The biggest mistake Moksha seekers make when attempting to balance their Trinity is trying to silence the mind. After all, the Human mind is a super computer, data cruncher extraordinaire – which means it never switches off, even when we’re asleep. For this reason, the best way to balance the mind aspect of your Trinity is to present for its consideration and examination areas of study that, once interpreted, will heighten your awareness and elevate your perception of the world you’ve been born into.
In other words, to truly silence the mind we must first provide it with something genuinely engrossing to focus on.
Meditation and mindfulness techniques used to silence the human mind serve very little purpose other than to highlight the fact that your mind and spirit are two very different entities.
The mind is an unconscious supercomputer designed to collect raw information. Because the mind is always busy collecting and collating information, it can be a bit of a chatterbox. But just because the mind likes to provide a running commentary on everything it comes into contact with, doesn’t mean we should waste our precious time trying to sanction it. The preferred course of action, in this instance, is to integrate the mind into our wider ‘Being’ in order to make proper use of its capabilities.
Healthy children are chatterboxes too, but rather than stifle their natural development, we instruct them to consider their thoughts and choose an appropriate time and place before speaking. Simply telling children to ‘shut up’ is counterproductive to their natural development. Similarly, when we attempt to silence the mind, we wage war against nature. And when we wage war against nature, we always lose!
When we dance, we synchronise all three aspects of our mind, body, spirit TRINITY, making it much easier to attain an overall state of balance across our whole ‘Being’.
The word meditation can be split into two parts: Meditate and Ions. Medi means middle and middle means balance. Therefore meditation means to center or balance the self.
Meditation through dance is the highest form of meditation available to humanity. This is because music is the highest form of artistic communication available in this realm.
If you want to know what the higher worlds beyond Biosphere Earth ‘feel’ like, start dancing around to our Deadpool-inspired music playlist, linked at the end of this super cute mini essay!
To synchronise the three aspects of your mind, body, spirit TRINITY through the medium of dance, you need to rise up, close your eyes, then press play…
In order to ‘see’ the music, close your eyes and imagine a grid* comprised of equally-sized squares in your mind’s eye.
Inside each square there is a light.
When the music starts playing, the lights inside the grid start blinking, making patterns in time with the music.
Now all you have to do is reach out and touch the squares that are blinking!
Don’t wait, open up your heart and just try it…
Music never lets you down
Puts a smile on your face
Any time, any place
Dancing helps relieve the pain
Soothes your mind, makes you happy again
When we dance we shouldn’t overthink things. When we think, we stop ‘feeling’ the music. When we stop ‘feeling’ the music, we know our mind is attempting to reassume control of our TRINITY. If this should happen, ‘LET GO’. Surrender to the music again and allow your ‘Self’ to fall back into the dance.
When we surrender to the music in this way, our spirit assumes control of our TRINITY. This neat little trick helps us comprehend, perhaps for the first time, the boundary distinctions between our mind, body and spirit.
Next, we want to give the mind something useful to do. This will prevent the mind from interfering with the dance.
Now the mind has a project to occupy its time, it is far less likely to hijack the dance or bother you with meaningless chatter. Instead, the mind will focus its attention on memorising those song lyrics you choose to use as positive affirmations. And because the mind is a perfectionist, it will delight in this task!
All you need to do now is close your eyes and become rhythm…
Did you know that the Human bodysuit you are wearing right now was engineered by your Creator to find its Love Mate during a tribal ‘Love Dance’ mating ritual?
Think about it…
After all, all the best relationships we have tend to start on the dancefloor or involve a shared taste in music in some way…
I first met Sweetie on a Technique-run dancefloor, at an intimate, low-ceilinged, 800-capacity nightclub called Mint Club in Leeds. It was 5am, sometime around the end of 2005 or maybe even early 2006, and she looked every inch my perfect Love Mate, working it in those painted on Diesel jeans as she skip-hopped about the floor like a bunny.
