Body Dowsing the Liver

By Atom Bergstrom

Atom’s Blog

Anger is stored in the liver.

The liver is the cornerstone of longevity.

The medulla oblongata is the capstone of longevity.

The heart is the touchstone of longevity.

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Anger is the rage to live.

Anger is controlled rage — courage.

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The spleen shouts, “I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore!”

That’s not anger. The liver doesn’t shout.

The spleen sings (LOUDLY), “Oh we’re not gonna take it; No, we ain’t gonna take it; Oh we’re not gonna take it anymore.”

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The liver is Silent But Deadly, like in the 1982 Chuck Norris film, “Silent Rage.”

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Facebook is a model of the spleen.

Google is a model of the liver.

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The liver doesn’t like to kick-box.

The liver likes to box — or wield or throw a sword like Japanese swordsman Miyamoto Musashi (1584-1645).

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Punching extinguishes rage.

Kicking doesn’t.

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Anger heats up the entire upper body, including the head, heart, and arms.

Heat rushes up to the head and down to the heart and hands.

The hands and the heart are approximately the same size.

An enlarged heart can often be blamed on the hands — and the liver.

Brown atrophy of the heart can also be blamed on the hands — and the liver.

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Anger doesn’t affect the lower body.

Anything below the diaphragm is off limits.

Cold hands point to the heart.

Cold feet point to the kidneys, especially the left kidney.

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The left kidney connects with the middle toe.

The right kidney connects with the middle finger.

No one “flips the bird” with the middle toe.

That’s the province of the middle finger.

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The Pericardium generates heat — Circulation-Sex Meridian (7:00-9:00 a.m.).

The Three Heaters regulate heat — Triple Heater Meridian (9:00-11:00 a.m.).

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Sexual intercourse at Liver Time (1:00-3:00 a.m.) can dissipate anger.

Men who hold their partner’s hands down during sex are discharging (at best) Liver Heat.

Women who tie their partner’s hands down are doing the same (at best).

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Ishmael (in the novel Moby Dick, 1851) used ocean water to regulate the incinerator of the spleen and the furnace of the liver …

“Call me Ishmael. Some years ago — never mind how long precisely — having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodologically knocking people’s hats off — then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball … I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.”
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