There’s a parable in the I Ching that has recently been resonating strongly with me. It speaks volumes of people who waste their energies by splicing them into the Frey-ian million little pieces. Conversely, it advises us to be the kind of people that stick with things–seeing them through to the bitter (or sometimes sweet) end.

It goes something like this: a wind that blows in every direction is weak and ineffectual, however a wind that blows steadily in one direction over time becomes imeasurably powerful. I guess you could say that success and contentment boil down to knowing inherently, intuitively what you want and honoring that knowledge with a committment to that idea and hence to yourself. All other quick-fix manners of behavior are just–going with the analogy–’passing wind.’

Image: Settle down there, you stallion, you!

An old dear friend of mine, Victoria Behner and I went horseback riding at the Sunset Ranch in Beachwood Canyon this weekend. We were looking forward to ‘getting away from it all’ and escaping into one of the few rustic quiet enclaves of Los Angeles. Unfortunately, the Cosmos had something else in mind for us when it paired us up with a group of 10-year-old girls who were at the ranch for a birthday party. Not exactly a peaceful trot through the hills and high peaks of the canyon.

One thing it did bring to our attention was that the act of profiling is alive and well even in amateur equestrian scenes. As each giddy little girl was shown her horse she was also given its name. Cloudy, Crystal, Stormy…and the like were to be their equine companions. We smirked a little bit, wondering whether or not the volunteer trainers had come up with those names off the top of their heads (”How do you really tell the horses apart?”)

Then it came time for us big little girls to be given our horses. “You’ll get Luke,” the ranch hand told Victoria, “And you’ll be riding Ranger,” he told me. Wait a second, so the little girls get fantasy horsey names (such as the My Little Pony-esque Crystal) and the bigger girls similarly get a fantasy ride (via the Soap Opera-esque Luke and Ranger)? Aha, I see.

The good news is that when the horny twenty-something guys come in for their ride, they don’t even have to change ‘little girl’s horsey names. “Uh, that’s right, you’re going to be mounting Stormy.” And Stormy of course, when she’s not working at the Sunset Ranch, moonlights in Nevada at the Chicken Ranch.

Is it just a coincidence that just over 24 hours ago Tom Cruise was ousted from Paramount, AND within hours of that news it was reported that former-planet Pluto has been ousted from the solar system (or “The Planet Formerly Known as Pluto,” TPFKAP)? I think not. Clearly, science fiction author L. Ron Hubbard is behind both demotions.

Oh, and it’s no wonder Pluto was kicked out of the solar system. Sumner Redstone, head honcho of Paramount apparently added, after making his statement on Cruise: “And fuck Pluto too.”

I saw these fabulous cookies at Whole Foods and had to buy them, eat them and blog about them. What next, Lucky Charms coming out with its own line of Eco-cereal complete with pink solar panels, yellow recycling symbols, orange Ed Begleys and green Al Gores?

Back to my featured product…What I noted immediately was the drawing of the Prius on the box. At present, I sit here still waiting for my Prius to arrive after nearly 3 months on a wait list (and having had to downgrade my color preference from silvery green to just plain silver). Because of this car-less (in L.A. leg-less) state, my eyes have been known to scan the roads for Priuses. I guess you could say I have Prius Envy (urrrr!).

And in Hollywood–North, East and West–it takes as much time as it takes you to dial a number on your cell phone while driving to spot another…and another…and another. So now I have this bizarre perspective on Priuses. I still love love love them and can’t wait until mine arrives.

But now I liken their ample numbers to some kind of program in communist China…”The Car of the People, Prius–must all drive Priuses–government provides each citizen with Prius upon registering with the Party.” I can’t help it, as trendy and celebrity-adored as the hybrid showpieces are, their plentitude makes them seem like a socialized government appointed vehicle.

And go figure that on the box of Eco-Planet Organic Cookies, the car is red, of all colors. Forget Mao’s Little Red Book. It’s the Little Red Car for a new generation of non-violent trend-focused dot.communists who refuse to be “running dogs of the imperialists” (or in this case our oil-happy government). Unlike wretched Mao’s bloody revolution, this one might be dubbed the Cultural Evolution.

