I've been sick, or something like it, the past few days. I actually came home from work because the feeling shitty-ness overcame me and it wasn't worth the self-torture to myself or anyone in my vicinity. Took some much needed time on the couch to do absolutely nothing but listen to music and feel like a train wreck physically.
I don't like being sick. No one does. And I usually don't get sick but i'm usually good for one or two good ones a year; I guess that's not a terrible track record. Be patient, I am going somewhere with all this.
I felt miserable and just couldn't get comfortable but I had some movies to catch up on, one being Evil Dead (the new re-done, re-envisioned, regurgitated or whatever-you-wish-to-call-it one), the other was Django Unchained, a Tarantino flick.
I'm about as art snobby as art snobs get, and try as I might to deny or downplay this fact, I simply cannot and my critical nature gets the best of me. I was watching Evil Dead and all I could think of is how terrible this is; it's like every new-school horror movie to come out in the past 5-10 years. They all have a lot of gore and camera effects/CGI for enhancement purposes and for the sake of being "shocking". Add into that the recent trend of popularity in demonic possession movies and you have another cinematic abortion of what was once a fiercely original (and hilarious) film. See, I say 'film' instead of movie.. proof of my snobbery.
Now. Even with all that said, with the lack of off-beat humor from the original, lack of charismatic lead men and grandiose scare tactics, my rejection of it was almost visceral; it just really put me in a bad place after watching it. I texted my best friend and felt the need to debate about it. I wanted to pick a fight.
Why?
He was getting a little perturbed with me, I could tell, as my contrarian nature can be pretty frustrating to deal with at times (especially when it comes to debates on artistic merit or quality), and he finally just said, "It's just a movie and you're a tough critic". Then changed the subject. It was a tasteful slap in the face, which I could do nothing else but laugh at, and I whole heartedly agreed with him.
It is just a movie, and I am a tough critic. On myself, on everyone else, holding the world up on its unattainable pedestal always, forever looking up the skirt of my own ridiculous ideals which I'll never touch myself. I'm on a quest for the holy grail, and I will die many deaths along the way until one day I finally learn that it doesn't exist. It's just another myth, a legend made by the hopeless to give hope to life, or at least some greater sense of meaning and purpose. That it can always be better or different than what it is, that somewhere out there something is holding all the answers I've been continuously seeking.
This is a bit of a far stretch to go on after just talking about a movie but it's really not, in my mind. It's very much one in the same. Instead of just watching it and appreciating (or not appreciating_ it for what it is, I went on this mythical mental quest for its perfection, and all the ways it didn't add up to that for me. Thankfully, Scott inspired me to pull my head out of my ass by calling me out on my nonsense.
What's the moral? Chill the fuck out, and if you're sick and feeling shitty wanting to critique something, turn that spotlight on yourself instead: Look at all your negative habits and find ways to turn them into positives that work for everyone, call yourself out on your bullshit and stop it before it starts.
I also want to simply show how even such a small and seemingly innocuous occurrence of every day life can be such a huge and meaningful personal revelation. We need these daily revelations to keep evolving and re-inventing ourselves, so don't sweat the small stuff but do take it into account. It could be your next big revelation.
p.s. I watched Django Unchained later and loved the shit out of it. But, would I have loved it as much if I watched it earlier when I was still in my mood? Before I got a reality check and got over myself? Ponder that.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Why I write.
I write because I’m lonely. I write because it’s the best way to have a truly deep and meaningful conversation with another’s soul. I write because I’m honest. I write because I’m a liar. I write because I’m selfish and stubborn and proud. I write because I need to hear what I want others too, as well. I write because we’re all in this together. I’m not afraid to bear my soul on paper or in text, and so I write because it heals me; it breaks me down every time and builds me back up, stronger than before. I write because it’s too noisy in my head and things take on a little more clarity once they go outside for a smoke. I write because it’s my gift and I want to use it for something good.
I don’t write because I want to change the world.
I write because I hope to inspire that person who does.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Post-Existential Uninhabit(at).
Time is not our enemy friends, it's the perceived importance we've placed on it that is. Indeed, our entire culture would likely crumble into the dirt if suddenly there were no such things as 'time' or 'money' but would it be such a bad thing? What one sees as chaos or anarchy, another views as a return to a more natural order; the way things ought to be.
We did it to ourselves, though; we always do. A novel idea becomes a crutch, a necessity of every day life but more like a slow cancer, in reality.
