Dias Perdidos

El trueno y las nubes trajeron un aviso de paraíso. Atravesaron el velo de la noche y llegaron jugando con el alba. Atrás quedó el calor opresivo de los últimos días. Se quedan casi en el olvido mientras el cielo juega con luces y estruendos, coquetea con llover, y acaricia mi cuerpo con brisas frescas de días perdidos.

¿Acaso serán estos los días perdidos, los que no viví, los del exilio? ¿Será por por esto que estos relámpagos huelen a olvido recordado? ¿Será por esto que esta lluvia viene sin estar, y humedece la tierra sin caer? ¿Será por eso que en este día vivo sin estar aquí, recuerdo lo que no viví, y te abrazo bienvenido en la ausencia que nunca fue y en el vacío que me llena a plenitud?

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Always the Ocean

The sun had just immersed itself in that beautiful golden rainbow water in the distance. She came out, this beautiful creature, out of the ocean. She walked towards me. I remember it. I could almost see her, but not quite. But she was there, I think—or almost there.

She was barely true, almost real. I could tell she was there because of the soft shimmer on the outline of her body. The light of the sun, indirect and gentle, almost as if saying goodbye, would reflect on her surface––small glimmers of dew telling me of a hair, a curve, a breast, maybe a mouth.

She was almost there. Barely there. But the likeness of her being was unmistakable. I could feel it in my skin. It would tickle me. It would make me burst with a small gentle smile. It would make herself known when I took a whiff of air into me, and she smelled like the ocean. She smelled like the sand. She smelled like the sunset. And there she whispered in my ear.

She told me the story of the doll made of salt who would sit by the ocean as I sat by the ocean, waiting for the water to come close to her, almost kiss her, and go back; come back and go back; and one day it came too close and it kissed her on her feet. The oceanic water touched the feet of this doll who sat just as I sat. But her love and yearning for the ocean was so great that just one kiss of the ocean begun to dissolve the doll of salt. In her love for the kiss, all of her dissolved and she became the ocean.

When she told me this story, I asked:
-“So, what happened to the girl made of salt?”
-“She became the ocean” she said.
-“But, aren’t you the ocean?” I asked.
-“Yes” she said.
-“So, do you remember being the girl made of salt?”
-“I was never a girl made of salt,” she said. “I’ve always been the ocean, and I will always be the ocean.”

Why I Lay This Soul to Be Torn Apart

I have seen the dunes of time, rolling with the shifting sands of the endless desert between the dream of life and the wake world of the House Absolute.

Who can cross this unforgiven vastness?

Who survives the ancient whirlwind that tears apart gods and worlds?

Who stands whole before the terrible stentor of The Heart Of The Sky, whose voice creates and destroys the infinite abode?

Who will cross this desert, whose ever shifting dunes are formed out of the cold breath of the eternal void upon the sand of time where every grain is the unique divine point of view of every traveller, of every dreamer of the House Absolute who ever entered this desert void?

And why is it, beloved of my soul, that I would lay that very soul to be torn apart, to add one insignificant grain to the infinite sand? It is so that you too may come to find your completion, your satiety in the constant embrace of the beloved, and that you may also know the glory in plenitude as I have.

When I Can No Longer Remember

What is this, penetrating me over and over again?

What is it that pulls me out of myself, over and over again? What is impregnating, causing me to give birth to words and stories and thoughts? What presence is sending these words out to see if any survive, to hear some of them coming back to die in the vastness of my mind?

Thousands of children created, all living inside myself; a few of them daring to come out in words, in teachings, in thoughts and stories. What is their life like out there? I don’t know. All I know is the swelling in me that sends them out; and they go out there not knowing why I sent them. I can’t tell them that. They cannot know why. That is for me to know. That yearning is mine, and I send them out, each one with its own orbit, to live and die, to one day come back.

More and more are created in me, from the pulling of that Goddess-priestess––her silver touch pulling all the way down to my womb. And that sun God! Harsh, brilliant and penetrating, hitting my flesh, burning.

This womb of my heart is ready to swell, to live, to yearn, perhaps one day to surrender into that vast thing I call the ocean, when I can no longer see it because it’s too big, when I can no longer hear it because it’s drowning me, when I can no longer remember myself stepping into the waters.

 

They Had to Keep Us Ashamed

“The high priests of the slave religions knew that for the human being to never be able to reclaim the magnificent vistas of the higher worlds, and for the human being to nevermore be able to satiate the yearning and the pain, they had to keep us ignorant.

They had to keep us ashamed of this force that rises from the loins, that inundates the body. They had to make us believe—really believe—that this force was only for procreation; and for those who rebelled, to make us believe that this force could also be used for fun. While both are true, they hid from us that these forces are not just for procreation or fun; they hid from us that the very force that creates a universe is hidden in our flesh.

