Who I Was

Who I was. A thing such as breathing and experience, as close as my flesh, blurring lines in unpredictable curves full of color and sound. Representation of conscious energy resonating through the street. Walking around the room picturing black and red birds. Telling terrible tales of eternal damnation and recurrent shapes without definition. Glitter tipped wings lighting the night in faded yellow.

I am beyond time, beyond the limits of life and death, a roar, a wind, a wild cackling. Trees shiver and the cells of this apparent form vibrate back in neon black. Right. Darkness that pours out of eyes and mouth shining black, the threshold to limitless fire. Strange boys and golden crowns. Yellow kings and rivers of wanted things.

The sporadic affections of a few friends covered in dirt and sticky leaves and kisses. Staring up at the sky, listening to the sound of distant stars who sing in unison. Bending, pounding, growling shaking, knowing that I had ever wanted things like these. A thing such as breathing and experience, as close as my flesh, blurring lines in unpredictable curves full of color and sound. Who I was. Recurrent threshold to limitless fire.

Representation of black and red birds and shampoo bottles telling terrible tales of eternal damnation and recurrent shapes without definition. Beyond time. Beyond the limits of who I was. Whistles blowing. Spiraling currents stopping not at the borders of biology, formed from my own mind in unpredictable curves. Incoherent discordant explosions of smiling, walking, pressing my finger into the circle full of mountains of sand and intricate structures. I was music playing in the late afternoon. A voice on the radio reciting a strange litany of psycho babble. Strange boys and golden crowns. Yellow kings and rivers of wanted things.

Parallel formations in a dark garden. Nakedness not just unabashed, but fusing thoughts into cursive patterns. Complex reconfigurations that nobody would ever remember. Prerecorded music infused with chaos. Cells  yowling back. Darkness that pours out of eyes and mouth shining through a chain of carnival lights. Pulsing currents shining darkly at the borders of biology. Beyond limits.

Books pressed tightly against stomach with new hands and muscles and thin lines of electricity, the threshold to darkness. Curved fingerprints telling terrible tales. I am my flesh blurring, vibrating in neon black beyond the limits of life and death. Telling terrible tales of black and red birds and recurrent trees without stars who sing in unison. Dirt and sticky leaves shining darkly beyond time. The threshold to neon black fire. Growling, shaking, pounding, bending as close as my flesh. Yes. Right. Glitter tipped wings lighting the night in faded yellow. I had ever wanted things like these.

Electrical Impulses

The power of movement. A simple thing, taken for granted by those creatures that have long possessed the ability, but ask any cactus or man locked in a tiny cell and they will tell you that the power to move about freely is most precious of all. In the very beginning of your life, it was the first thing to be active in you, your movement center. You wriggled, you cried in hunger, and your body happily relieved itself of the wastes that were left in its system. You learned to crawl, and to walk and to grab and to hit. Viola! You had the most essential skills needed to maintain your existence on this planet. You had the power to translate electrical pulses sent from your brain via your nervous system into motion, activity, into an adequate response to some stimuli, such as music, or the sight of a hungry wolf, or the smell of a roasting pig.
The subtleties that could be added, the endowments of the intellectual and emotional centers, would do you little good in this plane of existence without the foundation of this first essential power, the fully functioning motor center. Now you have the ability to do, and with the addition of the other two powers, you have a heightened capacity for subtlety, a desire to find a purpose to put your fantastic abilities to the test. You’ve got the car, now baby drive it!
What are you going to do? What are you going to make of the multicolored world? How are you going to organize all that sensory impute? How does it make you feel? And what are you going to do with it all?
You can see an electrical pulse. See it in the way your limbs go wiggly when we hook them up to a loudspeaker. See how you groove and shake and twirl. That is the power of movement. It gives a shape to the unseen forces that are ever at work in the universe.
This truth is so obvious, so apparent that it seems to be hidden from us. We are blind to it. The ancient Greeks, however, were appreciative of this secret. They honored the human form, took great pleasure in athletic feats, not only as the triumph of the motor center, but as the culmination of all the aspects of the human being and even as a representation of those mysteries which are seen as originating elsewhere.
As above so below.
As within so without.

