Communion

Out of the earth a single golden toned sound, a deep vibrating gong and she rises. Life flows from her teats nourishing the many. All are her children and the wheat sways gently around her legs tickling and praising her generosity. Horns sweep gracefully upward to cradle the sun.
Even that most powerful force needs now and again to be cradled and rocked and she graciously obliges. Each day as the sun passes over her body raining heat and light, she collects this warm nectar and with it conceives new children that will gestate in her secret depths to one day burst forth in glorious bronze raiment.
She is a mother, a wife, a woman, an animal. The stars of the milky way are the waters of life that run through her body waiting to be expressed, waiting to feed the hungry mouths that wait far below her, small fragile pale things that she delights in nurturing. The joyful noise of bells and bleating and moaning resounding over the open plain rise up with the birds to scatter through the air.
Elixir of love and joy, come fill our cup! We thank the mother for her moon white wine. Here in the field with our four legged brothers we are content to breath and wander, to engender children of our own sustained by her bounty. With a rush of waters new life begins, with the flow of opaque waters life is maintained. Love drips and drops and gushes and finds a way into our starved bodies.
How dare we forget that we are alive by your grace? What wretches exploit your gentleness, calling it weakness, taking what they want without returning the love they have borrowed to make themselves strong?
There was a time when we were one, truly, as a mother and a child, as a husband and a wife, aglow with mutual adoration. What was yours you gave to me and I transformed it into life and returned it with cherishing. It was good when I could nestle to your bosom, when I could rejoice for merely being your child, when to live beside you was all that living needed.
Dark times have come. No one cradles the sun. Your luster is concealed within temples of corruption. Your children are separated from you at birth, they never know you, the source of their life. Elixir of love and joy is boiled and bottled and distributed by pale withered hands. There is no contentment. The world has turned black and gray. When we are not beside you living becomes stale and brittle.
Come Queen of the West! Put your household in order. We are ready to return to the simplicity of pure existence. It is time for a flood, for the awakening of the moon white wine, for torrents of love to rain down on us and wash away our corruption.
Out of the earth a single golden toned sound, a deep vibrating gong and she rises. Life flows from her teats nourishing the many. All are her children and the wheat sways gently around her legs tickling and praising her generosity. Horns sweep gracefully upward to cradle the sun. Even that most powerful force needs now and again to be cradled, even the most petulant child will return eventually to mother's arms.