What a stubborn little madam, I thought. But I wasn’t going to give up. I could sense that her energy was super aligned to mine and I wanted her triple badly.
Up close, she was a thing of sex-oozing elegance and refinement. She skipped about the dancefloor with bounding steps like a tiger cat, yet every movement she made was fuelled by a steadiness of purpose like Sarah Connor in Terminator 2… and she wore action sandals (to facilitate her special bunny-hop actions, I thought) and then there was that fabulous little hard body of hers… oh my God… which was slightly underfed and malnourished when I first began tending it.
I told my housemates with absolute confidence: this is her, the super hot hard body cosigner i’ve been seeking all these years… my tiger-style ‘Love Mate’ female Yautja…
Luckily, Steph was best friends with a girl called Sally, who was on the same college course as me – this was good news: we had a mutual friend.
I met up with Sally the following lunchtime for hard drinks in one of the dive bars we frequented along Calls Lane.
Sally was sat at an upstairs table with Greenie, but I quickly shutdown their trivial conversation and began explaining about the setback I had suffered at Mint when Steph just totally fucking blanked me.
I’m so sorry, Greenie, I said, but whatever you’ve got going on right now, it will have to wait – I am absolutely frantic here.
But Sally only laughed. Do you want to know what we call her, her nickname?
All the girls in the gang had nicknames and Steph’s nickname was ‘Lady Muck’, accorded, I was told, on account of her nose-turning, everything nice and perfect please, princess-type deportment.
According to Sally, I had no chance of hooking up with Steph. Apparently, we were complete opposites… and anyway, she was far too snobbish to be charmed by someone as banal as me.
Hang on, don’t opposites attract?
Not in this case, Johnny.
And did you know that she’s older than you?
Jesus Christ, I said in horror, how much older? I had seen her on the dancefloor, hopping around like a bunny in action sandals. But it’s extremely dark in Mint, I thought. I took a nervous glance at Sally and jabbered out my question…
No, she’s not a milf, Johnny. If you must know, she’s only three months older than you. And yes, she’s single. But she’s got a job. You’re a part-time student who gets wasted at Mint and Basics every night. What use is that to anyone?
You’re a fine one to talk, I said, blasted out of your brain every night as well… But listen, the thing is… the thing is: just tell Steph… just tell Steph: I have a job and that I’m totally stable.
It was true. I did have a job. And I felt like Steph ought to know that I was now a licensed stock trader employed by Halifax Share Dealing, the classy high-street casino company for whom I sold shares to super stressed-out rich people who had been bitten by the greed bug.
I had already been awarded a very generous grant by the UK Government Group, which helped me to pay my way through music college (I was a mature student, 23-years-old, yeah). But in order to pay the rent and fund my further adventures into clubland I would need a little bit extra in the way of hard cash.
Unfortunately, the interview process took absolutely fucking forever to complete.
During the first week of a saga that seemed to last indefinitely, Halifax threw a mix of students and full-time job seekers into an open plan office, delineated with floor-to-celing glass walls that accorded a bird’s eye view over the trading floor, for a sort-of monitored discussion session – but I was in the zone, yeah, so watch out!
After a few hours of debate and discussion, potential employees like myself were called back for interview, while those failures no longer considered eligible for financial industry certification were very quickly escorted out of the building before they could cause any trouble.
A week later the group was narrowed down again. Those of us who survived the cut were asked to complete a super special legal test that first involved using pens and then afterwards we went on the computers. Ultimately, five of us – three brilliantly sharp high-heeled girls, myself and a cool, calculated Greek guy from Liverpool called Jez – were offered jobs… but after months of tryouts even this ‘final’ job offer was subject to another goddamn provisory clause…
What more do you people want from me, I wept?
Why so serious, Proteus?
Because this latest fucking exam entailed weeks of revision, followed by another travel trip across the whole inner city stretch and over the river in my suit in the midday heat. Maybe just wear your Puma pumps and Hong Kong combats and change into your suit when you get there, I thought? But no, no, no, because you can’t fold a shirt: it must be allowed to hang.
