Monday, March 31, 2008

Last Call

We come from the inky hot depths. We have risen from the fetid darkness, nourished by it, drawing our sustenance up through twisted veins. We are of the eternal silence. Our first rites were practiced before the human race was infected with the disease of language, in caves, embedded in the womb of the earth.

We were of the She bear. We were of the poisoned claw. We long still to dance in the old way, in the dance that has no steps, bodies moving where and how bodies seek to move free of exhibitionist calculation. We yearn to sing the songs that rise up with a growl and defy the harmonic scale revered in the west, only touching upon it when it is wrung from our hearts, but never because it is music. We would speak to you without words.

You have felt this communication when in a state between sleeping and waking, afraid to open your eyes and see what is, yet already too aware that you have been asleep to return to slumber. Our embrace has been the hot breath of the desert and the sting of the scorpion. You have known our scent when horror or shock rendered your social beast momentarily docile and you felt that something inevitable was upon you.

Every moment that you live and breathe is stolen, borrowed from our mother, death. You shrank from her fierce countenance and embraced the sickness, the weakness, the watered down consciousness. But now and then you will almost recall that you too will meet her again, and if you wasted your time among the living you will have nothing with which to repay her. Her only course will be to devour you.

Know that you will be ripped limb from heart. Know that your heart will feed a thousand hungry demons if you have not mastered it. If you cannot make it grow wings so that it will fly from the gaping mouths, they will dine on all that ever might have been of you. The same one that set you into motion will stop you dead in your tracks. Like a clock, she starts to tick and every moment is an opportunity granted to you, but if you have laid your body down in docile complacency and forgotten the song that is not music and the dance without steps, when the tick-tock groans to a final stop and your hear the shout of "Last call!", you will return what you borrowed plus interest.

The place and time to grow wings is here and now. This is the only time allotted to you. Use that heart, that raw kernel veiled in the poisoned mechanics of the social mechanical beast. It is connected by pulsing threads to all the emotion that could ever never be, to the great burning grinding sea of naught and never, to the real you, the only you that can ever be, the you that may outlast the tick-tock of all clocks.

Twirl like a dervish then to outrun the lie of the word. Move faster than the word and the reign of the lying God. Soar on the raging sea of emotion like the long lost but never forgotten albatross. Out, out where none dare to go, into the storm where Set rages, separating the warrior from the weak, the grain from the dune. Enter his domain reserved for things that speak through legend, cryptids that may be or may have been, but only in the storm where the disease is blown and burned away.

Meet these mythological beasts, the Salawa, the Phoenix, the Adam Kadmon, and try to guess which one you might have been had you but reached through the looking glass. You, with your ancient reptilian brain must learn to fly, rise to a stature that does not exist in the domain you once inhabited. You will not be as you are now when old mother comes to collect. If you worked in this moment to burst your heart and destroy the old temple so that you may rise from the ash, then you are master of your own death, and what new shape you made to inhabit you can keep. But for you who thought that you could hide, you will be absolved of that sin and all others when you are torn limb from heart and wholly devoured.

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