These are times of great chaos. Have you noticed? We are in the throes of entropy. It is not the end of the world, but the end of the world as we know it. 2012 was the
turning point. The old guard is
dying. The new guard, people who respect
the planet, themselves and each other, is growing in awareness, numbers and
power. The new power is over self, it is
not about dominance over others. It is
about mastery. It is the end of an era, the dark ages, or Kali Yuga, according to the Hindus, represented
by a 26,000 year cycle.
I don’t need to point out the madness in the news, the
government created mass-hysteria relating to “terrorism” (the deep state is
master and initiator of that game) world war III, you name it. There are plenty of Chicken Littles buying
all this crap hook line and sinker. Prudent folk stay centered and remain the voice of reason. And hold the line for peace. But the chaotic energy is clear to see all around in peoples' discordant behavior in New York City, and the world.
I observe the good, the bad and the ugly while endeavoring to
maintain my center. It's really a form of abdominal strength. How do you maintain your balance? Even when I do not
hold a peaceful core, I never act out in discord. I mull over the incidents and try to
make sense of them all. And to laugh, whenever
possible.
My building has a newly refurbished rooftop deck of which many residents are quite proud. I’m not as impressed
with it as the others, but I checked out what all the fuss was about,
especially when I heard a family of birds was living up there and causing a
ruckus. They had babies, and were dive-bombing
the residents to protect their young.
I learned of this from one of the residents who had helped
to decorate the roof. He said, “I pay to live here! They don’t!” Oh lord.
Entitlement. Exactly what has
ruined so much of our environment. No
respect for Mother Nature and the right of other species to even exist, let
alone thrive.
I was un-amused by his comment.
I went upstairs to behold a hand-written warning:
“Watch out! There is
a family of birds living on the roof. These
birds are NOT NICE! They have been known
to attack people. Be careful!”
Not nice? I could say
that about half the population in my apartment building. Surly,
impatient, cell-phone obsessed folk. Too bad it wasn't a killer rabbit up there.
Wildlife services was called to have the bird’s nest
removed. While sad, I was relieved by
the fact that they were not being forcibly removed by some animal hating person
in my building, and that my friend, another animal loving person, and I were
not attacked by the birds when we were alone on the roof one balmy summer
night. I figured the people that the
birds attacked deserved it. I asked the
building management if they knew where the birds were being relocated to. She didn’t know, only that wildlife services
was coming in a few days.
I found out that when the wildlife team arrived, the
whole family of birds was dead. An
obvious case of murder, most likely poisoning.
This saddened me greatly. And
pissed me off. Everyone knew the birds
were being relocated. They couldn't wait a few more days? But some thug, and
I’m thinking it’s more likely someone who lives here than works here, had to kill a small mother and her babies? These
weren’t eagles or crows. Apparently the
birds hadn’t paid their rent. Animals
don’t pay to live anywhere. Except with
their lives. Shameful.
“That’s it?” said a
very skinny (okay, anorexic) woman in her 50s who not only goes to my gym, but
is there all the time, while she
primped at the mirror and I roughly dried my hair. I assumed she was referring to my abbreviated
beauty regime. While many gals weigh themselves, dress up and paint their faces
while still at the gym, I steam, shower, dry off and get out. I take class daily at my gym. This gal not only takes classes daily, but
she’s on the machines before and
after classes. I have seen her morning
and night on the same day. As I mentioned, she’s anorexic. She always spreads
out an array of diet beverages on the vanity counter of our gym while she’s
coiffing, like a bartender doing her hair.
I responded to her vague “That’s it?” with a simple, “I keep
it simple.” She asked me the same
question again weeks later while I was drying my hair. Huh? What’s she getting at? Is she insinuating that I should groom more thoroughly? I said, “just a little more drying!” What did
she want me to do, use a crimping iron and do a skin peel?
“No,” she elucidated. “I mean, that’s it for the gym?”
Now, I think going to class seven days a week is pretty darn good, and I
do it because it feels terrific to be vigorously active again after many years
of being totally sedentary. My body is reveling
in its liberation, like a dog let out to run. Did she want me to extol
her for being perpetually in motion? Was she parading her anorexic zeal, or insulting me by suggesting
that I could benefit from some of the same?