From then on, all those who create churches or gods, families and groups; all those that divide us between genders, clans, politics, casts, nations and social class, are only working to keep us away from the true genius that lies dormant within the dark confines of the flesh.“––The Witches’ Sabbath

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The Stars Firing Synaptic Dreams of God

Every atom in your body was forged in the bowels of a star, and everything you can perceive in this universe was also formed in a star. If this universe is an illusion, then the stars are the synaptic firings creating the building blocks of the dream of God.

Now, consider the situation before the first stars erupted with light in the night sky. The universe had never seen light, and yet all the matter that was possible was already there. In fact, most of the matter that had been created before the first stars came out was already gone.

What we’re experiencing right now is not the bounty of creation. We are on the last leg of creation. Most of the material content of the universe was already gone by the time the first stars were created. And when the first stars were created there were no planets, no life. There was just that initial light filling up the universe, and those giant stars remaining after the initial splendor.

These stars lived their lives for billions of years and one of two things would happen. Either they would contract enough until they became black holes or they would explode becoming super novas.

The ones that became super novas would give themselves to the universe, sending off everything that had been forged in their bowels and all this matter then would come to join other star systems, reaching the type of matter in these other stars. This new matter would then again form new stars and create the second generation of stars.

The new stars would again either become black holes or supernovas and then they would give rise to more complex molecules and form new stars and new types of planets until we come to this sun that we have.

Our sun is part of the fourth generation of suns. All so that we may have a very rich variety of molecular structures in order to have the complexity of planetary existence that we experience here and now.

It is with this type of planetary existence that we can form different bodies; bodies capable of sustaining life; bodies capable of carrying the type of consciousness that sentient beings have. So, we have gone through all this trouble just to form this kind of body that can carry the sentience of the universe.

Before the Light

Sometimes we speak as if the phenomenal world, the tonal, begins with light; but there is something before light. In fact, sound, that reverberation that undulates just outside the world of perception, exists before there is visible light.

Think about it this way. There is this energy burst that creates all possible matter and antimatter, and immediately most of what is created is eliminated; matter combining with antimatter, cancelling each other out. They nullify each other. And there are clusters of matter that group together and clusters of antimatter that in the explosion did not interact with one another and therefore were able to survive.

The more these surviving clumps of matter come together, the greater the gravitational pull they create, until the pull is so intense that they burst into light.

They become a star.

Before the first star emerged in the night sky, there was no light––no visible light at all. There was already matter, and a great deal of history of the Universe had already happened before the first stars started lighting up the night sky. And even that is not when creation starts.

See, matter was already existing. It was not matter as we knew it because it wasn’t this complex. There weren’t as many types of molecules. There were just your basic hydrogen and the antimatter equivalent; but they got together and created this massive amount of matter and exploded, and if there is a moment when we can pin point in the Bible a beginning of appearances is when that command is uttered with such certainty that it comes from the creator as he is flying over the surface of chaos with his bat wings and all of a sudden he says, “Fiat Lux!”

Kaira

Era tan solo un destello de luz estelar, la más frágil criatura en existencia.

Bueno, llamarla criatura quizá sea tomarse una latitud irresponsable con el lenguaje. No tenía ni siquiera un cuerpo, no pertenecía a especie o género alguno. Por eso es difícil llamarla criatura. Lo que pasa es que también resulta difícil pretender que no era un ser vivo. Aquí es donde la lengua española nos falla. Es un ente, claro está, pues podríamos decir que estaba dotada de conciencia. Pero bueno, tampoco podemos pretender que esta conclusión resuelve la cuestión, puesto que decir que este destello de luz está dotado de conciencia es como pretender que su simplicidad se ve complicada al añadir cualidades externas. Más bien, tendríamos que tener una palabra en nuestro idioma que a la vez nos dijera que al mismo tiempo ella era luz, destello de luz, consciente, durmiente, sin órganos sensoriales, completa, simple, frágil, e indestructible.

Retomemos el asunto paso a paso. Era tan solo un destello de luz estelar. Estaba consciente, sí, pero no tenía órganos de la percepción. No tenía ojos para ver. No poseía oídos que detectaran sonido, ni un sistema nervioso con que sentir. De echo, no poseía un cerebro con el cual pudiese formar pensamientos ni memorias. Quizás podamos decir que tenía una conciencia dormida, como un estado de auto-reflejo profundo––un dormir sin sueños, sin memorias, sin eventos.

Era a la vez frágil e indestructible. Era tan frágil como un instante. Existía porque viajaba de un momento al otro, sin defensas ni estructuras. Viajaba en el espacio oscuro. Viajaba desde el principio de los tiempos, deslizándose por el vacío infinito. Era invisible porque nadie nunca la había visto. ¿Qué es la luz cuando no es vista? ¿Es acaso oscuridad? Quizás. ¿O será más bien posibilidad y espera? ¿Será un grano de la nada en espera del momento en que dejando de ser se vuelva una visión de su origen?

