If I had to write that which describes you, I’d have to be able to illuminate the silence, to open the cranial plains that separate the infinite mystery from the grey thicket, and thus invent a world in which each movement of the plume would draw infinite words where each one reflects the totality of every other.
Or, perhaps, I’d simply have to touch the paper with my plume; knowing that your homonyms do not relate nor describe, but rather draw on the firmament the hidden caresses to your invisible face, without knowing perhaps, or maybe without caring, that no one could ever decipher such sketches.
Do I then bring her down through the rushing of light and matter?
Or does she descend like the gentle starlight: flowing down the empty void to fill up this vessel?
Does she descend gently and loving like dew drops, like the high pitched electrical vibration?
Does she come to me as ambrosia, sweet nectar from above touching the tongue, filling the heart with the most sublime, soft, gentle love?
Is it just the mind that sits by the well in the full moon?
Is it just this silly mind of mine, divided between thought and feeling, that sees a difference between the graceful descent of the utterly tasty and satisfying dew of ambrosia and the rushing of the falling from grace?
When the times bring you to that place where you feel unworthy of love and divine grace, think about the love parents have experienced for their child.
When immersed in remorse for past deeds, or when feeling weakened by the chains of habit in the sleeping state, think about the love present when you see a child you love. You do not love him for his strength, his power, or his abilities. You love him for the essence in him. If he is sleeping, you love him the same as when he is awake.
So is the light of your heart; worthy of love divine even when you are trapped in the sleeping state.
The mother sings to the child, though in his sleep the child knows it not, and his small breath is enough for the mother to feel all her loving care rewarded. That divine breath in you, makes your heart love, and that love comes from the infinite in you, and that awakens the love of the supreme consciousness witnessing your heart of hearts.
In the source of that love, no merit or deed is needed to justify it. Its existence is its reason to be loved.
One day this bubble of existence will burst into a million pieces, sending fire and light, and spread it all through creation.
Or maybe it will dissolve into the liquid nothingness of the solar waters that flow from that sunset that’s been waiting to come for all eternity.
It will then be so that every experience I ever had, every word I ever said, every pain I ever caused, and every hope I ever gave will turn to be just the vibrant resonance, just the booming ocean, just the happy dance, and dissolve in that ocean of experience and move amongst your shadows as meaningless signs and sights.
May I never live through that!
May the memory of me fade away in time.
May my soul not be important.
May my life not be object of remembrance below or above.
May I not be significant.
May my shadows be forgot and go their way, where the shadows go and the light of Her eyes shine brightly.
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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?
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These were the times of darkness, before the coming of the sun.
These were the times when the old witch, Shadow of Bats, emerged from the City of Xibalbá. She emerged to see the coming of the dawn.
Shadow of Bats saw the human sacrifices and the slavery of the tribes of men.
She spoke to the tribe of the free humans, the ones who had refused to be enslaved.
“Don’t open your bodies,” she told them. “Do not enslave yourselves, and do not give your hearts to the gods,” she said. “I will give you fire and teach you to use it.”
From the heart of chaos she brought fire, keeping it alive in the abomination of her sensual dance.
Against the slave gods, she danced, and in her act of rebellion old Shadow of Bats imprinted in the free humans the knowledge of fire in their hearts, and the source of fire in their solar plexus.
The human beings awaited, now, the coming of the sun. Some enslaved and afraid of the dark, and a few free in the reveling of the dance of the eternal flame.
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There’s a place, old and musky…
up on a green hill, where the witches go.
There, under the full moon,
they dance, sing, and take out their brooms.
Their existence was forbidden,
so they had to learn to go to this place in the dreaming,
from the earliest intents of creation,
to unite with God in sexual surrender.
Here, in the true church of the living flesh.
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Intent is an actionable manifestation of Will. Intent is a reflection or refraction of Will. One Will, a series of intents. It takes a lot to accept your own Will. You have spent a lifetime covering it up, trying to not accomplish it, saying, “Not yet, not yet, not yet.”
Will is not synonymous with desire. Desire belongs to the law of accidents. You come to desire in accordance to the programming that was given to you. Will is more connected with destiny than to the desires of the ego. In fact, when under the light of pure Will, the desires of the ego become nullified, like the light of a tiny candle before the glory of the Sun.
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She comes to me naked, in the purity of her presence, without the garments of light, sounds, life and thought.
I’ve known her longer than myself. I’ve known her before I, before time, before the memory of her.
I have seemed to forget her, and in the dark dungeons of forgetfulness, in that mindless chaos of existence, I looked for her.
She was there, always, hidden in every desire and every which pain.
Behind every corner of thought, peeking or waiting at the periphery of the horizon of time and experience, she shines eternally in relentless and unwavering wait.
She weaves and undoes the endless tapestry of existence phenomenal, waiting for the beloved to come to her as vagabond, worthless suitor, with his only claim in the secret chamber of his heart–an arrow certain and true.
She comes to me naked, silent, and I am blinded and deafened by her all consuming touch.