The Law of the Universe

We draw what we desire to ourselves like a magnet. Are you sending out the right message? I ask myself that question all the time. Am I sending out the right message? Am I drawing to myself the things that I desire? The law of the Universe is a very simple one. If you want something, you only need to ask for it. Believe that what you desire is coming to you and that nothing can stop it. Feel the feelings that accompany receiving what you desire. Remove all doubt. Never give in to doubt. In time you’ll find that what you desire comes to you. It has to. It’s the law of the Universe.

There are a number of different names for the Universe and “sending messages.” Some call it God and prayer. Others may call the messages meditation. It’s all the same thing. Spirituality equals religion equals science. We’re all talking about the same thing.

There’s a wrinkle to this that one must be aware of. The Universe doesn’t hear negative adverbial phrases. This is very odd at first. For example, if you’re afraid to get sick, and you think constantly to yourself that you hope you don’t get sick, you’ll probably get sick. You’re associating getting sick with yourself and feeling not the positive feelings that you associate with wellness, but fear and doubt. The Universe “hears” that you want to be sick, because you’re feeling those awful feelings over and over, claiming them. The Universe gives you what you want. It has to. It’s the law. So if you don’t want to get sick, the message you should send is that you will be well, full of energy and full of life. Feel that wellness flowing through you. If you desire wellness when you are at peace and you don’t give in to the fear of being sick, wellness will come to you. It takes practice to control your feelings, but it isn’t beyond anyone’s abilities.

Many people wonder how they could possibly get what they want just by expressing the desire if, logistically speaking, everyone else could do the same thing at the same time. This is a particularly common concern for those who desire wealth. The first reason to be comforted is based in logic: Not everyone asks for the same thing. The second and more important remedy to this skepticism is more beautiful and freeing: There is no such thing as a traffic jam in the Universe. We’re all going in the same direction and to the same place. The best part is that in order for you to win, no one else has to lose. This concept is contrary to so much of what I learned in my life. Whether I was told that or I observed that by the way people around me chose to live, that’s what I learned. It’s a lie. For you to get what you desire, you don’t have to take anything away from anyone else. There’s plenty of everything to go around.

There’s a footbridge that I use most nights on my way home. It extends across a ravine of sorts. Using it allows me to stay on streets that are less crowded with traffic, which is my goal. On my bike, the last thing that I want is a lungful of exhaust fumes. It really bugs me and in the dense traffic that can build up where I live, I take any opportunity to avoid being poisoned like that. Ever since Daylight Saving Time ended, I have ridden across that footbridge in total darkness. All of the lights on it have been out for months. If there is no moon, I have to go on faith that all of the boards are still there. That’s how dark it is. It’s even harder to know if someone is walking in front of me, which is an even bigger concern for me than the bridge being out. I called the Public Works department about the lights on the bridge a couple of times. They said something about the bulbs being “on order” and how they would be replaced when they arrived. I thought for sure they were blowing me off. A couple of weeks ago, I called again and left a message for the Public Works Superintendent. He called back and left a message that he would try to get at least half of the lights working by last week. That Monday, the bridge was still dark.

Ever since I’d taken to calling about my lighting problem, every time I rode across that bridge, I would feel angry and minimized. For some reason, I was sure that I was being ignored because of someone’s laziness. Riding across that bridge in darkness re-invigorated those negative feelings every night. Last week, I’d had a particularly bad day. It was my worst day in a long time and I struggled to get myself back on track psychologically and emotionally. On my way home on the train, I fell into the most perfect meditation for my situation. I boarded the train in total dread. By the time we reached my stop, a feeling of warmth had come over the core of my body that only happens when I take tranquilizers. This warmth however, was more pronounced. The peace that I desired came to me through my own efforts. I knew that I was onto something. I’d also figured out that the reason my day had gone so badly was because I had been sending out the wrong messages. The law worked in my favor and against me in the same day. In both cases, it was because I had made clear what I desired.

On my way home from the train, I was determined to sustain the good feelings I had established for myself. The traffic light was red by the time I got to it, but I was able to go forward because no cars were there to take advantage of the turn signal. The next phase of my journey home was the footbridge. I told myself as I approached it that I would not give in to anger about the lights tonight. I would not feel minimized by the darkness. I rode around the hedge and the bridge came into view. Every bulb had been replaced! I could see my way across the bridge completely. When I got to the center of the span, I literally laughed out loud.

I thought that I would always remember that day because of the unpleasant experiences it brought to me. By the time I got home that night, I was ready to mark the day on the calendar because of the great lessons I learned. No proof of my ability to choose the events that transpire in my life could have been stronger. I know now that if I’m in darkness, all I have to do is decide. The bridge will be lit up before me and I’ll be able to cross unimpeded. It has to be. It’s the law.