Time ceased to exist long ago, it means nothing now: It's just numbers we stress out over fitting our days around. We make up rules and consequences for not abiding by this, for being "late". How ridiculous! If time, if money, if your precious schedule or the material items you own don't mean a pinch of shit when you're dead, then why should we think any differently of it when we're alive?
This is our one chance, and we have to waste it slaving away to make money for someone else while all ours is being taken away?
I normally don't voice my opinion of such things publicly. When I do, I'm already prepared to hear grumbles and scoffs and "that's life". Fuck you. We've forgotten how to live. Worse yet, we've never even been taught how to, we have to find this out later in life once we've blown the better part of it making all the wrong choices or none at all.
You either decay actively or lethargically: choose wisely.
I was feeding the fish tonight, and it struck me that this is how life should be, this is as good as it gets and it's really all it's about. We used to build gardens, now we build cities. There used to be farms but now it's apartment complexes. It makes me sad only momentarily. What it makes me is angry. Furious, more accurately, and it should make you feel the same, god dammit.
Trading resources natural to this Earth we inhabit, that all are entitled to but only the select few own the title to with glorified monopoly money. Ink on paper. It means something because we made it that way. There is no meaning to anything save for what we put on it, and we put meaning to the most meaningless things.
Wake up. Count your blessings. If you can do that, it means you're still alive and sucking air and there's still a chance for the whole wretched lot of us. Stop putting the control in someone else's hands and take it for yourself, for us all.
We did it to ourselves, though; we always do. A novel idea becomes a crutch, a necessity of every day life but more like a slow cancer, in reality.
Time ceased to exist long ago, it means nothing now: It's just numbers we stress out over fitting our days around. We make up rules and consequences for not abiding by this, for being "late". How ridiculous! If time, if money, if your precious schedule or the material items you own don't mean a pinch of shit when you're dead, then why should we think any differently of it when we're alive?
This is our one chance, and we have to waste it slaving away to make money for someone else while all ours is being taken away?
I normally don't voice my opinion of such things publicly. When I do, I'm already prepared to hear grumbles and scoffs and "that's life". Fuck you. We've forgotten how to live. Worse yet, we've never even been taught how to, we have to find this out later in life once we've blown the better part of it making all the wrong choices or none at all.
You either decay actively or lethargically: choose wisely.
I was feeding the fish tonight, and it struck me that this is how life should be, this is as good as it gets and it's really all it's about. We used to build gardens, now we build cities. There used to be farms but now it's apartment complexes. It makes me sad only momentarily. What it makes me is angry. Furious, more accurately, and it should make you feel the same, god dammit.
Trading resources natural to this Earth we inhabit, that all are entitled to but only the select few own the title to with glorified monopoly money. Ink on paper. It means something because we made it that way. There is no meaning to anything save for what we put on it, and we put meaning to the most meaningless things.
Wake up. Count your blessings. If you can do that, it means you're still alive and sucking air and there's still a chance for the whole wretched lot of us. Stop putting the control in someone else's hands and take it for yourself, for us all.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
The Yoga of Ink
Imbued with this feeling of gratitude shining forth from my chest that’s nearly ready to burst with the goodness of it all…
I didn’t tip my tattoo artist.
I didn’t know I was supposed to—it was an entirely new experience for me and I learned as I went. Two sessions. The first session was for the initial consult and I was scared shitless. Yet I was invigorated to show someone my art, which I wanted permanently displayed on my skin.
It’s not so much a piece of art as a coat of arms. It says something about a person, and mine seems to inspire questions and wonder in those who gaze upon it, so I feel that’s fitting for me.
But I have a problem with exchanging money for such a positive and enlightening experience as I had there, and I’m not exaggerating one minute amount to say it was life-altering. Definitely affirming. I wanted to do something. Hippies don’t exchange money, but hugs only go so far
A basket filled with hand-picked organic fruits and vegetables, preferably local, is what I decided on. Also, some other vegetarian and vegan staples—lentils, quinoa, nuts, seeds—clean food.
To my mind, me picking these items out by hand, and with only the best and most positive intentions is the only true way to show someone how much you really do appreciate their efforts. I paid cash for the work itself, but I want to repay the artist with heart and soul. I want her to feel what I could not even hope to put into words or express in artwork. Some would call it paying it forward. The semantics of it are unimportant, all that matters is the expression itself.
How can you put a dollar amount to sitting sunken in to a well-worn couch, waiting patiently and unhurriedly for your tattoo artist to arrive, who is 30 minutes late, when the owner of the shop walks in the front door locking eyes with you in a split second of complete spiritual knowledge?
