking an art student to dwell upon a sculpture like say  Michelangelo’s David.  A perfect woman’s ass is art, plain and simple.  Match.  Set.  Point.  Game over.**

**This meditation is dedicated with deepest respect to the high priest of the holy butt mediations, the revered “coronel” of Panama City who first shared this ancient manful mantra with me so many years ago driving out of David into the mountains of La Bouqette.

How many exquisite minutes are spent as our eyes followed a beautiful woman’s body as she walked on by and then up the street?  Countless. Yet there is a downside in our quest. Thank the spirits that they do not turn around to see the looks in our eyes or hear the thoughts in our minds as we say “Ay mama”.  Indeed, if they truly had eyes in the back of their heads the world would be a different place.  Our looks of longing tush love remain sadly misinterpreted and now, in our modern PC world, solidly out of place.

But enough philosophy, I want to focus on the subject at hand. What sort of butt is the one that I wish to meditate upon?  They are infinite. It might be that of someone I love, it might be one that I have admired from afar and will never touch.  Well, at least not with my hands, but I may have in my heart.   I wonder.

Then the meditation picks up power and energy.  I think of the butts that I have seen over the years and what creates such a perfect image.  Is it large?  Can you get your hands around it? Small?  Round?  Oblong?  How does it move?  Does it appear soft?  Hard?  Muscular?  Flabby? Tense?  Relaxed?  Does it shift from side to side or just stay there moving up and down up and down and then just ever so slightly begin to change direction?  I am overwhelmed with beauty and choice.

Over and over one word comes back into my mind as these butts hover in my mind’s eye. That word is perfect. I drill deeply into the meditation by imagining  a perfect butt.  And as with all of the meditations, beauty is truly in the mind of the beholder, there are as many women’s derrieres as there are men that will love them.

I come back to my breathing and slow it down. I continue on. What emotion does this particular butt carry?  Is it a happy butt?  Or is it sad?  Is it angry?  Loving?  Is it a butt that hates or one that cries out for attention?

What is this butt clothed in? G-string bikini underwear peeking out from a tight pair of jeans?  Bikini bottom? Black leather pants? And if women truly didn’t want men looking at their behinds why would they wear what the wear?  Who can blame even a chaste and pious soul for gazing longingly at true perfection?

I settle on the butt of dreams (hey, it’s my dream) and focus on it for a really really long time.  I let my third eye drink mightily from these cool waters and my id is refreshed.  I take it all in without fear that someone will be offended by my love.  I take my time, it’s my manful meditation and a butt that I love.  So I can stare at it as long as I want.  And best of all, no one can judge me.

Finally I see the barn and slow down. The meditation ends as my butt vision dissolves into soft white clouds and my imagination clears.  I come out of the meditation smiling, relaxed. The rest of my day is easy.  I read without distraction, walk with ease and stroke white dog’s belly over and over until she, in her way, says that is enough and leaves the room having overloaded emotionally shaking out her body with a series of violent but controlled twitches. I watch her and laugh.  Another emotionally stressed girl in the house.  It’s time for lunch.  Hold the phone, is that a tuna melt I hear calling me?

Songs of butt love:

This is Man’s World, James Brown.  Uh Uh Uh.

Da Butt, from the sound track, by E.U. (not to be confused with the  EEU either.)

Walk on By.  Isaac Hayes of course.

Shake it Baby, BB King

Spinal Tap, Big Bottom

Tuna Melt:

2 slices whole wheat

1 can tuna (preferably in water or quality olive oil)

1 pickle

1 tbp mayo

1 tbp curry

1 slice cheddar cheese

Heavy skillet

Butter to taste

Make tuna salad by draining can, putting in bowl and adding mayo, curry and cut up pickle.

Heat heavy skillet add butter to just before burning.  Place bread slices in skillet.  Place cheddar on one side.

Place tuna salad on other.

What until cheddar is melted and bread brown.

Remove from pan, combine, serve, devour.

Great with any side, from potato salad to chips to cole slaw.


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