¿Acaso tengo que cerrar los ojos, dejar atrás la luz del día, entregarme al vacío y dejarme llevar por la corriente del olvido, tan solo para poder besar con el último destello de conciencia tu remota presencia nocturna?
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Do I have to close my eyes, leave behind the light of day, give myself to the void, and let the current of oblivion carry me, only to be able to kiss with the last spark of consciousness your remote nocturnal presence?
There is a real power,
a true heart in this land.
The true preciousness in this continent was not taken.
It is not gone.
It is alive.
Because it was not a book.
It was not a building.
It was not a painting.
It was not a “history”.
The true wealth of this continent
has simply been dormant
in the trees,
in the bones of the people.
It’s alive in the silent
coming and going
of the blood in our veins.
It is in the sky.
It is in the curve of the eagle
as it circles it’s prey.
It is in the roaring sound of the waves,
speaking for centuries,
against the rocks.
It is in the depth of that ocean
that we can never touch,
but we can all feel
if we grow in silence.
It is in the air I breathe,
and in every person that died-
that fed with their blood,
those creatures that spoke to us
before the false god came to this land.
So that one day they may awaken once again,
and enter
my body,
and crawl around my spine,
and emerge as a serpent
over my head,
and see through my eyes.
Those are still here
and talking to us.
This continent is awakening.
The continent is about to utter,
in poetic explosions,
the wisdom of all times.
To speak through the sounds of the brujo.
Ancient sounds in modern words.
We are about to experience the drunkeness
of ancient wines in ever-new cups.
We speak directly with the powers
of the land, of the stars, of nature.
We speak directly with the voice of the blood,
and the signs on the skin.
No need for a holy book,
a sacrament, building, or hierarchy.
We speak things of power.
And they are opening their eyes,
and awakening once again.
to dispel the fog of dreams.
(Season Cole’s poetically curated notes from a lecture by Koyote the Blind.)
I am a magician,
I am a brujo
I am a Nahual,
And I know.
I know the power that is here.
I know the power that was here.
The power that exists in the land,
in the mountains,
in the ocean,
in the depth of the starry sky.
I know the consciousness
that stares at us.
I know of the whisper of consciousness
when consciousness begins to dissolve
I know the silent voice of conscience
when I no longer hear myself.
I have dealings with things of power and beauty.
I am beyond the allurement
of your gods.
I am beyond the fears
mongered by your loud mouthed preachers
hiding behind the screens of your television sets.
I know what the people here used to know.
I have seen the beings of power
that have touched the consciousness of the human being.
Bringing knowledge, power, and love
generation after generation…
I know this so well that I do not resent
what your institutions and governments have done…
anymore.
I see the emptiness of your altars,
of your cold ivory hearts.
To you, the cathedral of Notre Dame is more important
than the Gulf of Mexico
and the mountain ranges of the Sierra Madre.
The pollution of the river, and burning of the Amazon forest
means nothing to you.
But your Parisian cathedral filled with Mexican gold-
that you want to save.
I don’t resent that.
I only see how empty your world is,
because you have not known the beauty and the power
that is the wilderness of this continent.
(Season Cole’s poetically curated notes from a lecture by Koyote the Blind.)
My heart bursts with gratitude each day of my existence, for every moment, for every joy, for every foe who helps me test myself, for every friend who shares the road with me, for every tear that purifies the soul, and for the very path where no chair survives.
Tomorrow, I’ll say thank you again, as I do every day. And tomorrow I’ll welcome again every joy, every teaching, every tear, and every where.
But not tonight. Tonight, I’ll hide from the pilgrims and the violence of the saints.
What can be said when silence devours each word?
What can be taught when an infinite unknown surrounds each moment?
What can be added to this moment of silence?
What can I prefer, when every thing is nothing but a horizon?
Emptiness pouring itself into nothing.
Light merging with darkness.
Darkness hiding behind the splendor.
Nothing is, nothing will be, and nothing ever was.
All witnessing is just the intersection of gentle, soft strings.
It’s just the interplay of word over vibration, creating the illusion of continuity; creating the sensation of tapestry and feel.
And in the intersection of light and dark, there by the Road’s End, the weaver weaves.
The hands create tales and sights untold: untruth, meaningless, fathomless, groundless.
And there by the Road’s End, where the ways intersect, you can almost hear the weird sound of the ticking and tapping of the Kindly Ladies; making, weaving your life; ending your life and all.
For all that begins, one day comes to an end.
There by the Road’s End in the intersection of paths.
And it is precisely at this moment that I see the silent shivering of the stars that have traversed not just the vast empty ocean, but also an immense ocean of time to be able to be here, as light and as silence, among sounds and shadows.
But I see more, infinitely more.
I see clearly that precisely like this you, my beloved, have emanated your silence and your light through the depths of the abyss of void so that my eyes might open, so that my ears can hear your silences, so that my mind might dissolve in the immense distances of the eternity of your voice.
Vuelo con tu canción de mar y grillos. Vuelo y beso tu rostro de cielo claro y vacío. Se expanden mis alas hasta los límites de aquel horizonte donde las playas de la muerte tocan tentativas el gentil oleaje del misterio ancestral, prehistórico y eterno, que retumba y yace preñado y dormido más allá de la mente, soñando playas, valles y llanos en pequeños mundos conscientes jugando a existencias y despertares.
Vuelo con alas de viento. Me elevan al firmamento cubiertas en plumas de luz. Se deslizan sobre el plateado resplandor de la conciencia vacía y sin fronteras, y así veo desde las alturas la cambiante y fluida creación del pensamiento y la experiencia.
Y así la creación misma, efímera y eterna a la vez, se presenta en su aparente extensión bajo mis alas de claridad solar.
Extiendo entonces mis alas, agarro altura, y me elevo aún más hasta que ya no tengo alas ni viento, pues soy el corazón del cielo, y mi rostro se extiende hasta el límite de la ilusión, cubriendo el espacio entre el mundo bajo el sol y el infinito vacío que sostiene al sol y las estrellas de donde todo surgió y donde todo se disolvió.
I’ve learned to show strength
when there was weakness.
I’ve learned to lure an enemy with weakness
when there was strength.
I’ve been manipulated into someone else’s morality.
It’s the way that they say:
He’s not a tattletale.
He’s honest.
He’s kind.
He’s generous.
He’s a ‘Good Christian’.
He sacrifices for others.
It’s the way that they say anything
to get you to do what they want you to do.
It’s their own lie they plant in you.
People manipulate each other
by praising each other’s weaknesses.
When you buy into these lies
and neglect your higher duty
to not violate the moral control of others
you compromise the things and people around you
that are of that higher obligation
and there to help.
There is only one question:
What is truth?
This truth is your compass,
not the illusion presented before you.
If you know what truth is,
you will act in truth.
And what others do doesn’t matter.
It’s a game
and it’s all happening in a dreamland.
When you can think ahead 10 moves,
you’re getting good.
When you can think ahead 20 moves,
you’re an expert.
The Grandmaster see’s only one move:
the right move.
The right move is truth.
And that is always done from above.
(From a lecture by Koyote The Blind, poetically curated by Season)
But if it’s true that there will be other tomorrows, other dreams, and even other destinies, today today is only the surrender that pulls me; just so, without hopes or memories of other dawns, without nostalgias or hopefullies, but only with the immediate dissolution into the storm of void that the silence of the heart of your night brings to my present as the most complete word that declares a mortal end to the grain of sand that one dawn dressed up with life and came to be me.