You just know where each other are coming from without any formal exchange of words. This is the reason you chose this place, you say. Nice work, he says. A simple thank you, and he goes off to begin his own work.
You still sit there, completely content and having not a care in the world. You simply thrive in that space and time, caught between moments of past and future.
Later, when your artist arrives and is actively scratching ink into your skin, he says how he knew something awesome would happen today, not only for the amazing piece of art on your arm, but also for the complete calm you exuded in waiting. Total acceptance. He says you were just being. Being. I could have cried and in fact did feel a slight sting in my tear ducts. Happiness.
Little moments like that just validate your whole goddamn existence, they do, and the beauty is overwhelming to me. Words really fail at times like that, but no positive action falls on deaf ears. Your every fiber of being seems to remind you, so you don’t forget and soon you feel compelled to do something good yourself, for someone else. Good decisions that lead to more good decisions by others.
After much spiritual and philosophical conversation, all of it meaningful and with purpose, he shares a glass of kombucha he brewed himself, a direct exchange of life and love from one organism to another. Let food be thy medicine, and so shall be my gift to my artist.
It won’t be fancy but it will mean something. It won’t pay your bills but it will nurture your body and spirit.
Sadly, we miss this experience anymore. Shopping complexes only complicate matters.
Live simply, live well. Most of all, live with a goddamn purpose—a meaning, and make it good.
Buy two of something and share it with your neighbor—spreading your joy even if they don’t offer anything in return. The gesture, though not reciprocated instantly, will not easily be forgotten and maybe one day, at your funeral, they will speak up about the time you did something really nice for them and that they never forgot it and this speech will sparkle in the hearts and minds of all in attendance, and it will inspire someone there to do something nice, just because.
It all comes back around, the good and bad.
There will always be those that tell me I’m going to regret getting this, because it’ll be with me for the rest of my life and what it might look like when I get older, but I really don’t care. I’m not there yet, am I? Even if I were, I would still never regret it because it was something I waited to do for years, patiently waiting for the right time and place and person to translate it to my skin for me.
It’s symbolic of why you shouldn’t rush things, and it reminds me that things will almost always work out somehow, some way, even if it’s not exactly what you thought you had in mind.
I look in the mirror and I see life reflected back at me, I can see the love in it, the peace and tranquility and see it bristling with positive affirmations.
To most, it will always just be a lot of ink on my arm. Permanently.
I’ve never been one to enjoy life inside the box, though, and I will never regret this experience because it found me truly feeling this moment.
Permanently.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Presence.
Quite possibly the hardest thing for me to deal with has always been my lack of ability to stay focused on what is present, what is right in front of me. It's only too often that I'm off in my head somewhere ahead of or behind where I am right now, where I should be, and this has always been a source of internal and external contention for me in my life.
One could possibly try and make an argument that social media lets us embrace staying on top of the present with a multitude of posts and 'likes' but this is not even remotely close to the same, because it gives one no further control or insight into their minds' own ramblings, and why you do what you do.
Be careful with that control word, though; it can give you a whole other set of problems.
Jealousy, bitterness, rage.. all these come from that neurotic place inside us we don't stop and check in with enough. Some call it meditation, others call it a power nap and still others go for a walk; truthfully, it really doesn't matter what you do to tap back into yourself and disconnect from the rest of the world for a few minutes, just that you do it.
It can be as easy as standing in line at the grocery store. Obviously, this is where our Western impatience comes into play, as we all have somewhere to be like 20 minutes ago but just stand there. Don't peruse the gossip rags, don't start critiquing peoples' fashion sense and what ever you do, DO NOT play along with your mind's little games; it's a bored puppy that wants to grab the toilet paper roll and drag it around the house so you chase it and get all agitated and late.
STOP.
BREATHE. A little slower now, and deeper. Nice and easy, one after the other. Now focus on that, and how good it feels to fill your lungs with oxygenated tranquility. Feel your anxiety from only seconds ago melt away with each deepening breath until you realize you were so lost in it that you're next to check out and people are now glaring at you. Then smile at them and say, "Oh, I'm sorry, I was just caught up in the present".
One could possibly try and make an argument that social media lets us embrace staying on top of the present with a multitude of posts and 'likes' but this is not even remotely close to the same, because it gives one no further control or insight into their minds' own ramblings, and why you do what you do.
Be careful with that control word, though; it can give you a whole other set of problems.
