Tag Archives: meditation

Mastering the Art of Tantric for the Lonely and Confused

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 art by mike shinoda

Happy autumn daze, my precious kittens, fleeting fuckboys, and annoying mosquitoes! I will miss scratching all of your bites when I’m holed inside hibernating in the winter. Last night was a lovely porch night with the neighbours on the eve of the Blood Moon which is very exciting for those of us whose serotonin levels are lunar activated, definite mojo overload for this old prowling wolfmilf.  I have de-activated the Tinder app from my phone, so I have no immediate tangible outlet for my howling ways, but that’s okay, I can wait. It turns out I AM too old for the pell-mell, willy-nillyness that is modern day hook up culture. I am a woman of substance so I’m sticking old fashioned courtship techniques like social media cyber stalking and prolonged sexting. And sending photos of fragmented body parts using the classic filters from iOS7.

Last night’s porch life activity included the neighbours making me try some vegan cheese. I’m all cool and even sometimes interested with their lifestyle choice of replacing  hunks of juicy deliciousness (meat!)  with dried up flakes of ever-so-slight saltiness (nutritional yeast LOL!) but please don’t call coconut bacon “bacon” when it’s just dehydrated coconut dipped in liquid smoke. That is not simply a misnomer, it’s an insult to pork and no, carnivores do not feel “more comfortable” sitting around a picnic table while you call your processed GMO manipulated-man titty inducing soy product patty imposter a “burger.” Call it what it is: Dust.

Anyhoo, I didn’t really want to try the “cheese” because I knew it would be, at best, meh and these days if I want to fill my holes, what I put in better be more than just good, it better be amazing. But Colleen was all like “Try the cheese, Peterson” and had it spread on a bagel and waved it in my face and so I did, I ate it,  and I was right,  it was “okay,” I declared diplomatically but thinking: What is wrong with their taste palates? “You’ll get used to it!” she said sensing my disdain only because she was masking hers. I think those were the exact words Diana heard when she married Prince Charles. I don’t want to “get used to” anything. I want to be blown away by the beauty and wonder of the world and allow the splendour to flow through me and bestow on me enlightenment beyond my expectations and send me to another stratosphere that gets me closer to that higher place where the fear of death is placated by the divinity of stuffing  fondue or buttermilk brined fried chicken into my pie hole, is that too much to ask?

Last week I ate a triple cream brie ACTUAL fucking cheese made by monks in Burgundy, France.  Their repressed sexual energy is most probably hard-core pumped into everything they make like all that wine and bread and cheese they’re famous for, which is basically my own personal 3 food groups. Try playing the game of “Fuck, Marry, Kill” with wine, bread, and cheese. I just can’t do it. Every time I try, I get confused and I feel bad that if I married wine, I would cheat with beer sometimes, like every day probably, who’s kidding who. I’d probably be okay with killing bread because carbs but still really want to fuck a baguette on most days in a threesome with the cheese, obviously. What a quagmire. Anyway, eating this triple cream brie was like sucking on the teat of a benevolent deity whose multitude of arms coddled me, stroked my forehead, soothed inner child, made everything okay, and even fiddled with my ears (you know I like that)  while whispering “I love you.”  It was, indeed, a splendorous experience. Eating that “vegan cheese” was like eating a bagel that was moistened with something to make it go down easier. Do not call it cheese, it is merely “emotionally distant non-committal white spread for bread.”  But! The moon was almost full so I could forget what I ate and focus on the other holes.

So when the wine ran out and we all went inside to our respective digs, engulfing ourselves with the blue haze of the tv screens for cold comfort. Peeps, I need a new show to obsess over, fire me some suggestions, winter is coming, but don’t say “Game of Thrones” unless you’re willing to come over and pin me down because I get all antsy watching that shit, I’ve tried.

Lately I like to lay in the quiet dark and “meditate” or whatever euphemism makes you vegans comfortable. Carnivores tho, psssst: I’m tenderizing veal cutlets;). So yes, I was in the dark and I got a text from a friend whose meat and cheese would most probably make a mighty fine sandwich and I’m  thinking…long…. and hard about it.  Anyway, his message was non-sensical to moi, something random about “meditating” which was weirdly serendipitous because that is what exactly I was doing, and then he wrote back immediately before I could change hands, “oh sorry that wasn’t for you” and then he explained he was talking to some “friend” about tantric sexual practises. Whoa, what? Is it 1998?  His misfired text got my attention though. What exactly is this tantric practise anyway? I kind of missed the boat on that trend when I was busy breastfeeding babies and wiping toddler butts. I was way too lazy to google it but he said some kind of thing couples did instead of boning without touching each other. I know right? SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING VEGANS WOULD DO TO AVOID GETTING GREASY. I fell asleep just thinking about it.

