Vamos a comenzar una serie de pláticas en español, hoy jueves 18 de marzo a las 7:30 p.m., tiempo Pacifico. Nos reuniremos cada jueves a la misma hora.
El tema de las pláticas serán las tradiciones de resistencia espiritual este continente americano vió nacer.
Pueden registrarse en my canal de YouTube:
https://youtube.com/KoyotetheBlind
También transmitiremos en vivo en mi pagina de Facebook (The Telling by Koyote the Blind) e Instagram.
(Arte de Xochitl Flores Xochitl Flores Jaramillo)
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.
… 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.
It is not easy to discern the nature of the situation. At this point, the coronavirus is mutating—as expected. As humans work to strengthen defenses by internal and external means—enhancing immunological response, masks, regulations, and vaccines—the virus is under pressure to improve its capability of attaching to the body and reproducing itself.
This is common in our symbiotic relationship with microbes. We would not exist without them. Yes, they have created deadly and crippling strands, but also have created variations that have become an intrinsic part of our body and even our DNA. Viral mutations and their access to our DNA code has allowed some of them to become part of the survival tools we have developed; and indeed, part of what has improved our capacity to feel more, to grow in consciousness, and to develop our capacity to evolve.
As we seek to become immune from this virus, there is an intelligence attempting to make the virus better at what it does. It is the same intelligence that allows humans to try to understand and survive. Either the virus gets controlled and rendered innocuous, or it becomes too strong for us—is how most of us tend to think of the road ahead. However, evolutionary ethnohistory teaches us that there are times when the viral entity has become so good as to learn not only to bypass our defenses, but to evolve to the point where it becomes a important collaborative tool for our evolution, increasing thus our intelligence, sensorial acuity, and capacity to face this infinite vastness wherein we thrive.
What is to happen with this one strand? We don’t know, except for one thing. We must do what we have always done: strive beyond the limits of our comfort to understand, to survive, and to keep growing in joy to thrive in the face of any and all adversities. This is what allows all beings around us to also strive to improve.
As we evolve, so do all things around us.
Face this time with courage, therefore, and stay alert. But do not succumb to dread and fear of the unknown. Do not fall into the pit of false knowledge either. Opting to feel the comfort of belief is the hubris of a lazy mind. Know, instead, that we are always facing an endless field of light in infinite extension, unknowable, and in this facing of the mystery of existence we take each step into the unknown with courage, with joy, and with the evolutionary tested strategy of having each other’s back. Thrive in the knowledge that as we get better at what we do, so do all sentient beings.
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
https://instagram.com/adumbrations_photography?igshid=1ceuqz67s4rc0
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.
——- (translation)
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.
More than 100 people are in prison for third degree rioting in Minneapolis today. Justice moves faster for some.
They should have painted their faces and dressed like native Americans while throwing private property in the water, hiding in the dark. That’s how you rebel against tyranny in this country. They’d be heroes instead.
More than anything, please remember to take it all with the right perspective. What you saw was just a bad apple executing an innocent man in broad daylight. Horrible, of course. But don’t blame the men in blue. Most never killed black men. Some only stood guard, and others held down. Most are not rotten apples, more like silent worms feeding off the rot.
Don’t blame all cops. We don’t know all sides. There was the matter of $20 someone had forged. How do you feel now? We don’t know who did that. Not at all, but we could all see in broad daylight that that man was obviously guilty of being black. There’s no denying that.
Do not blame the blue. Who else will protect the business and rights of the Neo-nazi to march?
Brave is the gang in blue, keeping their cool when white men with too many guns get angry over too many masks. Because that’s not scary, no. Not at all.
Finally, remember to never ever take the knee when the National anthem is playing. That’s unpatriotic. Do it when the people are pleading with you to stand up, when you’re wearing blue, when the scary man of color is under you.
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,
of soil,
of dew.
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?