Free steak for the free-spirited

The other night, I took my wife out for her birthday. It was a very special occasion, because we get so few opportunities to go out for a nice dinner. We went to her favorite restaurant, which is a very expensive steak place with all of the entrapments of fine dining. The restaurant featured a well-attired wait staff who could recite the specials as if they were reading from a teleprompter and help you to make informed choices about the best wine to compliment your meal.

Though I’m not an uppity fellow, good service is a luxury I do enjoy. Actually, I don’t think it’s good service as much as it is that I enjoy seeing anyone take a time-honored charade seriously. I know very well that the waiters in these places are just regular guys like everyone else, but at night they assume the role of passionate servers. It’s a lot like going to the theatre.

We arrived earlier than our reservation time, but they seated us immediately since we had arrived before the evening rush. We exchanged pleasantries with the “cast” and ordered steaks. The meal was going very well. The room was quieter than I expected for a Friday night, which added to the experience. Our waiter returned to our table regularly to ask if we needed anything else. He refilled my Pellegrino several times without my even asking.

Near the end of the main course, I was involved in an interesting discussion with my wife when a shifty-looking character in a slick suit approached our table. In the dim light of the dining room, I could tell that his hair had the “wet look.” He leaned on an empty chair next to me and said, “Good evening, ladies!”

I looked over at the man, whose face immediately sunk. He was clearly mortified and delivered an apology that reflected more mortification than regret.

I’ve been through this several times in my life. Women, hairdressers mostly, often compliment me on how beautiful my hair is. It’s odd, but I’m always polite. I never take offense. I know as well as my wife does that I don’t look like a woman. I don’t dress like a woman, nor do I conduct myself as such. I often wonder about people careless enough to say “ladies.” I think they like the idea of saying “ladies.” They like the sound of it. It helps with the act. Theatre has a rhythm. Over the years, easily a dozen waiters have made the same mistake, looking only at my hair and continuing with the charade only to be shocked when I look at them. I’ve learned to play it well, because handled correctly, you become the boss. I’ve gotten free deserts a number of times. But that’s when it happens in a diner. It never happened to me in an expensive place. This was going to be good. I immediately assumed my reserved inquisitive tone. This is the one that conveys more curiosity than emotional reaction. Perhaps that what makes it so unnerving. Maybe I’ll never know.

“Excuse me, kind sir, but have you ever seen a woman with shoulders like mine?” (They are quite broad.)

The slippery guy tittered nervously, toying with the idea of digging himself in deeper by further abandoning his “role” and claiming that some of the women that come in this place…

“How about a woman with this much hair on her arms?”

The apologies started again. He was starting to lose his composure. It occurred to me that I still had more to do. He had unmistakably and irrevocably broken the “fourth wall” in this little piece of theatre, but now I could refuse to drop my role and carry on. This person had not identified himself and wore no name tag. It was like a game of chess in which he had inadvertently left a clear path to his queen.

“And who are you, exactly?” I asked. I was curious, but not irate. After all, wasn’t I just having an expensive dinner with my wife when I was disturbed by this oafish stranger?

The face of the man sank ever further and he almost mumbled. “I’m the manager…” and trailed off.

More apologies came and he soon skulked away.

My wife was entertained, but pensive. I told her that the incubation period had begun. Right about then, they were regrouping, trying to figure out how to repair the apparent damage. I told her that we could almost certainly parlay this into free desert. Our waiter returned with the desert menu and he apologized for his boss again. We ordered and then my wife noticed that a hostess had strolled by our table, looked at her and then jotted something down. She figured it was the table number. The waiter brought desert and informed us that the desert would be on the house. Nice.

Later, I asked for the check. When the waiter returned with the check, he informed us that our steaks would also be complimentary. Incredible. He apologized for the “confusion.” I examined the check. The bill had come to slightly over $150. With all of the comps, which included $80 worth of steak, the total bill was $67 and change.

It was good for us, what with Christmas and all. We really needed the price break. Everything your mother told you about your long hair was actually untrue. If you are free-spirited, you could even get free steak. Just keep your mouth shut. The less you say, the more they think you’re about to boil over. It’s a wonderful piece of theatre, if you’re into that sort of thing.