Evidently, this Halifax ‘earn some extra money idea’ was starting to become a serious drag and by now I was cursing God for the opportunity and telling him to take it away again pronto or else. After all, I had lots of extremely valid reasons for staying work-free: I still had tons of music to produce and don’t forget the endless fucking coursework. Additionally, the summer party calendar was chockablock with apex DJs passing through the city and I could sense that the next few months were destined to blur into one big amazing rave fest… and when I tried to fit a silly job into that vivid orgy of ecstasy nights and sights and jacking production sounds, I honestly, truthfully couldn’t find a place for the Halifax anymore…
But for some reason – likely it was the challenge (and also the wage was much higher than local standards) – I stuck it out… and thankfully we all passed the money laundering exam with five x 100% super recruit triumphs in the bag and the future not looking quite so cash-strapped and sober as it had done the previous morning thank you very much!
To celebrate my accreditation, I snapped open a bottle of Halifax-branded mineral water and, using my newly accredited mob bank Share Dealing username and password, signed into the mainframe for the first time. This is me at the table, I thought. The croupier today… but after a little switcheroo: the Big Boss (and then Sweetie is always the boss of me, of course: for safety reasons).
Now check this out: Share Dealing accounts weren’t the only Halifax customer accounts I was able to access with my recently acquired mob bank mega credentials. I was also able to access current accounts belonging to every person in the world with a Halifax bank account – personal, business, platinum embossed, gold star super card. Whatever the account, the Jedi now had access to everything stored on the mainframe.
Access all areas, Greenie said impressively.
Damn right, I nodded in agreement.
But Sally only gave me a horrid look. I hope you’re not stealing money, Johnny.
Sally was mistaken, of course. I really wasn’t. I’m not a criminal. I could be. But i’m not into that sort of thing. I stole a cardigan once and got caught in the act. I felt guilty for days. Since the cardigan heist mega fuck-up, I decided to quit crime altogether and come to an agreement with a very loud and shouting God that if he just shut the fuck for a moment I would agree to become a superhero instead of a supervillain and then he’d be proud of me again.
Warning: all you gotta do is tell God that you want to help. Try it sometime, it’s a wild ride… one I often wish I hadn’t boarded, but you know what they say? Buy the ticket, take the…
Johnny, what the fuck are you talking about?
All I’m saying is that i’ve got a security key card, too… and it zaps me into guarded buildings, beyond huge bulletproof doors just like Steph’s government agency key card (Sweetie was working undercover missions at a mob-owned city-central government agency when God first arranged for us to meet). Just tell her I have high-level security clearance and vault hacking skills, I demanded. Girls absolutely love it when they know you got high-level security clearance and vault hacking skills, yeah.
Sally laughed. Well, if you want me to be completely honest, even with your super high-level national security clearance skills, I still don’t fancy your chances. Steph’s been fooled before and next time she’s looking for someone who’s straight up… does that sound like you? I don’t think so.
But had I really been granted full unadulterated access to the international banking mainframe? I couldn’t get a straight answer from Mr. Reynolds, my Halifax team leader, which meant I would have to find out the truth for myself.
My computer had fallen asleep, so I started hammering my fists on the keyboard in an effort to wake it. Maybe this is a dummy program, I thought, a self-contained offline training module designed for unseasoned newbies who aren’t quite ready to handle the fast pace of life inside the cyber mainframe? I couldn’t be sure. But to do the job properly and help Halifax become the best casino in the world – my stated objecitve during my first interview – I would need to familiarise myself with the truth and nothing but the truth.
And so while the rest of the gang were swapping high-fives and saying things like ‘super well done congrats darling’, I threw off my jacket and stepped tentatively into the cold, digital frontier of the Halifax banking grid.
The only way I could determine if the terminal I was using was truly ‘live’ was to search the account database for the names of ‘real people’. I decided there was no point scanning the system for traditional English names as this would yield an incalculable cluster of search results, the true meaning of which it would be impossible to decipher. Instead, I decided to scan the grid for unique names – specifically the names of foreign footballers plying their trade in the Premier League.