I have no answer.
“One of these motherfuckahs is gonna have to get up! My
ankle hurts!” An obvious lie from the boisterous ruffian. A group of teenaged girls
(okay, a gang) stormed my crowded bus like a tornado, a sound and energy burst
of anger, volume and offense. One of
them started lighting matches. Another
shouted out the window and slammed another group of teenaged girls on the
street, calling them “ugly bitches”. Frankly, the girls on the street were a better
looking crowd than the gang on the bus. The girls on the sidewalk made "What? WHATEVER," faces, but took the high road and ignored the taunts. This group of (six? eight?) girls surrounded me. They made noise enough for ten.
If you looked at them the wrong way, they yelled at you. People were getting off the bus left right
and center in disgust and fear. I was cornered by two of
them, a big girl right next to me who had turned her back to me, but whose
fleshy bottom was right up in my air space.
Seated on her lap was the tiny girl lighting matches, who jumped off the
bus when the driver made an announcement about taking the bus out of service until they stopped, then jumped back
on again like a merry go round through another door before the bus pulled out.
A tough looking Latino had gotten on the bus when I did. While in tight shape, he was quite diminutive in both height and weight. He was wearing a
wife beater, and had two tear tattoos dripping from his left eye. I knew they signified either how many people
he’d killed or how many times he’d been in jail. Something on that order. He seemed pretty
edgy (on drugs?) was talking to himself, and sat directly behind me. Even he got off
the bus after the girls appropriated the local real estate. Those girls could have eaten him alive in
seconds like piranhas.
I was staying as calm as possible, wanting to protect my
space, my person, and my small dog, who was in my lap. I saw a strong young man get up to leave, one
who had actually sacrificed his seat to the girl who claimed her ankle hurt
(Why he did that I don’t know. Maybe just to get away from them.). When I saw him get up I felt the internal nudge,
“go now.” It was a stop before mine, but
I liked his energy and wanted to join him.
If I could get past the human hurdle to my left. What if tough girl wouldn’t let me out? She was particularly nasty, and these wildcats were all
gunning for fights.
I said, “excuse me.”
She looked at me out of the corner of her eye and glowered. She talked to the girl on her lap who looked
and said, “You’re getting out?” I
nodded. I gently touched my hand to the shoulder
of the girl next to me. She
exploded. “Don’t you touch me! You don’t
know me!” I didn’t respond, just
continued on my way up and out. The
little one who’d lit the matches had a soft spot for my pup. “Don’t mess with
her, she has a dog!” The little one
said, “God Bless You” and blew me a kiss.
This was suspect, perhaps taunting and teasing, but I decided to play
along with her.
I repeated her words, and her gesture. I looked at all of her friends. The big one next to me, who was quite
beautiful, really, but full of hatred, continued to glower at me. I said goodbye to them. The little one said, “God bless you” again, then
blew me two kisses this time. It’s possible she was just messing with me and
was about to shout out “nah ha!” I smiled, turned and left.
When I got off the bus with my dog, both of us unscathed, I sighed a breath of relief. The tension on the long, packed bus was palpable. These girls had polluted an entire vehicle with their rowdy and belligerent behavior. As I walked up the street, claiming my peace of mind again, the bus driver honked and waved the peace
sign at me as he zoomed by. This was a huge bus and
I was all the way in the back. How did
he know who I was?
Even with a surveillance camera, he was busy zipping through traffic while keeping a scant ear and eye on the gaggle of horrific hooligans. I
was touched by his acknowledgement. I smiled, peace-signed and waved back at him. A compadre.
My gym supplies deodorant spray, hair gel, hair spray and
moisturizer in the ladies locker room.
The generic containers are identical. Some of the products look the same, but you can tell the liquid deodorant (which has a spray pump) from the hair gel (which has
a pump dispenser). The moisturizer is
white, so that’s easy. Since the deodorant doesn’t spray but drips (it’s not a
great atomizer) I’ve taken to squirting some in my hand first, then applying
it to my armpit before rinsing my hands.
