Co-Founders Note: Why hello there! We had a stunning morning here at Filthy Dreams after receiving this fantastic, hilarious and wonderfully John Waters-esque unsettling e-mailed submission from a Filthy Dreams reader only identifying himself as Dade. We just about spit up our coffee reading his ode to Transcendental Meditation and John Waters as his spiritual guide (as he should be for all of us). Wouldn’t David Lynch be so proud? Dade is catching some very sleazy fish!
In fact, Dade’s entire e-mail was inspiring, hitting on topics from Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton’s awful Tennessee Williams adaptation Boom! and recommending Samuel R. Delany’s novel Hogg (“I haven’t felt clean since finishing it in disgust and awe.”) We tried in a bleary eyed frenzy to e-mail Dade back but his e-mail, which shared more than a passing resemblance to Twin Peaks’ Agent Cooper, did not go through.
To send us your own Filthy fan mail or ask for help getting out of the Black Lodge, e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org
You write that down? Good. Now grab a drink, darlings, and read on:
Fellow Transcendental Meditation (TM) enthusiasts have been lucky enough to meet the Maharishi in person, and were even lucky enough to receive a personal mantra from the man.
Well,The Maharishi is dead, and although the use of TM has helped me attain bliss after starting my routine in some of the foulest of moods, enhanced my motivation to be creative and has had a big hand in my ability to see the world in my own way (also giving many false impressions of being afflicted with autism).
But now I had to replace the Maharishi with somebody and quickly found my surrogate in John Waters, Yogi.
Anyone who knows me in the slightest can attest that I never take anything seriously. Even the most sacred things in my life, all my ambitions, relationships, habits and triumphs all share aspects that I’m compelled to ridicule.
TM is especially something that is just too hard not to pick on due to what an uninitiated person must be thinking while you try to explain to them what it’s about. Always prefacing the conversation with: “Its not like Scientology or anything like that.” Unless you’re both sharing a bong, the other person’s body language will obviously convey the fear of having been snared into a conversation with a complete mental patient, or even worse… a scientologist.
I mean, meditation works–the brain is a complex organ. In fact, you are your brain and your body is nothing more than a series of parts to keep it functioning. TM is merely giving your mind a break from being inundated with stimuli and complex functions, allowing it to for a lack of a better word… expand using a method focusing on tranquility and deep relaxation.
Just looking at those sentences makes me feel like some kind of moron who believes in aliens and a vengeful bearded man who lives in the sky, or an alien who felt like fucking a cave and smearing his “thetans” all over the primitive species dragging their knuckles on the ground. So failing to see the absurdity in TM is just too difficult.
So I’ve made a decision I’m going to break one of the rules of the TM movement and disclose my new mantra.
Instead of internal repetition of the musical interval, meshed with 3 consonants and 2 drawn out vowels that I’ve relied on for so many years. I have switched to John Waters’ dead on, and intense impression of Rhoda Penmark (from The Bad Seed) sneering “GIVE ME THOSE SHOES.” I plan to repeat that four-word sentence until all words lose meaning, leaving only the threatening inflection of its delivery.
I’m hoping this shall render me a genuine lunatic in an attempt to further attain my quest to invent and create narratives that will hopefully infuriate and repulse the likes of Jelinek and Cooper, compose pieces of “music” that will make John Zorn seem like Yoko Ono, and obsessively ponder our existence, creating philosophies so insane that will make L. Ron Hubbard, and Joseph Smith seem like reasonable men with rational explanations for our existence in the universe. I’m sure this will never happen, but if it does, I’ll have John Waters to thank. A man who went from a role model to a “spiritual” (it brings me physical pain to even type out that disgusting locution) leader.
“Yes, Maharishi. It’s someone else. But it’s not like we were exclusive or anything. Let’s take a break for a bit. I’m blissed out and really need to examine my inner lunatic. No you don’t know him. Oh you do? Yea he’s the guy who made that fat drag queen eat dog poop.”