Jealousy, bitterness, rage.. all these come from that neurotic place inside us we don't stop and check in with enough. Some call it meditation, others call it a power nap and still others go for a walk; truthfully, it really doesn't matter what you do to tap back into yourself and disconnect from the rest of the world for a few minutes, just that you do it.
It can be as easy as standing in line at the grocery store. Obviously, this is where our Western impatience comes into play, as we all have somewhere to be like 20 minutes ago but just stand there. Don't peruse the gossip rags, don't start critiquing peoples' fashion sense and what ever you do, DO NOT play along with your mind's little games; it's a bored puppy that wants to grab the toilet paper roll and drag it around the house so you chase it and get all agitated and late.
STOP.
BREATHE. A little slower now, and deeper. Nice and easy, one after the other. Now focus on that, and how good it feels to fill your lungs with oxygenated tranquility. Feel your anxiety from only seconds ago melt away with each deepening breath until you realize you were so lost in it that you're next to check out and people are now glaring at you. Then smile at them and say, "Oh, I'm sorry, I was just caught up in the present".
Friday, August 2, 2013
Hipster Fasciitis
"Standing stoic, eyes like bright statues against an emotional undercurrent; the intellect is what binds."
Yeah, something like that. I'm standing in a grungy basement surrounded by people I refuse to associate myself with; a very definitive hipster dilemma, I would say. The band my friend and I are here to see is (the) Melvins, but I can't pull myself out of my head; it's a pretty normal thing for me, so I'm not worried.
Looking around at all the arms folded across chests, these arms covered in tattoos, everyone wearing painted-on jeans and shockingly similar eye wear. There's a couple to my left who coordinated their outfits well, tonight: the ubiquitous skinny jeans on both sexes, tattoos, "hipster glasses" and identical Adidas footwear. I throw up in my mouth a little.
I don't know, I guess I've always had some sort of issue with conformity in one way or another, and even when I did (conform), I could reason to myself and others logically exactly WHY (I thought) I stand/stood out. Most times, I only have my ridiculous theories tested and dissected, leaving me a bit like a sullen adolescent. It's hard to be original these days, and even when you are you run the risk of becoming a schtick; you cease to be human and instead exist as a living, breathing gimmick. You could wear a meat suit or light yourself on fire but then it just becomes shock and awe for its own sake, a pitiful cry for attention in a world where no one is listening.
But they're talking. And soon, meat suits become all the rage.
I will try all day long but ultimately cannot deny my interests and tastes are decidedly "hipster". This is my generation, so I guess I might as well stop fighting it and just laugh; at myself, and others. Quietly though, hipsters probably offend easily.
So now what? Where do I go from here now that I see my fate? Ok, I guess I should get back to being somewhat present at this show, since I did pay money and drive two hours to see..
There's always those who have a good time, no matter what, no matter who is playing. And there is always the other 3/4 of the audience (whom I've described earlier) scrutinizing the band howling and gyrating onstage like they were some strange bug caught up in scientific documentation. It's like that for us hipsters; I do it plenty. It is, however, interesting to watch and I turn that scrutinizing eye not only on my fellow audience but myself, as well.
No one moves. Magically, the Melvins come on and everyone's heads and necks become instantly unglued, teetering and bobbing back and forth to the first four seconds of the opening drum kicks. It's amazing stuff, and if you've never noticed it, well, then just keep reading my stuff I guess.
The 30-year vets of eclecticism lurch through a set that I have no idea of the exact length; I'm drunk and busy watching hipsters but losing myself in the double-drummer attack all the same. I never see the band once, except for the occasional glimpse of the frontmen through armpits and under chins.
It's ok. Really. Sometimes its better to just close your eyes and be a hipster like no one's watching.
Yeah, something like that. I'm standing in a grungy basement surrounded by people I refuse to associate myself with; a very definitive hipster dilemma, I would say. The band my friend and I are here to see is (the) Melvins, but I can't pull myself out of my head; it's a pretty normal thing for me, so I'm not worried.
Looking around at all the arms folded across chests, these arms covered in tattoos, everyone wearing painted-on jeans and shockingly similar eye wear. There's a couple to my left who coordinated their outfits well, tonight: the ubiquitous skinny jeans on both sexes, tattoos, "hipster glasses" and identical Adidas footwear. I throw up in my mouth a little.