Vino de una estrella. Y por ser luz de estrella tiene en sí la esencia estelar. Si alguien la ve, verá la estrella.

En el momento en que sea vista, dejará de viajar invisible y se convertirá en estrella en la mente del vidente que la reciba. Se convertirá en poema, compañera del canto de grillos y el palpitar del corazón de amantes. Se convertirá en el conocimiento de sabios astrónomos y profundidades filosóficas.

Tal es su fragilidad que dejará de ser destello de luz en el momento que alguien se vuelva consciente de ella. Y tan indestructible es, que después de eternidades en el infinito, se volverá estrella en el momento de su muerte. Es destello de luz estelar, semilla poética, y esencia de la noche.

O quizás no sea percibida por ser humano alguno. Puede ser que venga a reposar en la hoja del árbol de acacia, y así de luz se vuelva oxígeno. Puede ser que como oxigeno sea partícula vital de innumerables seres, que se convierta en molécula de agua y aire. Que viva en el fulgor del fuego, y en aroma del perfume; que viaje en aliento del cantor; que alimente los cuentos de una soñadora.

Era tan solo destello de luz estelar, la más frágil criatura en existencia, eterna y perenne. Se volvió parte de todas las cosas. Se convirtió en todos los seres. Formó parte de todas las mentes y percibió todas las cosas. Pasó a ser aire y luz, agua y fuego. Se cubrió de todos los cuerpos y presenció todos los pesares––y las alegrías también.

Y así vino esta estrella, proyectándose como luz oculta, a ser parte de todos los seres, partícipe de todos los actos, presente en todos los recuerdos. Dejó su viaje por el infinito para vivir en todas las cosas, hasta que un día se encontró en cuerpo humano––frágil como la vida y eterno como el arte––y por tan solo un momento dejó de ser invisible cuando alguien la vio en su esencia natural de destello estelar, y componiendo el idioma la nombró con su nombre verdadero y oculto, con su nombre de destello de luz estelar. Al escuchar el sonido de su nombre verdadero, el destello se convirtió en momento fugaz, materia prima de la consciencia, y la amiga oculta de todas las cosas.

[Kaira es una escritora española de mucho talento. El libro en la foto es uno de sus libros para niños. Está historia es dedicada a ella]

Moon Cities

Thus we searched for strange maps; maps which described not physical properties of the known world but the shadow world, wading not through accepted history, but through accepted mythology.

We sought the stories of the old ones. We recorded the lies told in prisons and mental institutions, guided by the sexual fantasies of the dangerously deviant, walking from dream to dream, recording every distortion: shadows that move within a blink, the dissolution of the world as we fall asleep, the dissolution of time as we begin to wake up.

Those became our stepping-stones. And madness. Yes, madness. Those were the definitions of our maps for a long, long time: lies, distortions, inaccuracies, old-wives tales, intentional lies, honest beliefs, and entertaining mythologies.

Songs and dreams, they created a vast wasteland, a desert made of sand. We started to chart the territories where this sand had congealed into miles and miles of glass, forming illusory cities made not of glass itself but of the reflection of the moon upon the glass.

 

She Falls In the Well

There is a well behind me, and the word well means nothing. It is silent. It contains meanings which are not. It contains familiar resonance. It contains the footprints of his sister jumping up and down, happy, cheering her brother playing baseball; jumping up and down not knowing that the wood has been weakened over many years of water and worms.

Dancing happily. Falling happily.

Surprise, fear, happiness mixing together as the pull of gravity fills to her loins as the flight of an angel falls down, pulled by this gravity well. The acceleration of the fall which came right after the utter happiness of cheering for her brother who is my father.

And she falls and she forgets. There is no time to think. The blood rushing to the head. The finding herself from world of light, watching the game––the ancient game of the gods––is still here buried deep in her head as she falls.

But now she is surrounded by the darkness, and this darkness moves at a very fast speed, rushing up at her. Joy, happiness, fear, surprise, awe, all mixed into one. No sequence of events. Just a rushing of the fall into the well of gravity to end in the dark waters, with no reflection, with no form, with nothing to create.

Is she then, my sister, my daughter, my mother? Is she there in this dark well fed with the dark waters that run underneath the surface? Is she there in the racial memory, in the silent background, always behind a thin veil of darkness awakening me, calling me beyond the veil?

Or is it my love and my desire for her what reaches out as a tendril from my belly and crosses beyond this veil of illusion and grabs her from her ankle, pulls her down from her life of light and joy?

Do I then bring her down through the rushing of light and matter? Or does she descend like the gentle starlight, flowing, descending through the emptiness of the void to fill up this vessel?

Does she descend gently and loving like dew drops; like the high pitched electrical vibration; like the ambrosia, the sweet nectar that descends from above and touches my tongue, filling my 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 mind of mine, divided between thought and feeling? Is it just this silly divided mind 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?