This is a message for local blog readers who live in the Los Angeles area. DO NOT use the ATM machine in the Virgin Megastore mall on Crescent Heights and Sunset Blvd. I was using it (as I often do) yesterday when I noticed the Diebold name on it. Remember Diebold? It’s the company that designed those so-called accurate electronic voter machines which have been partly responsible for putting the kaboch on democracy. This same company is strongly in cahoots with the current Neo-Con administration. If you use their ATM–though it seems like only a $2 fee–you are putting money into their pockets. And this all adds up…

Image: My Upcoming Non-Existent Latin Fusion Adult Contemporary/Salsa Album - I’m Huge in Antigua!

The above image–though I know it scanned a bit blurry due to the glossy photo–represents me in one of my happier, more peaceful moments in life. This is after one of my horseback tour guides in the Yucatan picked off some coconuts, and gashed into them with a knife (I dared not ask why pray tell he had a knife on him). Then we drank the nectar from the exotic “fruit.”

This got me thinking about fruit and the giving of fruit as an archetypal offerings to (and from) our psyches. I like the idea that fruit means something–not just getting your prerequesite dosage of Vitamin C. Whatever it represents is present on some level in our deeper collective psyches. It’s a symbol, a gesture, or perhaps even a divine act meant to imbue our lives with something new–or even to warn us of something ominous.

Coconuts symbolize (mostly in Hindu based religious lore) the essence of the spirit (the nectar) inside the earthly corporeal shell. It’s a balance between our terrestrial selves and our soulful selves. It’s the Shiva-esque death and rebirth. In fact, I believe that to break open a coconut is to be reborn on some spiritual level. To drink the nectar is to consume and accept that new (or previously untapped) spirit nucleus of one’s being. For me the simple, humble act of this guide cutting open a coconut for me, and me partaking of it was symbolic of me entering a new phase in my life. I do feel bathed in a regenerative energy. Since my return I have been seeing things in a new way. I am alive again. A part of me that was lost in recent years (or seemed lost, to use coconut symbolism–inside the shell) is back.

Interestingly enough, the reason this part of me was dormant was because I had been engaged in a sort of spiritual slavery (I call it that despite the fact that I had the “key” to let myself out) during an earlier period of my life here in LA. To clarify, that means one is connected to a dynamic that inhibits spiritual growth–they are perhaps in a situation or with a person who will not allow them to be themselves, but imposes a “cap” or bridle on their energies. Such was my connection with one particular individual.

What’s fascinating about this story is that this person once, oddly enough, gave me a pomegranate. At the time, I viewed it as a beautiful idyllic gesture until I learned more about the myth of Persephone. Hades, the god of the Underworld, in an attempt to keep her under his control (and away from her home with her parents) gave her a pomegranate. Henceforth, she spent half the year with her family and half in the Underworld. This symbolic tale of winter perfectly describes the dynamic of that situation. And so the fruit was given and I ate every tiny pomegranate seed, laboring to pick them out (in the same way I labored to connect and find peace with that individual). In layman’s terms it was just a pomegranate that one person, on a whim, gave to another. But if you believe there are magical forces at work–it was a turning point, an ominous offering, which I accepted and so closed myself off from my inherent capacity for childlike joy, as well as inner strength and self-respect, for a long time.

Recently, before going to the Yucatan and enjoying fresh coconut nectar, I had the unique opportunity to dine with a fascinating and good man. It was under no particular guise with no expectations but a spontaneous meeting during which we shared like-minded experiences and information, enjoyed ourselves and co-existed in the moment. I remember him saying in the middle of the meal that he had been at the fresh food market earlier that day and had inexplicably felt that he had wanted to bring me a basket of cherries. From a Western vantage point we’re prone to quickly interpret that as a symbol of the taking of a woman’s virginity. But in Eastern lore, cherries symbolize loving and kind acts. Perhaps prone towards representing a youthful energy, they’re about romance, love and a whimsical beauty that fills your heart and soul with pure joy. In that case, I was never actually given the fruit. But I like the fact that it randomly occurred to this person to share this particular one with me.