St. Paul and Guitar Hero

I’m not a video game guy. I know many adults, all men, who spend an inordinate amount of time playing them. They get into it with a fascination I remember having for Atari 2600 when I was eleven, only with a more obsessive approach. When I was eleven, I didn’t have a salary that would buy me any game I wanted, nor did I play for eight hours a day like some kids I knew. Some of the grown men I know who indulge in video games seem so sad to me. They squander years of their lives with it, wasting away in virtual worlds, preferring to atrophy in the one in which they live. They have few strong relationships and seem to surround themselves with enough juvenile distractions to keep them from really looking themselves in the eye. It isn’t that I necessarily believe myself to be superior, since we all have our shortcomings, but I’m honestly glad I’m not one of them.

The latest game that some of my friends have embraced is one that many of them thought I would enjoy. It’s called Guitar Hero. You get to play this game, which is loaded with classic rock tunes, and pretend you’re playing guitar for points. I don’t know any more about the details, but it has been expanded to other instruments as well. They sell these plastic guitars that are used as controllers for the game. I saw a television commercial with a guy and his little toy fake guitar surrounded by chicks. (Trust me, chicks don’t even necessarily go for guys who really play guitar, let alone the sad little guys that pretend to…) As a guitar player, I have only one word for the whole thing. Lame. It’s just so lame. I spent a lot of time learning to play a number of instruments. Spending my leisure time doing the hi-tech equivalent of strumming a tennis racket like a five year old would be enough to give me pause about my life. It’s just so lame. I don’t see the value in perpetual adolescence, but our culture tends to encourage it. It sure makes some people a lot of bread. I think it has led to a generation of men who are very nearly spiritually bereft. It’s their own fault, since everyone has to decide what to do with his life, but it’s so awful to watch. There’s no power consumer quite like a complacent and spiritually bereft power consumer. How ugly.

I’m reminded of that bit Saint Paul wrote in Corinthians, which Todd Rundgren paraphrased in his lyric for “Real Man.”

“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I thought as a child, I reasoned as a child. When I became a man, I put away childish things.”

I think Paul was onto something, but it wasn’t the true nature of man, at least not the true nature of man bereft of spirit.

In the earliest days of radio, someone got around to wondering how they were gonna pay for all of the programming they wanted to produce, if everyone could just tune in and listen for free. Someone had the idea of producing a commercial. It was here in New York. The commercial was for an appliance of some sort, I believe. The day after the commercial aired, orders and demand for the appliance exploded and the company couldn’t keep up. Soon everyone got in on the commercial idea and our system of commercial broadcast media was born. The inevitable saturation occurred and making your product stand out became more important than ever. The marketing approach that still applies developed. I don’t know who the quote was from, but it went something like this: Don’t sell them your product. Sell them their hopes, their dreams and their fears and they’ll buy whatever it is you’re selling.

Is anything more perfect than Guitar Hero to illustrate this point? You can pretend to be the star you’ll never be. You don’t even have to learn the guitar. You can pretend and even gain the accolades of your friends if you do well at the game. It’s brilliant and apocalyptic in an Aldous Huxley, George Orwell, rat-in-a-maze sort of way.

If you look at it like that…

But I don’t. Originally, I was repulsed by the idea of Guitar Hero. As a musician, I found it to be stupid, juvenile and like I said before, lame. I’ve discovered however, that it wasn’t my musicianship that was driving that impression at all. It was the personality trait that brought me to learn how to play guitar in the first place. I’m a dreamer. I poured my heart into something I believed in when I learned how to play an instrument, myself. It felt good to be able to make those sounds. When I played the bass or guitar, I felt unmistakably that it was what I was born to do and that I had been given a special gift. I wanted to be a star too. Still do. But no matter how well my records sell, I know myself and my life is richer for it.

Making music is something so wonderfully human. Requiring both the right and left sides of the brain to work together, playing music can tap the full essence of human potential. Maybe that’s why it makes me feel so alive. No video game can give you that. The way I see it, it can only take it away. No video game company can ever sell that to me. No one, I mean no one, gets to mess with that corner of my heart.

But Guitar Hero isn’t about music. It just amplifies the fantasy of rock stardom as an archetype. Guitar Hero isn’t the end of civilization or modern musicianship. Anyone I knew who picked up a guitar just to be a star never ended up playing very well anyway. The music, even though it’s been moved off the radio and handed to independent artists as an underground art, is safe. Guitar Hero has just made our musicians’ club even more exclusive. Maybe one day, music will come back to the forefront and a slightly wiser people will know the difference between musicianship and stardom. Who knows? It’s possible then that musicianship and stardom will actually cross paths again. Or not. I think both scenarios have their place.

chrispreston.com and newaquarius.org

I’ve been trying lately to reconcile the existence of my two websites, which are chrispreston.com and newaquarius.org. The former is one that I’ve mostly used for my musical identity, for lack of a better description. For some reason I’ve always felt

I've decided to make my sites point to each other. It's just me, so why not simplify things for now?

