Remember the two dragons who fashioned the Chinese people out of mud? (Post of March 16, 2011) They were a brother and sister act, and it was the sister who was playing in the mud when she got the idea of making people. Her brother didn’t think it was such a hot idea, so he soared into the heavens and got in a big fight with another dragon (kind of a bad dragon) and they made a mess of everything, including knocking over one of the pillars holding up Heaven. The sky tilted, and they hired a turtle to help out the situation–I think he’s still there at one of the sky’s corners holding it up.
Anyway, when the brother got back to his sister she complained that the mud people were running amuck, making fearsome noises and wreaking havoc. Well, said the brother, stop making so many of them. I did, said the sister, but then they started making themselves. They won’t listen to anything I say, they’ve destroyed the garden and now they’re fighting among themselves.
And things have pretty much gone downhill ever since, except for brief lulls in the fighting when we’ve had to stop and catch our breath. Breathing is very important to be sure, and in some quarters of the world it’s a philosophy, a way of life, where using the left nostril or the right nostril to inhale or exhale is an art form. It was probably first learned after eating wild mushrooms, but nowadays, of course, you can learn it from yoga masters.
I do yoga, done it for years, but don’t follow the philosophic/mystic/whatever path because the few astral projections/travels/slide shows that I’ve been on were enough to scare me to death. I don’t talk about it much because people imagine it to be flying around the countryside, nothing but lovely butterflies in the stomach and gazing in wonder at the land below. Then they get all disappointed when I tell them that my experiences aren’t like that at all. Mine consist of standing next to a deep well on a moonless night and then suddenly falling in–“Waah!”
But there is no sound, no wind in the ears, there’s only this unworldly sensation of silent, blind speed, going straight down and knowing for absolute certain that death will come when you hit bottom. But you don’t hit bottom, you just keep falling, forever, full of panic and trying like a feverish paralytic to move your body, just a limb, a finger at least, to stir yourself awake. Having open eyes doesn’t help either, because I’ve done this on occasion while staring fixedly at a streetlight through the bedroom window. Talk about high anxiety. And heavy breathing. Breathing being the key, of course, if only I knew how.