First up, colossal Liverpool defenders Stéphane Henchoz and Sami Hyypiä – both of whom I quickly discovered were loyal Halifax customers. Wow, I thought, I really do have full mob bank security clearance!
A true financial services professional from day one, I would like to reassure the reader that beyond my 10-minute investigative foray into the depths of the Halifax mainframe, I never once used the system to snoop or pry into the private financial dealings of anyone. There was simply no reason to do so.
The only vaguely interesting fact I managed to glean from my mainframe test search was that top-level soccer stars really do get paid the astronomical wages we see reported in the press. Hyypiä and Henchoz, for instance, each received from Liverpool Football Club approximately £50,000 a week in exchange for their services.
When I nudged Jez to show him what I had discovered during my digital cyber trip into the mainframe grid, he explained to me that lots of footballers put their mega earnings into property.
Do they? I didn’t know that, I replied.
Yeah, they own half of Liverpool, he explained. That’s why I stopped watching football. The same thing is happening all over Europe. When my kids grow up they defo won’t be able to afford to buy a house.
According to Jez, as soon as properties come to market, the footballers will pounce like cats, making quick purchases via proxy property management companies, prior to the homes they’ve purchased being put back on the market for rental.
If we all stopped watching football tomorrow, Jez continued, property prices for small homes would retreat back to affordable levels within 12-months, making it entirely possible for you and I and all of our children to purchase our own homes.
Wow, I said, this is truly dread. Surely we need to go after these guys and, you know, take them out?
But Jez only shook his head. Okay, so you’ve got your mob banking accreditation now, but you can’t just dive into the mainframe all guns blazin’ and shut down any Share Dealing account you consider dodgy. It’s all about building ironclad cases, he explained gravely. That’s how we win the war. I watched Jez take a long whiff of lavender. His eyes rolled up, up, up and back into the top of his skull. Then he jolted awake again and quickly tossed me the bottle.
Can I just say that your friend, Jez, sounds absolutely amazing, Proteus.
Thanks Keith. I’ll certainly never forget him, that’s for sure.
So did you take his advice and unplug yourself from all the giddy football fanfare?
I did. After all, it’s hard to gives a rat’s ass about meaningless sporting shizz when your Bright Island brothers and sisters can’t afford to buy their own fucking homes no longer cus the daft Mason footballers have bought up hundreds of fucking properties that used to be our homes!
But if footy fans keep buying the shitty POLYESTER club shirts and sinking cans of Heineken by the dozen, there’s very little we can do right, Proteus. After all, the soccer fans are happily consenting to their own demise by way of their own freewill?
True… but the current impasse is simply the result of a lack of knowledge, we feel. To wit: once the fans finally get to hear the truth about how their favourite vaccine-touting soccer heroes like to buy up starter homes which they then loan back to the (vaccine-injured) poor at super exorbitant rates, all of the pathetic Roman-style idolatry that defines our souless culture will come crashing down overnight and as a result we will have at our disposal a nationwide army of hundreds of thousands of young men drilled with official V22 Revolt instructions outlining the specific methods that ought to be used to peacefully retake control of their local communities from the pedophile councillors and drug running, vaccine promotin’ Masons, who currently hold sway over what’s what and what’s not.
Hooking up with this little ultra fox was gonna be a bit of a challenge, but it was a challenge I knew I was more than capable of winning… after all, the key to unlocking the cold, privileged heart of any super hot princess is to knock her off her high horse (interesting note: Steph happens to be an accomplished rider.)
The plan: catch her attention by insulting her behaviour.
Why?
Because princess-types always want to be the best – especially the best behaved – if you ever need to reprimand a princess-type on the topic of their behaviour you will find that they will be so overcome with embarrassment by the allegations that they will, at the very least, remember you forever…
And I knew that I knew if I could just catch Steph’s attention and persuade her to come dance with me at a club venue where the music was correctly pitched for tribal Love Mate rituals, we would have the most amazing time and she would tribal Love Mate me too!
