There’s a story about the arrival of Spanish ships to the New World. What the Indians saw first in the island of San Salvador was the small canoe you drop from the ship to get to shore. Because there is no port, they settle in the shore and send small rowboats. They were amazed by the workmanship of the row boat; the way that it was constructed was so strange, and the technology unknown to the natives. While commenting on the strangeness of that boat they overlooked the huge caravelle in the background. There was nothing in their worldview to point to that. This is a phenomenon often encountered in shamanic voyaging, where the thing that is huge and in your face you don’t see, because you’re looking at what is known. This is the Face Of God (FOG), which is right here on your face; always touching you. And you don’t see God because you see the illusion of the world. You create the idea of God as something remote. So you don’t see God, because God takes the shape of whatever is in front of you. Or that beast which is the Dreaming. You only see the dream, not the beast which is the Dreaming.
If I say “I am hungry,” the “I” which is hungry is a product of that language which differentiates between you and me. Isn’t it the case that when I say “I am hungry” that “I” in that context is different from the one that says “I am koyote” and from “I did not hear what you said”? Each I is a different entity, new each time it is uttered. Only the illusion of language supposes this I exists somewhere inside me and is saying and hearing things. The one that listens is also just a product of what is being said; what is being grasped. As the I who utters ceases, the I who listens ceases. Yet something remains. And what remains makes no distinction between the utterance and the listening and the reality, perhaps the difference exists only in the language which was discarded like a snakeskin.
Some stories were only told to men before the hunt and in the eve of war, around the campfire.
These stories were told and the men became the story as the killing and the fighting and the eternal dance of life and death were played.
And there are stories that can only be told to the dead.
There were stories only shared between grandmother and granddaughter, because they were permitted to be alone without the power play of mother and daughter. In male dominated societies neither the elder nor the child is considered to be of importance. So they are allowed to whisper to each other and tell the stories that are not meant for male ears.
The nuance of the story would be memorized. The shape of the hand. The sensation of the cool air. The breeze between the legs. The subtle intake of breath in the nostrils will be noticed, and one’s organic reactions to the sudden turns of the stories. Such stories were never told among men, for fear that the veil would be ripped apart and men would realize the futility, the meaninglessness of their ways.
I talked to doves coming down to nest from the dormant volcano of my youth. Sometimes, I walked up the volcano and sit at the summit to watch the city before sunrise. Silence reigns at this time, yet the noises of the creatures of the jungle were there accentuating the silence: some crickets, a few barking dogs, and sometimes noises that I cannot describe. With the Sun came the calls of the proud roosters, the humming of the factories, and the cars going to work. Someone screams in the distance, and someone laughs farther away. A few isolated movements appeared. Then, the sounds began to copulate and mount one another. Suddenly, the cacophony of sound and movement begin to become two, three pitches, two sounds, until only one sound remained. The sound resultant was the humming of the beginning of creation, and with eyes closed then I became one with the humming of a city that was awakening.
When I dream, I like to see these worlds grow like tiny bubbles of soap. I like to see them color up and take on the shimmering lights and tentacles, to then explode into unnamable sentiments and feelings that I could almost name–if only I could remember the language of all.
I see the ones that are still here scramble away from me, swimming through the currents of air that flow into them. I try to touch them with my hands and I cannot. When I get close to one, it vanishes into the nothingness of illusion and memory. I know that just a few seconds before I was seeing those tiny universes made up of flimsy shells of dream stuff.
I can only remember them when I am asleep. I know that when I fully awake, they will give way to a shared reality in a solid world. Or in something that pretends to be a solid world but contains within it millions of little creatures and worlds that scramble away into remembrance and lost memories as I bring my hand close to the light and touch them.
Mama spider. Mama spider.
Weaving and forming. Teaching and feeding.
Out of your bowels we ate.
Out of your spirit we grew;
to hunt one more day,
So was the spirit of my mother, even when I did not see her.
From the depth of her corpse, I grew and came out.
Check out this Telling!
In the Telling, there is a constant interaction between order and chaos, between silence and word, between meaning and the subversion of meaning.
I sit in resolute resignation, folding my hands, allowing the weight of my spine to be grabbed by the gravity of earth. I see the angel of non-compassionate-presence. I copy his visage. I become its mirror. I observe the moment as the moment observes me.
I stare back at the eyes of the void. I do not try to move. I do not try to escape. I do not attempt a resolution.
I observe the eyes of the void. My heart becomes full of love and gratitude for he who sacrifices himself—he who renounces any movement and any expression, surrendering to the will of the moment.
My heart fills with gratitude for what that being has been doing for all eternity. I copy him for just a moment. I take a breath for him, for he cannot. I feel the rushing of warm blood on my body, for he cannot feel the rhythm of his own heart. I allow the electricity to flow through me, burning my skin, for he cannot have the respite of death. I ease myself into the eternity of this moment.
I give myself for him. I remain in the here and now, no longer seeking to escape, no longer wanting, no longer searching.
I hear the words I speak.
The cycle is complete, for nothing is meant.
Nothing is sought.
Nothing is obtained.
I give up becoming.
I give myself to the moment.
There was once …
(Every being, every sentient being, somehow remembers it—buried deep, deep in the cells, in the code that directs our movements and direction. It is faint, like a whisper in the middle of the night, faint like the softness of the breeze that caresses the skin. There is the memory of this time that was, when there was no disturbance of the flow of the light, and just the empty wind stirred the surface of the dreaming. No experience was yet so deep and entrenched as to produce anything remotely close to suffering and pain)
There was once, if you remember, no sense of owning or belonging.
There was only the allowing, the floating, the surrendering into that nurturing something that enclosed our senses.