The first thing I'm doing as part of this merger of my sites, is to make New Aquarius recordings available by download or on CD by mail order right here on my site. I’m really excited about that. Up until now, I’ve been relying on various companies to sell my music. Over time, it’s become expensive and a little exploitive. Most importantly, it’s starting to feel wrong being associated with them. I’m infatuated with the idea of music being distributed artist to audience. It’s time has come, I think. In a world where recorded music has become questionable commodity because of its industry, it’s nice to be able to work outside of the industry proper.

I hope to open a discussion forum about New Aquarius recordings and music as well as New Aquarian ideas. Who knows what else? The challenge will be to do all of that and still make more music. I’m optimistic.

It pays to complain

In my darker and more cynical moments, I can be heard prattling on about Americans and the way they eat whatever is put in front of them. Our culture is one of power players attempting to influence the not-so-powerful to think, feel and behave in a certain way. Most often, it’s because there is some money to be made. The system is horrible for most, because people are brainwashed into thinking that they don’t have a choice in the life they live, the products they buy and the corporations they buy them from. As an outgrowth of that brainwashing, a great number of people won’t rock the boat, so to speak. They’ll accept poor service or substandard merchandise, saying “What are ya gonna do?”

You know what I do? I complain. The amazing thing about the homogenization of the American marketplace is that most big businesses dominating it are run with what I’ll call “big balance syndrome.” If you’ve ever been fortunate enough to have a large balance in your checking account, you may have found that certain digits in the figures started to drop from your list of concerns. Big balance syndrome. For example, assume that you have over $25,000 in your account. The balance in your checkbook says that you have $25,477. Now assume that after balancing, the bank says that you have $25,389. Many would only be concerned if the number dropped below $25,000, and don’t worry too much about the discrepancy. The discrepancy in this case adds up to $88. If you have $100 in your account, there’s a whole lot of living to be done on $88, but because they’re doing so well, many people with $25,000 won’t chase it down. That’s what American big business does on the consumer level, only with millions of dollars keeping them stupid. The numbers are too high to worry about that $88. That’s why it’s pretty easy to make a play for it. How?

The marketing of big American business often includes some insulting hyperbole about customer service being the first priority, and that the company appreciates your business. It’s just talk though, especially from people like electric companies, who truly have no competition if you can’t avoid a solar conversion. More often than not, when I ask a company’s agent behind the counter or on the telephone to hold up to the supposed ideal, they have no script, no plan. The first reaction can be to start handing over that $88 to you. It doesn’t mean much to them, because most people won’t complain and it’s worth it to buy off the headache being created by this weird guy.

Here are some examples:

My first nephew was born back in the 90s. In visiting with him when he was a baby, I had occasion to share Social Tea cookies with him. Someone thought they were decent baby cookies. I hadn’t had them before and I rather liked them. I started to buy them myself. Over time, I noticed how often they would be broken by the time I got to open the package. Enjoying writing letters and such, I wrote to the president (always to the president) of Nabisco, the manufacturer. In my most creative and desperate language, I opined about the quality control at their plant. I continued by explaining how distressing it was to be purchasing broken cookies every week, and how embarrassing it had been for me, trying to serve Social Teas in halves. They thought I was an old lady. I would have to be, right? The letter I received from Nabsico had “Ms.” and “Ma’am” all over it and was enclosed with coupons for free boxes of Social Teas.

I bought a pair of Bass shoes once. Within a very short time, the sole had separated at the back of one of them, forming a “mouth” that would flap when I walked. Maybe they weren’t that expensive, but I expected them to last a year, not a few months. I wrote to the president of the company and explained how humiliating it had been to have a certain attractive young lady in my office laugh uncontrollably at the quality of my footwear. I continued by telling him how I’d tossed the receipt after I bought the shoes, but wanted to know what could be done. I also asked him why I shouldn’t tell everyone that would listen never to buy Bass shoes because of the quality problem. I got free shoes.

The killer is this one. Last year, I had H&R Block prepare our tax returns. They jacked up the New York State return and somehow, it was never filed electronically. After months and months had passed without receiving a refund check, I looked into it. What followed was the most infuriating buck passing act I had ever seen. In the process, I observed some of the most blatant disregard of “customer policy” of any company I’d ever done business with. I wrote another letter, to the president of H&R Block, of course, and described the ordeal. I included every conceivable detail about the cretins in the local office, how they had trivialized my concerns and despite the exorbitant cost of the preparation, made my returns and refunds my problem, not theirs. Within a week, I had district managers calling me. In another week, things started to move along. Before long, I got my New York State refund and a coupon for free tax preparation from H&R block for my 2006 returns. With all the special tax situations I end up in with self-employment and filing in multiple states, it’s going to save me about $350 this year. All for writing a letter.