So this morning I woke up all refreshed and ready to start a new day of same old repressed sexual energy coursing through all my chakras and busting at the seams as per usual, I decided to google this tantric tomfoolery. I got to the wiki page which defines tantra as “an Asian tradition of beliefs and meditation and ritual practices that seeks to channel the divine energy of the macrocosm or godhead into the human microcosm in order to attain siddhis and moksha.” Yeah, okay, so where does Sting and his 7-hour boner come into it?

Well, scrolling further down the pages of Google I found out that  apparently channelling all your sexual energy and letting it simmer and steep rather than explode in the normal 3 minutes or less, let’s not kid ourselves, actually heightens intimacy! Longer is better, yo!  Of course, this is only useful if you have a partner but between you and me, show me a couple practising the tantra and I will show you an exercise in full blown mind numbing boredom. All that staring and breathing and intertwining without penetration is unsustainable. Dollars for donuts one of you is thinking about renovating the kitchen and the other is contemplating murder. You know I’m right.

Anyway, you actually don’t really need a partner to practice tantric energy. It turns out I’ve been doing this all along in every day situations, I just did not know what it was.  I liked this 4 easy steps guide and modified it for every day people who are single or enjoy vegan cheese:

1. Design and “Intimacy Space.” I think this is super important. In my opinion, your whole home should be a place that is a haven from the rest of the world, whether you bone in it or not. Once in a while I will go to a friend’s house with whom  drinking shots out of each other’s belly buttons turned into an invitation for wine and cheese and bread and I walk into their crib and I think: “Who the fuck lives here, your grandma?” And yes, once this guy actually did live with his grandma but what I mean is don’t decorate your house like you think it should be like, all pristine and with a couch that looks like it’s wearing a back brace accessorized with cushions that have decorative beadwork and feathers that you can’t drool on. You should be able to fuck recklessly on every piece of furniture in your space or at least practice twerking on every piece of furniture in your space. Otherwise what is the point of “home?” Or intimacy, especially, if you have a piece of furniture called a hutch or curiosity cabinet filled with Royal Doulton figurines. Boner killer. Tantric panic button.

2. Breathe Each Other’s Breath. What? I don’t want to do this with anybody either. One person breathes out, the other breathes it in? Ugh. No. I breathe really fast and shallow cuz my heart is like hummingbird and I don’t want to know what someone else had for lunch, breakfast, or how many creams in their coffee, this is a mess. I modified this tantric energy exercise though for normal people with boundaries. I like to spin with my one of my best buddies, JHo. We park ourselves on bikes side by side and she’ll all dressed to go, full of piss and Balsamic vinaigrette and ready hit the 20 mark, and I’m like, slow mo, no, Ho,  I don’t go 20 but she is YES, BITCH! Put it on 20! So I put it on 21  just to be the top in our symbiotic energy flow system. I also match my pedal stroke to hers and we to ride stupid songs like “Shut Up and Dance,” we both feel the hatred together which binds us as one sweaty unit. I breathe, and I’m pretty sure she is breathing.  We’re 2 feet apart,with the fan blowing, sucking on each other’s oxygen waste, but not on purpose. Good enough, tantric task master!  Xoxoxoxoxox, JHo!

3. Keep Your Eyes Open.  This means you need to gaze into each other’s eyes and let the energy flow through one another. Again, no. Last time I locked eyes with a dude in an intimate moment, he took it as a signal to put his hands around my throat and throttle away just enough for me to stop that shit and knuckle punch him in his Lumberjerkoff beard. Who knew this was a commonplace hipster sex move? I did not! And! as a consequence I’m still apprehensive about venturing west of the Don Valley. If ever I had a proper dude for staring all soulfully and tantra-like eyes to eyes, I would probably make sure we were both wearing those Bioré pores strips across the bridge of our noses so we wouldn’t get distracted counting each other’s blackheads. Until this happens, I sometimes lay on my back with Betty the dog on my chest and she and I gaze into each other’s souls while I pet her soft furry head. Her big black eyes are so attentive and she looks at me like she thinks I’m pretty, it’s as though we are connected with tantric energy in the purest form. This is what we are thinking:

Me: “Oh, Betty, you are such and exquisite little animal. I love you so much, I want to squeeze you until all the cute comes out, you are so scrumptious, I want to eat you up!”(I am such a carnivore)

Betty: “Cheese, bitch.”

4. Take It Slow.  Tinder fuckboys, take note, this makes sense. Tantric is all about foreplay even if it means grossing each other out and boring each other senseless with the breathing and staring but! there is definitely something to be said about taking your time and letting it all build up when there is mutual attraction. Like going on an actual date for dinner and drinks, then another date some other time where you do something “fun” like indoor rock climbing or mini golf, all devised to check out how the ass moves so you can decide whether or not book a third date, which is the crucial one.  Unless of course, on that first date, you’re both so hot for each other, you lock eyes, growl or snort, and you can barely make it to the bathroom where you mash it out in there. Fuck that tantric bullshit, that’s the stuff that’s makes for real cheese. Just wait for it.