Let’s finally not forget that fruit has also made its way into common vernacular. My mother often uses the cute expression, “You’re the apple of my eye.” Then there is the unfortunate term, “lemon,” which describes a faulty or non-beneficial thing or situation. Conversely, “a peach” is a sweet situation or person. So, enjoy the last vestiges of the summer. Have fun and eat fruit (though this blog is not sponsored by the Fruit Council of America) Just remember to avoid the pits!

I’m back, online and in L.A. I ended up going to the Yucatan for a much needed vacation. I stayed in the chic boutique hotel Basico in Playa del Carmen. Designed by innovative Mexican architect Hector Galvan (who I interviewed for my Next Mex story), it was an industrial post-modern testament to recycling in the eco-era. The floors in the lobby, for instance, were made of tire material (the tires had been cut down into panels). Re-used milk cartons resurfaced around the bed. All in all, a great place, with a great staff. I opted however to NOT socialize with the other hotel guests who were basically from the land of ManhattanWood (i.e. insipid, too-cool-for-la-escuela hipsters with not an ounce of warmth but many ounces of posturing and self-consciousness).

Ultimately, this setting and the surrounding beaches, villages and jungly eco-reserves, had a profound effect on me. I believe in geomancy. I believe that different locales bring out different things in us. And for me, the Yucatan whispered a question, “When are you happy?” I started to think a lot about happiness. What is it really? When do I feel it? I realized that I feel it most when I can be 100% myself, and that means no phonies lurking over me with icey eyes, encouraging me to join them in the cult of cool. However, it is also when I come to accept myself and can be myself that I feel a sense of freedom. The weight of social conformity has been lifted and happiness settles in. I feel happy when I am in the moment–not pining over the past or worrying about the future, just there. And lastly, I feel happy when I feel that I have penetrated someone’s social veneer and am connecting deeply with their true self.

That happened a lot to me in the Yucatan….more often than it ever happens to me in L.A. Here in the Boulevard of Broken Dreams and Reconstructed Breasts there are some people who say they are your friends but then they flake, never call or only call when they want to know about cool things to do. Then when you see them–when they step out of their cars for a moment–you don’t really connect with them. Their eyes dart around the room, searching for something or someone better to focus on. But in the Yucatan, I could be real with complete strangers in more profound ways than I have ever connected with some boyfriends or old friends in L.A., if but for a moment–it was a moment that counted (not a New York minute or an L.A. hour).

One of my most memorable of such moments was in the Santanera night club. Like many of the hot spots (and Playa del Carmen itself), it was filled with Europeans. Where Cancun seems to attract Americans of the heffer-ish variety, Playa is all about the Europeans with a few NY/LA folks thrown in for good measure. After chatting with some guys from Marbella, Spain, I got into a conversation with a Mexican guy who was smoking the harshest of cigarettes. The talk quickly evolved into an intense riveting discussion about the Mayan calendar, the shift in consciousness, the world and its battles and how time seems to be slipping away. There we stood, centimeters away from other sweaty clubbers, house music pounding in the background, surrounded by undulating bodies, yelling above the din, but connecting on being human in the 21st century. “It just feels like the months are passing by so quickly,” he lamented. It was a simple enough sentiment but it felt heavily weighted.

Instead of being depressed by our conversation, I was filled with joy. The topic had a certain apocalyptic quality but not of the end-of-days variety. It was more about the end of one era, a changing of the guard, a passage into a new era. But what filled me with joy was connecting with a foreign stranger in a foreign land in the middle of a bustling night club in a chic resort town over our fate, TOGETHER. There were no sexual undertones. It wasn’t about “getting something” from someone. It was perfect communion.

Another memory that stands out from my trip is of being chased from one of the corners of the pyramid of Kukulkan in Chicchen Itza by a bee, all the way to the far end of a field of sitting logs. One American tourist marveled, “It’s so weird. It’s just following YOU, it keeps following you.” Later, I thought I had lost the bee and sat down on one of the logs only to notice that it had crawled on my arm. Panicked, I flicked it off and squashed it with my foot, killing it. I felt bad but then looked up at the looming pyramid and tried to reframe it as a sacrifical act–something the Mayans (or at least their gorey descendents, the Aztecs) might have related to.