I noticed on a couple of days that the spray was thicker
than usual, and figured that the dispenser was clogged. Since it seemed like I was the only one using
it anyway, it was probably clogged from lack of use. One day my eyes casually fixed on what the
deodorant dispenser read: HAIRSPRAY. I’d been putting hairspray on my
armpits.
In my defense, both the deodorant and hairspray liquids are
yellow. In all fairness, my gym’s hairspray seemed to work about as well as the deodorant.
I’m not the first to do this. Divine (drag queen Glenn Milstead, star of
John Waters’ many films, including the masterpiece “Hairspray” (aptly named,
given my current topic, rather, confession) used hairspray liberally all over his body, including his face.
Divine was rather overweight. It was part of her “charm” and general
fabulousness. I read an interview where
she said she would open the refrigerator door at night and just pull up a
chair to chow down. This reminded me of a high school
pal who amusingly confessed that she had “raped the refrigerator” the previous night.
Because of Divine’s excess weight and over the top makeup, she
sweated profusely. In order to prevent
a downpour while performing, she used hairspray on her face and body to “set” her
skin. I don’t know if it worked, but it wouldn’t
be the first unhealthy thing Divine did to her body.
In related news, I received a sample of organic plantain
beeswax. It was golden, creamy and
seemed perfect to me (since it didn’t come with instructions) to use as a rich
under-eye cream. When I looked into
purchasing the full sized product I discovered it was an herbal chest rub for coughs. I’d been putting cough syrup on my eyes. Went right along with the hairspray in my
pits.
Also at the gym, I continue to assess (for current viability) my workout pants from
my previous bout of regular exercising years ago . I have a tendency to wear things to the
bitter end.
Today’s pair seemed to be holding up, unlike the pair I
tried on yesterday that went immediately into the giveaway bag. I went to the gym. At one point during sculpt class I noticed
that my inner right thigh seemed to be sagging.
Rather, the pants were, since my right thigh is solid. As is my left. Had the pants lost their elasticity?
As class progressed, I observed with mortification that
there was a distinct “lump” toward the back of my inner thigh. Something was stuck up there. Was it a sock?
Now, I’m in the front row, right by the mirror. There’s nothing I can do up here without
everybody seeing. Do I leave the
class? Nah, I bend over, swiftly reach
up my right pants leg and in one deft move pull out something silky and
black. Jesus Christ, underwear? This is totally embarrassing. I shove it quickly in my bag, which was right
by me. Eventually I discern that this is
a small black headband that was hanging on the doorknob I hung the pants on
last night.
I don’t have my head up my ass, but I do have a headband up
my pants.
I was in one of my building’s elevators which was dressed up
for “Halloween” as a service elevator since one of our three elevators will be
out of service until they update all of them, original since 1960. This upgrade will take at least eight months. Residents get testy since they have to wait
longer to exit the building, and the elevator cars are more crowded when they do (eventually) arrive, especially with all
the strollers, baby carriages, packages and luggage carts. But
most people understand. That’s just how
it is. I was in our front elevator (which
was still dressed up as the service elevator with padded walls for garbage removal,
move outs, repairs, etc., even though our regular service elevator was now back in service). A tiny Latino
man wearing a bright blue bike helmet was descending with me after delivering
food from a diner. We had a brief, pleasant
exchange initiated by me because I am generally pleasant, especially to the
class of people that are still treated like untouchables in this country. I look them in the eye and say hello. I acknowledge their existence as human
beings, not just “the help.”
A surly white lady (she is constantly complaining about
anything and everything) enters the elevator and immediately starts in on him.
“You know you’re supposed to take the
service elevator! This is the only elevator we have!” Poor downtrodden woman. What little “respectability” she has left in
this elevator padded to do garbage duty had been taken from her by the presence
of a diminutive man delivering food. She
wasn’t much taller than he, and weighed about four times as much. From what I know about her (the doormen talk)
all she does all day is order things online.
And bitch. Loudly. She receives
massive numbers of packages. Her life,
in fact, is dependent upon delivery
people. She returns almost as many
things as she buys, being perpetually displeased with everything.
She bore down on the poor fellow the whole ride down,
excoriating him relentlessly. My stomach was churning with anger at her, but
what to say?
I don’t generally “let it rip.” What could I say that would
be of use, that wouldn’t just initiate an ugly scream-fest? The door opened. He exited, she walked out next,
and I followed last.