Enjoy the full moon, y’all!

 

 

 

 

 

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A Hooker’s Guide to Riding the Waves

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I wish this was a real magazine, “The Art of Modern Living” …like Oprah’s “O” only with actual practical advice that you can really use such as how to hashtag your Instagram photos for maximum likeage, I fancy myself the nouveau poor-but-grew-up-without-incest-and-poverty version of Oprah.  I might not be able to give you a brand new Volkwagen Beetle but at least you won’t get a pair of sequin Uggs from me either. Ok, I know you would like a pair of sequin Uggs and so would I for my elegant dog walks with Betty who may or may not be just a ferret on steroids.  Who am I kidding? Oprah is the awesomest and the stuff she gives away is all the best shit, but in my magazine, I can only share with you what I’ve learned from my first world trials and tribulations (the hashtag would be #trialsandtribz). It would be way more entertaining than “O.”

I had an epiphany this week. Oprah would call it an “Aha moment” but since your with me, it was more like a WTFLOL moment.  And it’s not a complete and tangible realization but more like something that has been slowly gestating and is starting to spew forth from my brain to this blog. Please, bear with me!  Or if you can’t bear with me, beer with me…go crack one open, I’ll wait….It is about a spiritual journey, and I have been working through it for the past ten years ever so slowly, one step forward and then a nap, then drunken wino weekend, then a nap, then another step forward, then watching the entire three seasons of Downton Abbey, a Jays game, and another step forward…in other words, my little rudimentary “spiritual journey” is more on a par with an errand in to the corner store for some emergency Liquid Plumbr than an epic pilgrimage to the three corners of the Earth like that smug chick in “Eat, Pray, Love” JUST TO GET SOME JAVIER BARDEM BONE. I’m SO jelly.

Mine started like this:

I went to a Blue Jays Game.  Lorraine had an extra ticket to see the Jays play the Indians and asked me to come along with her family.  I was like, yes! I don’t know shit about baseball but who cares? A stadium full of testosterone is just what the doctor ordered and BEER ME! I can’t eat hotdogs, so I pre-ate beforehand, slapped on a Tena-pad because I am no dummy, and hopped on the streetcar to meet her.  The Queen streetcar, as much as I hate that slow-moving bitch in my motor vehicle (I am still doing the Downton Abbey accent), is a really soothing ride, kind of meditative if the other passengers aren’t sniffing glue and speaking in tongues. It put me in a good mood for the game. At the Rogers Centre, we had great seats and not only did Lorraine know ALL the words to the national anthem, she also knows everything about baseball and all its subtleties. I learned a thing or two that I have since forgotten but at least I know all the words to “Seven Nation Army.” In the 9th inning, because “we” were tied, the excitement of the crowd escalated to fever pitch and a wave ensued. “Whee!!!” squealed me, jumping up ( 5 sections too soon). Nobody loves a packed stadium wave more than me. I got the rhythm of it by the next round, don’t worry.

I am not always a crowd yahoo. A few years ago, when I was a real estate agent, my brokerage manager convinced to take a 3-day Mike Ferry seminar at the Convention Centre to learn better business practises in order to achieve SUCCESS! (Success is always in capital letters in real estate publications).  It took place in an auditorium of over a thousand other real estate agents with their hair and their outfits and their coffee and muffins, all talking shop amongst each other.  I sat in the very back with my hair and my outfit and my coffee and muffin, all alone and paralyzed with dread and fear. When Mike Ferry came prancing onto the stage with his Gwen Stefani headset, Jumbotron backdrop, the disco lights went on and out blasted “Y’all Ready For This?”  Everybody, and I mean every single person, bolted out of their seats and started dancing and clapping with the oh-so groovy beat.  I was mor-ti-fied. Cannot deal with forced jubilance. I got up alright…and bolted to the bathroom.  This ritual happened every morning and after every break. Fucking horrifying.

What’s the difference between me giddily hopping up performing a wave and singing The White Stripes at the top of my lungs at a baseball game or me cowering in a toilet stall to avoid a crowd of dancing realtors? One word: Mojo…or MOJO in capital letters. Sergio Santos, I would so hit that. Dude in a white shirt tucked into a pair of dress pants eating a muffin with a Blackberry in a belt holster, noooo. Not even drunk.

