Pascal Terjan
Pink Pony, 2007
text by Gideon Jacobs
Settle into a slightly uncomfortable position. For example, hold your arms above your head as if you’ve just finished the ascent of a rollercoaster and are about to begin the descent, or bite your cheek hard the way some nervous people do when they’re nervous, or cross all of your fingers like a child desperately hoping to avoid retribution for telling a lie. Most meditations suggest the meditator find a neutral posture, but neutrality is a halcyon myth for our species. So, today, we’re not even going to pretend, not even going to kid ourselves.
Instead, we’re going to be realists and practice a version of what the charlatan at your local yoga studio calls “self-acceptance.” That is, we’re to accept that this is going to hurt, that the Buddha was right about dukkha, that Saint Paul was right about original sin, that your mother was wrong about everything. So, again, settle into a slightly uncomfortable position, some way of being that is vaguely tolerable now but will almost certainly, if held for the duration of this meditation, become unbearable. And close your eyes.
Let’s try a traditional visualization exercise, except in place of a deity, guru, or mandala, let’s visualize the famed Byzantine emperor Leo III. Or, more accurately, let’s visualize the digital image of an old painted portrait of him that the Google algorithm spits out first when you search his name. Study Leo’s solemn, poorly-scanned face with your mind’s eye. Observe his expression: a worrier, a warrior. Use all your empathic powers to feel the sorrow he must have felt when an enormous volcano erupted in the Aegean Sea in 726 AD, causing tsunamis that brought catastrophic death and destruction to his kingdom. Put yourself in his royal red shoes—only the emperor was permitted to wear red footwear—and imagine, in the wake of the disaster, a lightning bolt of clarity hitting you in the middle of the night: your people’s misfortune was a judgment from God for their veneration of images.
Try to know deep in your bones, as Leo knew in his, that the disaster was punishment for a pervasive societal disregard for the second commandment, for an obscene collective flouting of that sacred directive that has passed via broken telephone from God’s lips, to Moses’ ears, to the Church of England’s pen, to Wikipedia’s servers: “Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness [of any thing] that [is] in heaven above, or that [is] in the earth beneath, or that [is] in the water under the earth.” Think of innocent Byzantine children drowning in their beds with a gulp, gulp, gulp, and let Leo’s guilt wash over you.
Now, we’re going to further embody Leo by turning his edict of 726 AD into a mantra. There’s actually no record of the exact wording of the edict, but historians do know that it was written in Latin and that it called for the destruction of all objects adorned with the likeness of religious figures. So, let’s practice for a few minutes with a rough English approximation of the edict, utilizing it as a semantic object that can help us focus our energy and attention.
First, just think the following phrase in your head over and over again—No more phonies, just real ponies. No more phonies, just real ponies. No more phonies, just real ponies. Now, without losing your rhythm, keeping continuity with the internal verbalization, mouth the words without speaking them—No more phonies, just real ponies. No more phonies, just real ponies. No more phonies, just real ponies. Now let’s move this mantra into the sonic plane by whispering the phrase repeatedly—No more phonies, just real ponies. No more phonies, just real ponies. No more phonies, just real ponies. Now push it a little further by saying it at a normal speaking volume, and speed up a little—No more phonies, just real ponies. No more phonies, just real ponies. No more phonies, just real ponies. And now get loud, screaming the words as hard as you can, as fast as you can—No more phonies, just real ponies. No more phonies, just real ponies. No more phonies, just real ponies. Keep going. Keep going. Keep going. And then, when you feel your entire body reach a breaking point, when there’s no breath left in your lungs and no thoughts left in your head, shut the fuck up.
Take a few seconds to let your heart rate normalize. Unclench your sphincter. Relax. You’ve just experienced an intense rebirth of sorts, a rearriving into the present. So, we’re going to wrap up this meditation on a tranquil note, and put some spiritual balm on your natal wounds. Keeping your eyes closed, imagine you’re on the world’s most beautiful beach. Feel the sand between your toes. Hear the waves lapping against the shore. Smell the sweet and salty air.
Look out into the ocean—the sun is setting. Admire the colors in the sky, the impossible shades of red, orange, and pink that would compel any sane person to stop what they’re doing and attempt to have an experience of awe that reminds them of what really matters. Stare directly into that blazing ball of fire as it approaches the water, following its incremental movement down, down, down until its bottom edge is eclipsed by the horizon. Watch it lower further until it’s halfway gone. And then, when the very last ray of its light disappears from view, take a final deep breath. On the exhale, listen carefully and you just might hear a guttural rumble, an earthly growl that could either be your stomach experiencing some minor indigestion, or something much larger, louder and, for now, further away.
This essay was included in Autre Issue 9: The Decade of Influence Winter 2019/20