“JESUS CHRIST!” I exclaimed loudly, inches behind her head. I was furious. She ignored my comment and proceeded to yell at the doorman,
repeating her tirade regarding proper service elevator usage by “the help.” The doorman replied, “the service elevator is
being used.” He was pleasant as could
be. What could he say, or do? The poor delivery guy stood there
frozen. I stood by his side,
energetically protecting him. I could
not believe the scene that was unfolding.
It was ugly on all counts.
I put my hand on his shoulder, and said, “go.” I remained pissed about the incident for
quite a while. “Why, I oughta….” Oughta what? I’m not afraid of her, I’m contemptuous of
her, but getting in a screaming match with a horrid person is not the answer
either. I’m just waiting to see her
again to see what will come out of my mouth if she steps out of line, even an
“Oh, just shut up!” might suffice. I felt more than a little like those rowdy girls on the bus spoiling for a fight when thinking about her.
Since I endeavor at all times to take the high road (even in
volatile situations, where I’m emotionally involved) I tried to process, and
understand, my anger. I was indignant on
behalf of the delivery guy. All the good
work I’d done to be a mensch was thrown out the window with her witchery. Maybe she and I just provided great examples of the spectrum of human behavior.
To help me process my anger I used a practice involving the
phrase “I am the Word,” meaning, I am the Word of God. “I am Word through…that fucking bitch.” You may not understand the sentiment, but it
was just what the doctor ordered. I
acknowledged what the human aspect of me thought and felt. But I also invoked the aspect of me that is
divine, and knows that she, in her essence, is divine, while acknowledging the
scum on the surface of her pond. In
time, I was able to calm down and begin to view her more neutrally, as a
desperately unhappy person who delights in taking her misery out on
others.
How do you process a scene like that? If it’s your drama, it’s one thing. If it’s someone else’s, do you get
involved? I got involved by invoking the
name of our Lord Jesus Christ (I’m not a Christian, so I mean that in a tongue
and cheek kind of way, but I do like J.C.).
I stood around protectively by the side of the poor beleaguered guy, a witness to what was unfolding. Hopefully he’ll remember that I was nice, swore
at her (sort of) and stuck around.
The doorman, a young black fellow, was also very nice. He could have yelled at the delivery guy and
pretended to play along with Massa. But
he can’t stand her, either. She’s got
filthy energy. Frankly, she should be
taking the service elevator, with the trash, down the chute with the bad eggs like Veruca Salt in
“Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory.” That thought made me
very happy.
“I am Word through my anger at her. I am Word through my anger. I am Word through that nasty woman and her
nasty temper. I am Word through my
temper.” As I continued to do this
throughout the afternoon, I continued to calm down, and could view her more
dispassionately.
I had smiled at her once.
She glowered at me in response. I haven’t
wasted a smile on her since. Being
nice to horrible people just pisses them off.
The bottom line is that hating her will neither help her,
nor me. If there is, in the future,
something more useful that I can vocalize in response to her rants other than
the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, I’ll be happy to.
I will explain again that my take on spirituality is not in denying the human aspect, either hers, or mine. I acknowledge that this woman
is virulently negative (some “spiritual” people would make excuses for her, and
I never do for people like that). And I admit that I was furious with her for being such a pig to
another human being who was quietly exiting the building, all 90 pounds of him,
just trying to make a living. However she became such a miserable excuse for
a human, no matter how “sad” her story, it remains an explanation only. It is no excuse for taking out her misery
on others and perpetuating the cycle of violence and abuse.
I was a witness, a participant of sorts. And the righteous indignation was all
mine. What do you do when you witness an
injustice? Some people take a knee at
football games. I like those
people. Some people sign petitions. I’m one of those people. Some people speak up. Others intervene, where there is the
potential for their getting hurt. There are many ways to react to things we wish were
different. Getting angry tells you
something is wrong. Something needs changing. There is action to be taken. Staying angry creates problems of its own.
A beautiful Shetland sheepdog and her young mistress walked
ahead of me on the street. Well behaved,
the Sheltie walked behind her mistress, and was not pulling on her leash. I think all Shelties are beautiful, but this
dog was particularly lovely. A truly graceful creature.