But the question is, does it take an entire stadium to get my MOJO`to flow? And the answer is no, I can do it all by myself. Here’s how:

I went to a guided meditation group at the library.  Sounds like a good time, right?  My daughter, Evangeline, who is 19 has had anxiety attacks for a few years. She gets into a state when she starts thinking about her own mortality in relation to the rest of the unknown universe. She fears her own death, and maybe Betty’s but not so much other people’s. For a few months she has been going to group meditation in order to control her emotions and cope with anxiety. I, too, have a simmering stir fry of anxiety triggers:  money, death, jobs, getting old, drying up, the future, loneliness, etc. They make pills for this sort of thing, I know, but I would rather learn to cope by myself. With a lot of people, anxiety and depression are a barf-awful couple like Brangelina but thankfully my anxiety is like moi, a lone wolf who might occasionally send out a sexy text message with a random body part attached. I can get the sadz alright but it only lasts a day. My anxiety needs to be on a short leash that’s for sure, otherwise fuck knows what disorder it might want to pick up for some good times.

The group meets on Monday and it’s free!  ‘Not everything you have to pay for, Mom,”  Righteous Teenage Daughter knows how to buck the system. Her boyfriend, Tamas, has also been going which is not surprising, he is a fascinating neo-hippie-type and I feel like he is a whole blog post on his own.  I thought it would be just three of us and the guide because bitch, please, meditation?…isn’t that seventies thing? But there were over twenty people in the room. And I’m not going to lie, the first thing I did was a scan of “who would I bone in a pinch?” It’s a game I play wherever I go and so do you, admit it. Why would you ever have to bone someone in a pinch?  In case the bomb dropped and you were the only survivors and had to propagate the species, duh. There were mostly women of various ages, a couple of young dudes like Tamas, but there was this one middle age man in a suit who stood out because demographically speaking, he was the one I would HAVE to bone in a pinch.  I kept my eye on him, just because he made me worried, he looked so incredibly sad. Or meh, I couldn’t tell which.

I learned a thing or two that I have been retaining because we got some handouts that I actually read and then googled. Our guide was a thirtysomething dude who had just been to INDIA on a spiritual pilgrimage, of course. He smiled a lot and had those kind of twinkly eyes that make you feel like surly, sarcastic drag-ass and that maybe you should lighten up a bit.

He told us this story of seeing an entire family: Father, kid,and mother holding a baby, all perched on a motor scooter, weaving through the traffic. Imagine all the tickets they would get if they were riding along Queen Street. We all laughed like what a bunch of crazy mofos in India, but then he explained that it was a culture of “collective fearlessness.” That is how they roll in India.  In our culture, he said, we are excellent communicators, what with all our cellphone texting. Isn’t that cute? I’m serious, sometimes you have to get tired of all these cellphone shaming memes you see on the Facebook, but he puts a positive spin on it. So tap, tap, tap, away, kittens, we are part of a collective power of excellent communicators!  Huzzah!

Then he guided us through a meditation exercise where we were sitting in a chair, both feet to the ground, we had to do some swirling around with our hands from our laps to the top of our heads, then tie a pretend bow, and then make a rainbow over our bodies. WTF for you ask? To bring awareness and create energy flow, don’t be so skeptical. The energy is Kundalini, which is Sanskrit fancy-pants for MOJO, hookers. And MOJO isn’t just about boner power, pervs, it’s the energy that guides the whole spirit. This energy flows through the seven chakras centres through the body, called the subtle system.  Is it Science? No, but not everything has to be “science” all the live long day, I’m looking at you Neil Degrasse Tyson. By the way, this energy flowing ritual is not unlike thousands of people performing a wave at a baseball game. Yes, it is.

Once you get your energy flowing though your chakras, which is not unlike UNCLOGGING A TOILET, you can close your eyes and achieve the state meditation. And what is that?  It’s like an emptiness, where you are calm and void of all emotions. Anxiety is emotional blockage and if you can calm yourself, by yourself SANS Ativan, you should be signing autographs in my opinion. Our guide says sometimes this state of meditation only lasts a moment and when you get good at it, you can go for an hour or more.  It takes awhile to achieve this so I’m gonna try if it kills me. At this point, I can’t really tell if I had any actual meditative moments or I am just thinking of a very boring thought. Also, the girl beside me and I were having duelling banjoes of stomach growling. Distracting! How can you ignore outside noise? This little grasshopper has much to learn! But even just being in a group with all the positive-style energy flowing, a packed stadium or a room in a library, is a powerful MOJO stimulant. I peaked a few times to check up on the man I would have to bone in a pinch and he still seemed to have the sadz or the mehs but maybe that was his default expression. Who knows what goes on inside a person?  Also worthy of note, is that during our meditation silence, one woman started to cry in big, greasy sobs and then on a dime, it turned into laughter! THAT is one messed up set of chakras I would think.

My little epiphany? Don’t be such a goddamn hermit and find comfort in the collective energy of those who inspire you to NOT hide in a bathroom stall. Don’t be afraid to ride the waves!  Go, little elephant, go!

elephant in the waves