Practical Solutions for Everyday Living

Nick MacMahon, staff illustration by ted barker

There comes a moment on the path of the transient soul, when only surrender will facilitate the great divide. Your doppelganger reaches for that dinner plate, curses it, and hurls it at the wall in defiance. Let me be your broomstick. Together we can pick up the shattered pieces.

Love,

Jeremy M. Drampton

Alternative meditation

Don’t you just hate it when you’re trying to access the groundless state of being, transcending the hostile, senseless world of appearances, and the thought-revolt of repressed childhood trauma won’t stop yelling “Sinner!”? Well, my brothers and sisters, you’re not alone. Experiential evidence has shown, since the beginning of time (approximately 23 years ago), that the mind sure is one misshaped, organic donut, unfit for coffee-dunking; or, one stubborn mule that won’t produce milk for you, but happily lets you persevere.

I’ve given up on trying to tame the beast in the traditional, supposedly “time-tested” way. Forget emptying the mind. Fill the bastard. Neither with affirmations, nor with $1,000 “personalized” mantras you can “buy” from ex-Beatles guru, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Instead, dwell on some negative thoughts, or “cognitive distortions,” as psychologists call them, watch a David Lynch film, read some depressing Canadian literature (no recommendations here — it’s all deleterious in some way), or better yet, recall a coming-of-age memory from the golden age of puberty. Do this for 30 minutes, twice a day.

Honestly, if you don’t give your mind a beating once in a while, the darker part of the psyche will creep up on you like those sadistic <i>Just for Laughs gags </i>(they film in Quebec for a reason). If you can face unimaginable horror, there’ll be no surprise guest appearances during love-making or your routine trip to the old folks’ home. Preying on old women who have Alzheimer’s by your innocent thievery of their change purses will taste that much better. Even Loony Lucy (determined to one day receive answers from the communal mirror that she poses her questions to) realizes that her $3.68 in pennies is only a means to fund her Sunday afternoon “Bingo Madness” at the rec hall or church, allowing time for staff to slip outside for their much-needed smoke break. Hey Deepak, can Loony Lucy and staff transcend with yoga?

Alternative yoga

I never liked the idea of tapping into the college fund of my future daughter, Samanahur, to pay a spaced-out, pony-tailed guy named Todd to help me reach my Dhalsim (that erotically flexible Street Fighter) potential. I’ll be honest, I grew up with the Richard Simmons school of aerobic thought — a groin stretch a day keeps the doctor away. Ah yes, the mantra of yesteryear. And quite frankly, God bless that man: it works. Try some hamstring stretches after a brisk bike ride, some wrist-massaging to conclude a lonely evening with self, or some neck rotations at the library to intimidate other students, reminding them that your life is that much more important. Now, Cirque de Soleil, for Dhalsim body-types (referring to his holiness’ lanky stature), will never happen. Authentic yoga masters are not six-foot-somethingers! They’re usually small enough to be bundled up and checked in as carry-on baggage, like the abused rat-dog of (insert “hot” celebrity). A lank myself, when inspired, I can almost touch my knees, cursing my frail arms as they try to break free from my disproportionately petite torso. What’s that? I’m supposed to monitor my breath during said agony? I thought we have machines that do that for us! My hairy feet have opposable thumbs for a reason — to pick up items that have clumsily fallen from the dangerous altitudes of my hands. The air may be thinner up here, but make no mistake, I am a survivor . . . except when my confidence is shattered by cheerful anarchists at the bus stop, who sit there cross-legged on that dead patch of grass, devouring political philosophy, with an approachable smile, like they own the place.

Bus stop etiquette

Where is the metaphysical bus-stop lineup? Here’s a Zen koan for you: if a dude/chick stands under a bus sign and paces around nervously, winding up 20 metres away from his/her original co-ordinates, does the bus driver make a sound? Although I normally feel the love upon exiting, I’m usually lucky to get a grunt out of the driver when I board, flashing my bus pass and left nipple. Is it too much to ask for a buddy system, a no-student-sits-alone act, and a mandatory handshake from the driver, followed by a peck on the check? I feel so dead inside. So, here’s the plan: I’ll cut in front of you in the metaphysical bus line and, after some playful groping with the bus driver, I’m going to sit next to you. We’ll meditate and then do some light stretching, if time permits. Oh! Oh! Then you can add me on Facebook.com! I won’t spoil my page for you, but, under interests, I put “friends.” So, how about it, friend?