I don't know, I guess I've always had some sort of issue with conformity in one way or another, and even when I did (conform), I could reason to myself and others logically exactly WHY (I thought) I stand/stood out. Most times, I only have my ridiculous theories tested and dissected, leaving me a bit like a sullen adolescent. It's hard to be original these days, and even when you are you run the risk of becoming a schtick; you cease to be human and instead exist as a living, breathing gimmick. You could wear a meat suit or light yourself on fire but then it just becomes shock and awe for its own sake, a pitiful cry for attention in a world where no one is listening.
But they're talking. And soon, meat suits become all the rage.
I will try all day long but ultimately cannot deny my interests and tastes are decidedly "hipster". This is my generation, so I guess I might as well stop fighting it and just laugh; at myself, and others. Quietly though, hipsters probably offend easily.
So now what? Where do I go from here now that I see my fate? Ok, I guess I should get back to being somewhat present at this show, since I did pay money and drive two hours to see..
There's always those who have a good time, no matter what, no matter who is playing. And there is always the other 3/4 of the audience (whom I've described earlier) scrutinizing the band howling and gyrating onstage like they were some strange bug caught up in scientific documentation. It's like that for us hipsters; I do it plenty. It is, however, interesting to watch and I turn that scrutinizing eye not only on my fellow audience but myself, as well.
No one moves. Magically, the Melvins come on and everyone's heads and necks become instantly unglued, teetering and bobbing back and forth to the first four seconds of the opening drum kicks. It's amazing stuff, and if you've never noticed it, well, then just keep reading my stuff I guess.
The 30-year vets of eclecticism lurch through a set that I have no idea of the exact length; I'm drunk and busy watching hipsters but losing myself in the double-drummer attack all the same. I never see the band once, except for the occasional glimpse of the frontmen through armpits and under chins.
It's ok. Really. Sometimes its better to just close your eyes and be a hipster like no one's watching.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
21st Century Yoga Man
There's a bit of a stigma attached to being a yogi in this day and age; I guess to be fair, it was that way in all days and ages but especially in this one, only because I'm completely caught up in it. By the way, a great big nod to King Crimson (in the title)..
The stigma of being a yogi is something I'm not at all uncomfortable with, as I've always walked a different path in my own life, perceived and translated things differently than possibly the norm. So, the social stigma does not concern me so much as the personal stigma I impose on myself.
You see, I'm a bit of a purist when it comes to things, and am very much an all-or-nothing type of person. I remain a bit cynical of technology (though undoubtedly hopelessly yet willingly bound to it, and recognize its importance, or at the very least, merits, in our modern society) and tend to reject most of what is considered popular opinion in favor of anything "traditional". I'm a bit old-school, in that sense.
Now, this is really not TOO much of an issue unless you are as neurotic as I am, and insist on tracking down that unicorn of perfection: It simply does not exist and I remain painfully aware of this, further complicating and contradicting matters. So, I have a confession:
I love beer. Craft beer. I love the culture and the "scene" and everything about it, even the snobby ones who smell grapefruit and buttered toffee in the nose.
The conundrum is that alcohol is about as un-yogic as it gets. It really does nothing positive for the body or mind or humanity in general, for that matter. But I love it. Ok, at the very least I just highly enjoy it, because I view it from the culinary and alchemical perspective: It's a process to brew it and takes quite a bit of ingenuity, basic knowledge of natural ingredients and definitely an insistence on high quality to make it in this market. There's also a lot of passion in it, and I can speak for myself and many others to say how rewarding it is to track down a long sought-after beer and enjoy it either with good company or good food; preferably both.
All these things are contra-indicated to the path of the yogi, however, and as I do not like to do anything half-assed, this creates a bit of inner turmoil in me. I generally do not mix the two; I will do my yoga early in the morning or before the last meal of the day, then treat myself to a beer later with said meal, or just abstain altogether, depending on the day. This method generally works but I still feel that nagging in the back of my skull that tells me, "clearly you are not a yogi at all, and don't you dare talk of yourself as one". But here's the thing:
I AM one, a yogi.
No one has ever said anything to the contrary or tried to tell me otherwise (mostly because it's not something I broadcast in my daily life) but no one has to because that voice comes out of me, and even if someone else were to, I probably wouldn't hear a word of it anyway.
The point is, if I have anything resembling one, that the fact remains how we do NOT all live in India, or in caves, or can afford to practice every nuance of a tried and true yoga practice every day, though it is good to read up on your classics to have a fucking clue as to where it all came from and what the original intention behind it is; knowledge is power, after all. (And it's sexy, too..)