If your Love Mate target refuses to dance and the guns aren’t making a positive impression, the only Cupid arrow you’ve got left when you are a boy is laughter… but laughter is a more potent weapon than you might think, so don’t discount it.
Indeed, laughter is the best medicine for almost any situation… a fact endorsed by top scientists and many of the world’s best motivational speakers.
There is, however, a limit to how far you should go when in pursuit of a potential Love Mate. If the girl or guy you’ve got your eye on doesn’t want to talk or laugh at your jokes or listen to good music, it’s probably a good idea to leave the situation well alone as your actions could likely be construed as the actions of a stalker…
But as far as I could gather, we weren’t at that stage just yet. Indeed, everyone agreed that nothing criminal had happened – and so I asked Sally to dial Steph right away and then pass me her cell in the same super stylish way I’d seen her pass her cell to Greenie a few weeks before when we were outside Mint.
Thankfully, Steph answered the call right away and before long I was in full flow, conversing with her by way of Sally’s all-inclusive bundle (if I remember correctly, we were using a Vodaphone to Orange link-up, pulsing through the ether).
Now listen, your conduct the other night was ‘over-the-top’ mean, I explained, raising my concerns over Steph’s decision to outright fucking blank me at Mint!
When Steph finally paused for breath, I quickly gave her my address and told her about the leopard print rug I had pinned directly above my bed in the big four-storey townhouse I shared with two girl ravers from Yorkshire and two boy ravers from Middlesborough. The house was a shocking student dump, yeah, but we all made the most of our bedrooms, of course we did…
What would I want your stupid address for? she asked.
A bet, I said.
What bet?
The bet I just made with God that you’re gonna be staying with me next weekend…
There was a moment of shocked silence. Then the bad language started all over again…
Me: Now you’re talking to me, baby…
She: Don’t call me baby. I’m not your baby.
Most of the stuff she was saying was completely justified, of course. Who the fuck are you to criticise me, you don’t even know me? And she was appalled by the concept that my leopard print rug might somehow be a turn on for someone as super clever and dignified as her.
Nevertheless, Sweetie’s criticism of my existence was, in many ways, music to my ears… after all, there aren’t many women who can throw moral flamethrowers with such pinpoint accuracy. This is a good girl, I thought… and best of all, now she knows who I am…
I let her fry my ears for a little while longer, then I told her I had to go – which was true – and so I passed Sally back her cell, leaving a very irate princess on the other end of the line.
The call was last-ditch, of course… a do or die move… but despite the cold shoulder barge that had knocked me sideways at Mint and the subsequent abuse I had been forced to endure on Sally’s cell, I now reckoned myself a seriously intriguing blip on Steph’s tribal Love Dance radarscope.
And I was right… because a few days later, Sally said that Steph was asking about me, wanting to know stuff that made me think that now she was thinking that she might quite like to Love Dance with me too… which is exactly what I had hoped for all along.
She’s becoming obsessed, I explained to the gang. Have you seen Flashdance, I continued knowingly, I have… and I know what happens next… bodies begin arching…
Love-vibes ignited into a flickering flame the following week as my imagined persistence of vision began to manifest into a reality that had become, by now, almost tangible enough to taste and touch…
I recall standing outside college, smoking with Sally during a lecture break and she was asking me about my plans for the following evening… which was fine… I was happy to share…
It wasn’t confirmed, but there was talk of a trip to some obscure party being held at some obscure club we never usually went to. Maybe a friend was DJing that night, who knows… but the point is: I didn’t attend the event…
Steph, however, did attend the party… looking for me! She surrendered that particular story, with twinkling eyes and a giggle, in 2012, seven years into the relationship…
But the following weekend Sweetie and I did start partying together for real… and we got super super close, really really quickly… and it was all thanks to the tribal power of the Love Dance mating ritual!