I complimented the owner on her dog. She told me the dog was a rescue who had been
devocalized by the previous owners. I couldn’t hear her too well (Second Avenue
traffic) but I think she mentioned “a couple of litters” which would indicate that her
dog had been a breeder in a puppy mill. So,
a sad past for the poor dog who was nine years old. The gal had had her for four years. De-vocalizing, the cutting of the vocal cords
so a dog can never bark again, is an abhorrent practice (unless performed on,
say, ill-behaved harpies in the elevator).
I must have made a face when she told me of her dog’s sad
past. “Don’t worry. She’s spoiled rotten now.” The dog looked
confident, comfortable and happy. Loving
and lavishing is not the same as spoiling.
The only thing that would indicate “spoiled” in human or animal is bad
behavior. Like the bipedal rubbish in my
elevator.
I asked the gal what her dog’s name was. “Visa.”
I was confused, and said, “What?” She repeated, “Visa. We didn’t want to change it.” I said, “To what, Passport?”
My elevator doors opened a few days ago and I prepared to
smile at whoever came out, when that same grumpy woman who unleashed her fury at the delivery man exited the elevator, looked coldly at me, and even more
coldly down at my small dog (we too, should have been using the service elevator, and she
let me know that with her disapproving glare) before she passed by us.
I was filled with righteous indignation all over again. Who the hell is she? I fumed, contemplating what I might say
if she crosses the line just one more
time with me. Since nothing I wanted
to say was even remotely civilized, and could possibly get me in trouble, I finally concluded that the best possible thing I could do if she makes trouble for me again is to quote Monty Python and the Holy Grail. If she irritates me, I will shrilly exclaim, “NI!!!! Ni! Ni!” just like the Knights who say Ni! To which, truly, there is no
response.
Not being an actionable (or rational) statement, it will not get me in
trouble. It will, however, likely bewilder the harridan, and satisfy me to no end.
Recently, a woman approached my dog and I in a bucolic
setting on a beautiful day. We were
sitting on the grass, enjoying the breeze.
A middle-aged woman with long hair approached me. I figured she needed directions. In a very thick Spanish accent, quite
difficult to understand, I thought she said, “Did you see the man with the
pigeons?” What was she referring to, a man feeding pigeons? This was a very serene area with very few
people, and I had not seen such a man.
“No, we just got here.” I hoped
she would go away, as I could not help her.
But she continued on, struggling in the most unclear English to express
herself, “blah blah blah, accent accent accent.” Since I was still struggling to
understand her and wondering how long she would hover over me, I said, “uh huh”
and looked back to my phone in an attempt to get rid of her. She seemed needy and weird.
As she walked away my brain grasped her last three words, “No
Dogs Here!”
This is clearly my karma, having people confront me about my
slightly illegal activities (my dog on the wrong lawn, in the wrong elevator)
when he is doing nothing more than resting his six tiny pounds on the
grass. I was angry again that this woman
was trying to make trouble for me, when we were making none for anyone. She went out of her way to disturb us in our
glen. But, in retrospect, considering
the confrontations from ugly people I’ve had in the past, her pathetic attempt
to tell me off in “pigeon English” and, my response, a blasé “uh huh,” was not only
benign, it was perfect given my non-confrontational agenda.
I will not deny that I get angry and seethe when others
interfere with my peaceful life (I’m most certainly not telling others what to
do). But given the fact that I’m human,
I take pride in the fact that I use restraint in what I say and do, my discipline being the
antidote to people using fists, foul mouths, and semiautomatic rifles.
Enough is enough, Filthy Kinnigghitts.
© 2017 Valerie Gilbert, All Rights Reserved.
Valerie is the author of RAVING VIOLET, MEMORIES, DREAMS AND DEFLECTIONS, SWAMI SOUP and BRILLIANCE BREWING: A Meditation On Change. The books are available in print, e-book, and audio, narrated by the author.
Valerie leads psychic development/guided meditation/past life regression/personal growth workshops in New York City, and privately. A healer, psychic, medium, and channel, you may book private sessions through her website.
For more information on Valerie's full line-up:
http://valeriegilbert.weebly.com