We live in a pretty confused time but I think it's probably always been this way. It's just not practical to give up all our earthly possessions and vices and become strict ascetics. Some do, and succeed and seek what they sought to find but for the rest of us morning, noon, night and weekend warriors, well: It's every bit as important to have a life, too. All considerations taken and put aside, once you start to restrict the things you love, especially that you may only enjoy occasionally, you create more anxiety and resentment within yourself and this can manifest in any number of ways, none of them good.
Without getting into a long discourse of what a true yogi is and is not, let's just say that it is likely for all peoples' best interests EVERYWHERE, despite belief sets or personal dogma, to take care of their bodies and their minds; this, of course, meaning through intake and output, in all manner of ways. Food, water, air, clothing, expression, emotion, conduct, etc; it's a lot more than just funky postures. No one ever said anything about not being able to enjoy the things you love in life. So, I suppose the age-old maxim "All things in moderation", is really the most practical advice of all (granted common sense is being utilized).
I'm no closer to an internal settlement with this little personal debate but for now, I will continue to love BOTH beer and yoga, each in their own time and place.
The stigma of being a yogi is something I'm not at all uncomfortable with, as I've always walked a different path in my own life, perceived and translated things differently than possibly the norm. So, the social stigma does not concern me so much as the personal stigma I impose on myself.
You see, I'm a bit of a purist when it comes to things, and am very much an all-or-nothing type of person. I remain a bit cynical of technology (though undoubtedly hopelessly yet willingly bound to it, and recognize its importance, or at the very least, merits, in our modern society) and tend to reject most of what is considered popular opinion in favor of anything "traditional". I'm a bit old-school, in that sense.
Now, this is really not TOO much of an issue unless you are as neurotic as I am, and insist on tracking down that unicorn of perfection: It simply does not exist and I remain painfully aware of this, further complicating and contradicting matters. So, I have a confession:
I love beer. Craft beer. I love the culture and the "scene" and everything about it, even the snobby ones who smell grapefruit and buttered toffee in the nose.
The conundrum is that alcohol is about as un-yogic as it gets. It really does nothing positive for the body or mind or humanity in general, for that matter. But I love it. Ok, at the very least I just highly enjoy it, because I view it from the culinary and alchemical perspective: It's a process to brew it and takes quite a bit of ingenuity, basic knowledge of natural ingredients and definitely an insistence on high quality to make it in this market. There's also a lot of passion in it, and I can speak for myself and many others to say how rewarding it is to track down a long sought-after beer and enjoy it either with good company or good food; preferably both.
All these things are contra-indicated to the path of the yogi, however, and as I do not like to do anything half-assed, this creates a bit of inner turmoil in me. I generally do not mix the two; I will do my yoga early in the morning or before the last meal of the day, then treat myself to a beer later with said meal, or just abstain altogether, depending on the day. This method generally works but I still feel that nagging in the back of my skull that tells me, "clearly you are not a yogi at all, and don't you dare talk of yourself as one". But here's the thing:
I AM one, a yogi.
No one has ever said anything to the contrary or tried to tell me otherwise (mostly because it's not something I broadcast in my daily life) but no one has to because that voice comes out of me, and even if someone else were to, I probably wouldn't hear a word of it anyway.
The point is, if I have anything resembling one, that the fact remains how we do NOT all live in India, or in caves, or can afford to practice every nuance of a tried and true yoga practice every day, though it is good to read up on your classics to have a fucking clue as to where it all came from and what the original intention behind it is; knowledge is power, after all. (And it's sexy, too..)
We live in a pretty confused time but I think it's probably always been this way. It's just not practical to give up all our earthly possessions and vices and become strict ascetics. Some do, and succeed and seek what they sought to find but for the rest of us morning, noon, night and weekend warriors, well: It's every bit as important to have a life, too. All considerations taken and put aside, once you start to restrict the things you love, especially that you may only enjoy occasionally, you create more anxiety and resentment within yourself and this can manifest in any number of ways, none of them good.
Without getting into a long discourse of what a true yogi is and is not, let's just say that it is likely for all peoples' best interests EVERYWHERE, despite belief sets or personal dogma, to take care of their bodies and their minds; this, of course, meaning through intake and output, in all manner of ways. Food, water, air, clothing, expression, emotion, conduct, etc; it's a lot more than just funky postures. No one ever said anything about not being able to enjoy the things you love in life. So, I suppose the age-old maxim "All things in moderation", is really the most practical advice of all (granted common sense is being utilized).
I'm no closer to an internal settlement with this little personal debate but for now, I will continue to love BOTH beer and yoga, each in their own time and place.
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