I carry the old world in my blood; and when it is spilled, it feeds our mother earth. I carry the old world in my dreams, and they dream of the future. I carry the end of times in my bones. I am yesterday, today, and the brother of tomorrow.
I am of the builders of the pyramids in all the nations. My love making is of the man-woman; the androgynous. I am self begotten. I am one. I am many outside, one within.
I am the immobile rock which sits in the center of the sunken land. I am the flowing waters that move between star and star. I am of the starry path, illuminating the dark night of the universe. My people is of the star nation, as all the people who are of us. I am eleven and I am none.
After the sacrifice, I am not. I walk across the abyss; I die the death of the just. Maat is in my heart and flows across the gulf of time, from beginning to end of this creation and beyond.
I am nothing. I am the liar, the story teller. I have no words. I speak with no authority but the authority of the fool. I move about the long night, silent, invisible. I show my face to you because I remember you and the laughter of the end of times.
Despierto cada mañana sabiendo que en tu seno se disuelve mi ego cada noche, que en tu oscura claridad la lluvia se colma de sol, y que de tu vasta sombra del ensueño eterno surgió en innumerables designios un yo con su apropiado destino.
… Lo que si puedo observar es que en las profundas lejanías de la noche, allá en lo profundo del cielo nocturno donde la noche y el silencio son perennes e idénticos, las estrellas tiritan silenciosas y lejanas; dejándome percibir a través del inmenso vacío las vibraciones del silencio.
… What I can observe is that in the profound remoteness of the night, there in the depth of the nocturnal sky where the night and the silence are perennial and identical, the stars tremble silent and distant; allowing me to perceive through the immense void the vibrations of silence.
Ahora veo claro, bien amada de mis íntimos anhelos, que hasta en lo descartado y olvidado se manifiesta tu infinita presencia, llamando a tu amado, implorando desde la profundidad de tu santa ausencia que recuerde.
Now I see clearly, beloved of my yearnings, that even in the discarded and forgotten your infinite presence manifests, calling your beloved, imploring from the depths of your holy absence to remember.
Jodorowski once told me of a photographer in Mexico who was shooting images of cocoons. “They are neither worms nor butterflies,” she explained, “I’m taking photographs of the nothing.”
For the Toltec, the alchemically transformed heart is represented by an obsidian butterfly.
Your heart is a cocoon. Inside there is a seed of the infinite, a silent void in the dark, a particle of the eternal night.
Let it be fed with the dreams of the best and purest of lights.
Neither moth nor worm,
the angelic cocoon dreams
with flutters of light.
Photography by Adumbrations Photography
What is this time I live?
Whispers on my ear from the beloved.
Warm breath sending waves of time through my skin.
Such is this place,
unconcerned with durations and ends,
where I listen to the stories that pass through me
in the embrace of life.
Que vuelva tu risa.
Que tu luz no se apague.
Que se espanten los miedos y te huyan las sombras.
Que tu cama te acoja seca y suave.
Que la loma sostenga tus pasos y te vea correr.
Que la luna no te llame en vano.
Que tu voz ya nunca más resuene en ecos de paredes frías y duras cuando llames a tu mamá.
May your laughter come back.
May your light not extinguish.
May the fears recoil and the shadows run from you.
May your bed embrace you dry and soft.
May the hill hold your steps and see you run.
May the moon not call you in vain.
May your voice never more resound in echoes of walls, cold and hard, when you call for your mom.
My, oh my!
How polite you sound when you tell me to tone it down, to not be divisive, or polarize.
Ooh! I love it when you show up all enlightened to explain that the spiritual path is to detach, to go inside, and not dirty your white mind with the mob’s concerns.
You make me tingle. Kundalini awakes! See how free you look, how happy and gentle your unconditional love for all puppies and saints.
I’m amazed at the way you misquote those dead holy men. Inspired! Awake!
Privileged? Who dared called you that? Don’t they know you transcend race, darkness, and class?
But don’t listen to them. Don’t let that word melt your visage. I’m sure they are stuck in old thinking, 3-D concerns. They’re probably sheep who follow the beat of the fake media who never wants peace.
Privilege, you? Forgive them. They do not know. The troubles and pains you’ve had to endure! How much it took to get you there, with all your certificates, travels, and mirth. You also had to struggle, I’m sure it’s the same.
Don’t worry. Detach. Disconnect for a while. Take a break from having to hear about race, oppression, and strife. It’s better for you, better for all. Stay gentle and pure. Smile, breathe, count your blessings and teach.
What happened to last night’s storm?
Where is the lightning and the rain?
Where, the furious stentor,
and the rumbling of heaven?
What happened to the pleasures of youth,
Where did the touch of your fingers go?
Where, the ecstatic sigh,
and the shirtless defiance against the past?
Whatever happened while I drifted away
into the limitless hug of death?
Now, is only a clean world,
bright and fresh,
sprinkled with songs of birds
and the smells of spring,
Now, only the aftermath,
a world renewed and the ample breath
holds my soul
after our light-storm took me into the night.
But in the solitude of the night I stay and know that all the words and all the stories are lumps of life and meaning; and in the center I find myself trapped in an island, surrounded by life, all rushing at me at the same time.
In this center of life I can’t distinguish anything at all. There is no name. There is no God. There is no hell. There is no movement of time and space; just the glorious silence; just the breath rushing in and going out; just her touch; the soft fingers of life holding, moving around, dancing around me.
In pain and joy, her hands play with the silent center. It moves. Sometimes I play with her by moving, talking. The light pulls my arm. The wind moves. The face looks and smiles when she looks back, and in the center of this magnificent womb, what can there be if not the warm embrace, the kiss of her ecstasy? How can there be anything but the loving kiss of the angel of death?