There is an ancient and well-kept secret to happiness which the Great Ones have known for centuries. They rarely talk about it, but they use it all the time, and it is fundamental to good mental health. This secret is called The Fine Art of Not Being Offended. In order to truly be a master of this art, one must be able to see that every statement, action and reaction of another human being is the sum result of their total life experience to date. In other words, the majority of people in our world say and do what they do from their own set of fears, conclusions, defenses and attempts to survive. Most of it, even when aimed directly at us, has nothing to do with us. Usually, it has more to do with all the other times, and in particular the first few times, that this person experienced a similar situation, usually when they were young.
Yes, this is psychodynamic. But let’s face it, we live in a world where psychodynamics are what make the world go around. An individual who wishes to live successfully in the world as a spiritual person really needs to understand that psychology is as spiritual as prayer. In fact, the word psychology literally means the study of the soul.
All of that said, almost nothing is personal. Even with our closest loved ones, our beloved partners, our children and our friends. We are all swimming in the projections and filters of each other’s life experiences and often we are just the stand-ins, the chess pieces of life to which our loved ones have their own built-in reactions. This is not to dehumanize life or take away the intimacy from our relationships, but mainly for us to know that almost every time we get offended, we are actually just in a misunderstanding. A true embodiment of this idea actually allows for more intimacy and less suffering throughout all of our relationships. When we know that we are just the one who happens to be standing in the right place at the right psychodynamic time for someone to say or do what they are doing—we don’t have to take life personally. If it weren’t us, it would likely be someone else.
The first thing I thought of was Sylvester Stallone’s alleged Dolphin/Human pron. Then I thought of Kirk/Spock pron, the ones with their faces photoshoped onto naked torsos. I also though I saw a giant face at the top and tentacles at the bottom, before I focused my eyes; it reminded me of Bob Dobbs. Robert reminds me of Bob Dobbs sometimes too. What are the chances of THAT? ;p —iod3k
One in 1,300.
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“‘Wormwood’ is … a particular character I created years ago… and there’s a small story to it, but I have to save it for the comic itself. Basically, the book centers on a sentient maggot. Bored with his own dimension and eternally feasting on the bodies of dead gods there, he uproots in the search for a nice comfy, yet slightly not so dull world. He finds earth, tends to inhabit corpses which he animates, develops an English accent, addictions to Guinness, cigarettes, strong women. Routinely gets himself dragged into preserving the cosmic order of things for no other reason than everyone and everything else are incompetent useless morons.” —Ben Templesmith on Wormwood
I pulled into the church parking lot a little after 6:00 p.m., at more or less the last possible minute. The previous half hour or so I’d spent dawdling in my car outside a Goodwill department store off Route 410 in San Antonio, clinging to some inane sports talk show piping over my car radio — anything to hold off my plunge into Religion.
There was an old-fashioned white school bus in front of the church entrance, with a puddle of heavyset people milling around its swinging door. Some of these were carrying blankets and sleeping bags. My heart, already pounding, skipped a few extra beats. The church circulars had said nothing about bringing bedding. Why did I need bedding? What else had I missed?
“Excuse me,” I said, walking up to an in-charge-looking man with a name tag who was standing near the front of the bus. “I see everyone has blankets. I didn’t bring any. Is this going to be a problem?”
The man was about five feet one and had glassy eyes. He looked up at me and smiled queerly.
“Name?” he said.
“Collins,” I said. “Matthew Collins.”
He scanned his clipboard, found my name on the appropriate sheet of paper, and X-ed me out with a highlighter. “Don’t worry, Matthew,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “A wonderful woman named Martha is going to take care of you at the ranch. You just tell her what you need when you get there.”
I nodded, glancing at his hand, which was still on my shoulder. He waved me into the bus.
I had been attending the Cornerstone Church for weeks, but this was really my first day of school. I had joined Cornerstone — a megachurch in the Texas Hill Country — to get a look inside the evangelical mind-set that gave the country eight years of George W. Bush. The church’s pastor, John Hagee, is one of the most influential evangelical preachers in the country — not because his ministry is so very large (although he claims up to 4.5 million viewers a week for his Sunday sermons) but because of his near-absolute conquest of a very trendy niche in the market: Christian Zionism.
The whole idea behind Christian Zionism is to align America with the nation of Israel so as to “hurry God up” in his efforts to bring about Armageddon. As Hagee tells it, only after Israel is involved in a final showdown involving a satanic army (in most interpretations, a force of Arabs led by Russians) will Christ reappear. On that happy day, Hagee and his True Believers will be whisked up to Heaven by God, while the rest of us nonbelievers are left behind on Earth to suck eggs and generally suffer various tortures.
“‘Wormwood’ is … a particular character I created years ago… and there’s a small story to it, but I have to save it for the comic itself. Basically, the book centers on a sentient maggot. Bored with his own dimension and eternally feasting on the bodies of dead gods there, he uproots in the search for a nice comfy, yet slightly not so dull world. He finds earth, tends to inhabit corpses which he animates, develops an English accent, addictions to Guinness, cigarettes, strong women. Routinely gets himself dragged into preserving the cosmic order of things for no other reason than everyone and everything else are incompetent useless morons.” —