Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Restoring the Dead God

The pressure is on- be spiritual, do something magickal, say something esoteric. There is an intense fracture somewhere, somewhere. I can’t place it now. I know it’s a broken mind from which many tiny blue tear drops dance down to the black soil, nearly colliding with the golden moths that flutter by in carefully rising and descending helixes like animated leaves in a whirlwind.
The pressure is on. The kettle of polished black enamel rumbles urgently, the first traces of steam slipping through it’s pursed stainless steel lips. Its scream pierces the atmosphere of the pearl dream time. It wails and wails about the blackness of the horrid cast iron skillet with which it has been forced to share the stove top, red hot electric coils glowing under its tortured steel bottom.
Meanwhile the moths have descended upon the electric blue skeletal remains of a humanoid life form. They crawl through the wide eye sockets to lay eggs inside the skull, a practice of theirs, thousands of years old. I know it’s a broken mind and I’m in it. I know that my body is a vague idea, an almost created dream that will evaporate as the tide rolls in and the sun pops up like an awakened eye to glare in at an emptied black stage where nothing played briefly.
I listen to the tiny little voice speaking to me about the excruciating pain that she’s in. She cannot wait for the sun’s gaze to burn her away. She is a bad dream. I know it must be a broken mind. We dreams seem to go on forever and ever and sometimes we think that we have awakened only to find that we are another dream, another glistening shard of a fractured mirror.
That’s all it is, smoke and mirrors, but no one believes me, and they keep on playing in the fun house, in the emptied blue skull of Shiva, where they are content to crawl as larvae, out of the nasal cavity, over the smooth dome, back in through the gaping eye socket mumbling about 2012 and Christ consciousness, tax returns and a water shortage.
Say something esoteric. I am asked to tell the truth, but so long as I am using words I am lying, there is nothing that I can say about the great adventure, about life, or death, or love, or beginnings or ends that will be true. I am very angry that I am being asked to say anything. Answer your own questions, I need to return to the sea.
After eons of living in the pool house of a dilapidated mansion, a tangled mess of countless winding hallways and dark rooms filled with mystery and murder and magic, the minotaur came and lifted me out of the pool with it’s chipping plaster and faded underwater lights. He was strong and muscular, covered with coarse brown fur, more like a buffalo than a bull. I went willingly with my savior, knowing that I was leaving behind my children , scattered throughout the many rooms, and I would never know what was to become of them in this story. Smooth hot pink skin with aqua blue nipples were mine and a long slippery tail, also hot pink. I was old. As old as the mansion and my companion, the long forgotten lord of the manor, the minotaur now carrying me away to open water.
Do something magickal. More magickal than creating this cracked up illusion? Yes, I can do that. I can come alive in it. I can feel this dream body tingle until it evaporates. I am none with nowhere to go and nothing to do. So I wake up inside of the dream, as one with somewhere to go and the capacity to do something. I do something in Shiva’s hallowed out skull, listening to the waves breaking on the shore beyond, knowing that the eye is burning outside. I let it burn inside of me as well, and I do something.
Nothing spiritual.
Nothing magickal.
Nothing esoteric.
Just something, something for nothing.
Something to mend the break.
I build a chrysalis.
Something to mend the break.

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