Campside

Alright now. It’s time for lunch; come and toast your marshmallows over the roasting pit that is my groin. Look here, just like a pit dug for a fire in the wilderness, here lies my own personal camp site blackened with the soot and charcoal so that it looks like a dank and dripping cavern that goes on and on. There is a physical limit to its depth. Like Jonathan Livingston Seagull, if your travel through this tunnel you will hit a wall where you will have to leave your body behind, but by then you’ll be flying so fast you won’t need that body any more, glistening as it does with beads of sweat like the sequins on an absinthe intoxicated flappers dress. By then, you’ll be flying with me in perfect seamless unity powered by the engine of grinding hips and in the faint distance you can hear the heavy breathing and moaning, but by now the blackest abyss has opened up in front of you and you spiral into it with me. We are a nameless formless thing swallowing itself endlessly as it deepens.
This is how we feed ourselves, when no one is looking, we come out like black eyed deer to drink from pools that reach down through the center of the earth and back out again into the farthest reaches of that star flecked darkness. Slurp! We suck in the dreams of our ancestors, the dreams of the first flecks of electrically charged specks of flint dust that came together in the nothing for a camp side sing along. Mamma electron in her shredded fishnets and leather mini skirt dances around Papa proton reclining in the cool shadows licked by flame, the rolls of his flabby stomach creeping out from under his greasy white tee shirt to hang over the black leather belt studded with silver, his beard trailing down over that unmovable gut. And then after she has wiggled her ass for him a bit she spots another camp fire not too far off and splits and he’s left muttering and weeping,
"Goddamn cunt! Got no fucking loyalty!" And another little dancer in the dark hears him sniffling and sees his sad little fire and aching with tingling desire brings some more kindling, rubs her tits in his face and says,
"Hey Papa don’t cry. I’ll keep you company." And so it goes on and on forever, and we drink deeply of it, letting it soak into our insides like kerosene poured over old rags.
It seems that this primordial dance is everything, a center for our worship to reside in, a Mecca to travel to and then, foot sore, throw ourselves down upon our knees and sway. Then we discover that it is not the destination at all, but rather the mouth of the true road, the point from which the real pilgrimage will be launched.
It is the matrix we skip upon like fantasia fairies skating on the surface of a freezing pond, the stage from which we may launch any story at all. We make our roads in the forge, from out of this primordial union, all pattern, all twisting labyrinths emerge. All of that rubbing and gasping, shuddering and screaming is our play dough, ready to be made into new shapes.
What do I know about the universe, about the cosmos?
Men go away and study at universities learning the mating habits of hydrogen and oxygen. I go to bed and look at what bubbles up from my only connection to every experience I have ever had; my self, spreading out like the scattered pieces of a fractured mirror.
What is this stuff?
What am I?
What is this experience we call life and its nympho sister death, always sneaking into life’s room to suck at it while everyone looks away frightened, ashamed, and embarrassed.
How can I pretend that it isn’t all me?
That it hasn’t all arisen from me, or that I haven’t arisen from it so that any nightmare that can crawl onto my back and make me scream and every dream that awes me with tantalizing beauty is the face of my own origin.
I am the ugliest.
I am the most lovely.
I am all things scattered upon the floor and I am no thing reflecting the face of no other thing.
When the black man comes to me and asks why I haven’t called him, I know that it is because I have forgotten him, lost in the maze that we made together, but in the very shape of my hands lie the clues as to who I am and who he may be. And we two are made to fly together, writhing by the fire.
So come now and warm yourself and feed yourself at my pit. We have many camp side stories to tell in the language of dilated pupils and advancing heart rates.

What is so “wicked” about playing records backwards?

Good and Evil are subject to the opinion of the majority.
Anything that moves against the current will be perceived as evil, as sinister.
The Sinister or Left Hand path is a movement against the tide of automatic organic life.

If the mechanical organic human creation is the equivalent of the Shakti current, then we would say it is positively charged. The otherworldly immortal presence would then be the Shiva current and would be negatively charged.

Positive and negative describe the way the electrical current flows from one polarity to the other, whether it is coming or going, attracting or repelling.
The use of these two terms must not be confused with morality of any kind.
Positive is not in this case a synonym for good, negative is not a synonym for evil.

You could say then that the Sinister way involves reversing the flow of electricity so that Shakti adores Shiva rather than letting him rain down upon her.