The moral is that you should always complain. If you want something for your trouble, ask for it. Online retailers are especially flexible. There’s plenty of money, products and service in the budget of most big companies to keep up appearances. If more people did what I do, that budget would disappear, but the companies would be more accountable. Either way, everybody would win. Give it try next time you feel slighted as a customer. There might be $88 in it for you.

Just follow the bass part

I used to pride myself on listing all of the things that I could do. I’m a musician, recording artist, writer, videographer, producer, recording engineer, an Aquarius. Christ. Anything else? Who is it that I was trying to impress? Probably just about everyone. Why was that so important? (Psychologically-speaking, I know why, but that’s not the point at the moment…) After the initial novelty of hearing my resume, I gather that most people returned immediately to resting mode, not caring much about it at all. So how many people did I manage to impress? One or two that I can remember. How many did I exhaust? I don’t know. Maybe everyone. I know I was tired. If you’re trying to impress others by overwhelming them, you have to keep topping yourself in order to impress them again and again. Especially if being impressive is your m.o. How many times can you blow the same person’s mind before you collapse in a heap, let alone the mind of everyone you meet? And what a terrible bore it is to have be terrific all the time!

I find that while I’m proud of my abilities as a multi-instrumentalist, it might have been better if I’d have just stayed with my first passion, the electric bass. Instead of that, I systematically learned every other instrument I could get my hands on. I soon became proficient enough to record albums all by myself. I needed no one’s help to realize my visions. On the surface, it sounds great. The reality of it however, is that if enough people see you doing anything alone, they get the idea that you don’t need anyone at all, including them. Not even to listen. So what was the point of making the music in the first place? Good question.

I could take a great deal of symbolic direction from the bass. You must have other musicians to work with if that’s your instrument. If that was the instrument that I chose, it speaks volumes about what my musical intentions were in the first place. The intentions were lost in trying to be impressive and superhuman. Somehow I got the idea that being superhuman was important. It isn’t. It isn’t any fun either. It leads directly to madness on many levels. No one with any real success has achieved that success in total isolation. No matter what Gene Simmons says, he didn’t do it. Not by himself.

I’ve taken recently to making it clear that which I cannot do. I’ve added to the list of things I cannot do, the things that I might be able to do with enough effort, but bring misery and distraction. A great example is web design. I hate web design. It’s a black hole of time for me. All I ever want to do is make my music or writing available on the Internet and before you know it, I’m completely submerged in code, exhausted and frustrated. I don’t want to be a web designer. That’s why I use somebody’s template to do this blog. I wanted to post writings and ramblings, not learn about feeds, syndication and php scripting. So I didn’t.

What a great thing it is to be human. It’s even better to do one thing well. These are goals I want to achieve in my lifetime.

Nudged by the Universe

Every once in a while I experience a nudge from the Universe. Something in my environment pops up seemingly out of thin air to remind me of the truth that I already know well, but have set aside to service my own bias or current hang-up. It happened this morning.

I was walking down Broadway. (Are you starting to see a pattern here? Broadway is the same symbol for me that the river was for Huck and Jim. Geez.) While grumbling past Bowling Green, I saw a guy sleeping on a subway grating, presumably because it was warmer, right inside the park. All the flowers are still out around the fountain, but then there’s this guy. A little further south on Whitehall Street, I started to notice all of the cars that were parked in the No Parking zones. One after another they lined the street, causing delivery trucks to double park, disrupting traffic in an already congested area.

Two sets of rules, I thought to myself. This city always has two sets of rules. One for the privileged and one for everybody else. Why do I ever bother doing anything by the rules? They’re so malleable it’s sickening. On and on I spiraled, becoming more embittered. I remember my uncle, a retired New York City cop, putting his badge in his window so he could park wherever he wanted to. All of these cars had official-looking Police “I Reserve The Right” laminates on their dashboards. I thought of what September 11th did to Canal Street, with cops parking everywhere from yellow zones to, oh to hell with it, the sidewalks. It was insane to walk there before everybody had a hero complex.

I got to the last car in the row, but it didn’t have a Police Entitlement laminate on the dash. This dashboard was empty, except for a copy of The Four Agreements by don Miguel Ruiz. I couldn’t believe it. I had been nudged.

http://www.miguelruiz.com/teachings/fouragreements.html