Here And There

Can I tell you how I came to be here, at the this time and this place, this point of convergence between dimensions that I imagine or experience or dream, this moment that I may not understand at all? If I tell you, swear to me by every hole in this cheese you hold so dear that you will accept every word I say as true and not press me on matters which seem questionable, for I fear that it will break my delicate grip with this reality if you prod it unnecessarily. These things are like fine webs made of spun sugar mounted one upon one another to form pink cloudy softness, webs that once touched with sweaty hands or a curious tongue merely melt into sticky sweetness, no more constant or fixed than human promises. I will tell you because you seem sincere and because you are here, an imaginary ear for my imaginary voice, so take an imaginary seat there by my imaginary hearth and I will tell you the story of the black man and the little bird.
First I will tell you about the black man. It does not matter which of these things I tell you about first as the events surrounding these two nouns; man and bird, occurred simultaneously, if they occurred at all. That is to say that sequence has everything to do with language in that the word is like a narrow doorway through which only one topic may pass at a time, like little drops of dewy spittle from my lip to your ear, a tiny packet of data about things which have been occurring in a world too vast to squeeze into dew drops or words or feathers that have been made into writing quills instead of the wings of flying birds. One comes before the other only because that is all that the doorway permits, all that that ungracious lord, THE WORD will allow, one at a time to visit the well of communion between souls.
So first the black man. Let me tell you this of him; he who is the cohort of countless witches condemned to burn as well as those that fly round secret fires in a whirlwind of ecstasy before they are discovered by the mob, he is not what you expect. He, as I have known him anyway, is always mild mannered, self composed and unassuming. He that knows so much will ask you what he well knows as though he never knew it and not to play a game with you, but just that the two of you shall partake of knowledge together in the renewed asking of a question. His hair flecked with grey, his posture stooped, he keeps trees that bear fruit, unusual trees and he will peel back the leathery skins of those fruits to reveal the strange delights held within and offer it to you as water to a parched man. He would withhold nothing, least of all that which grows from seed to meat. Should you wish to partake, he shares without reserve. What is his is yours while you are with him and again later if you choose. He is also a fisherman who draws great shy beast from the deep with lures unlike any used by ordinary men. He will draw up the arcatuthus for you and then you will see your greed for the catch dissolve into sympathy for the beast and you will see its children born and hope that it survives captivity and may return to the deep, but if not, then there are still the offspring in whom to invest this new found tenderness. He is a stranger, a lover, a father all in one, your oldest friend, a friend that you have forgotten. Never did he forget you. Never did he hold it against you that you would forget or swear that you are unacquainted with him. He has all the tenderness of an old grandfather, the wisdom of a priest of one of those true orders of mystic stewardship. That is the black man.
And then there is the bird. I met the bird in a parking lot looking for a crumb to nab. I was putting groceries into the back of the truck and I heard him say that he was hungry, so I broke off some bread and tossed it gently his way as I had been taught by the black man. The bird turned his head slightly to look me in the eye and thanked me very much for taking notice of him. I told him that it was my pleasure and I hoped he would enjoy the fare and as he went heartily to it I got into the truck and drove away. How did he look? Well he was small and sort of grayish brown, a sort of sparrow maybe. It is his little voice which was clearest to me both then and now. I heard his voice again this morning while I walked from school. He was singing gaily. You will tell me that sparrows don’t sing, but I must tell you that by today he was no longer a sparrow. His voice was very clear and bright and I listened to it as I walked, touched by its merriment. Then I noticed that he sang the song that cars sing when they are rubbed the wrong way by someone who cannot disarm the alarm. It was the song of that alarm which goes off in low class neighborhoods and runs through a series of different obnoxious tones and rhythms so that the offending car rubber will be dismayed by the shrill and clownish noises and depart in all due haste. Now my friend the bird repeated this same song in his lovely trill. I stopped beneath the tree laden with pink blossoms and listened to his heart bursting with joy through his rendering of this popular new song. The outward form mattered not at all. The lyric to the song, the tones, the rhythms, all were quite unimportant. What mattered so was the heart. That is what he administered liberally to that tired old alarm call. He made it a masterpiece.
“You should try it.” The black man said tasting a succulent gem from one of his trees. “That’s what we do. We take what they made and we remake it, we remake it with ourselves in it. It doesn’t matter at all what they meant for it to be in the first place. We make it alive.” He said this with a little flittering hand gesture that reminded me of the bird. His beard was short and sparse then, composed of short curled salt and pepper bristles. His skin looked like milk chocolate, soft and weathered with age. I say, sing on little bird, sing on and I will listen to you and to the black man too.
What about you friend? Are you listening to me now, telling you this story with gaps wide enough for us both to fall through? If you haven’t heard, then no matter and never mind, so long as you spare me your criticisms. I tell it to you the best way I can with this clumsy stuff, trying to wedge a leviathan through a hole made for a mouse. I could have just told you the story of Iron Hans, painting the forest in greens so deep they were almost black like the rotted underside of forgotten chard. I could have told you any story at all, an old, old story, one that you have heard a dozen times before and done as much if not more that I did here. It is not what I told you really that will profit you at all, but what I poured into every senseless syllable. It comes from the fount at the heart swelling over after the rains of winter, ready to feed all the spring grasses and from them, little lambs, and from them, hungry lions.
That is the story of how I came to be here, how we crossed here like roads running unknown courses, my imaginary voice and your imaginary ear, joined for a moment and now soon to part, for now I take my leave of you. I will never mind if you forget me. I will never mind if you claim that we never met.

Annihilation Shall Be The Name Of The New Federation

If only my fingers could flap fast enough, my synapses fire rapidly enough, my elaborately configured mechanical creation respond with electric lightening speed to the whispered request of that other subtler I… The "I" that is the emptiness between the human who sits cross legged on the floor and the white candle flickering a foot away. The "I" that has never existed and will never exist and is eternal and imagined, very real, as real as the Narwhale, hunted to near extinction for its magickal horn. The "I" that is not at all and yet is, voiceless, a whisper of nobility, dignity and nothingness. The "I" that is free of any agenda and waits silently, aimlessly, for something to come and rouse it from slumber. The "I" that is locked in a high tower and awaits its prince, the "I" laying out on the table with electrodes strapped to its inert body waiting for the lightning to strike and for the good doctor to shriek with excitement, the "I" sagging under its crown on the throne, listening to the whispers of the deceitful counselor awaiting the arrival of the replacement that may slay him and make the kingdom anew.
That eye suspended in the invisible skies of mind is one thing, and the thing that can move is another. This wriggle jiggle body bot, this conglomeration of nations, the united states of human experience, pumping blood, pressing out Carbon Dioxide and gulping in oxygen, producing subtle chemical cocktails which cause my breasts to be tender and swollen and my voice to be high pitched. This other thing that I am, this thing that is, this thing tied to the earth, to the planet that is an extension of its lesser body, this mortal creation with its precious and fragile shelf life due to expire in another 60 to 80 years if it isn’t knocked abruptly from the shelf before then, to shatter upon the sterile linoleum beneath the fluorescent lights and then be no more, it is something Other.
These two "Me"s, each one representing it’s own federation; on my right hand the federation of the dying and on my left hand the federation of the undead, both sides ever at war and yet ever longing to embrace in some final ecstasy which will blot out the existence of each and birth something new and entirely unknowable; the new empire of the eternal light and night, the explosion that results from the union of opposites, the newest latest and greatest coming of Christ; half worm, half eaglet, a winged serpent twisting through the forgotten tunnels of time and beyond them in the endless abyss of the uncreated. One eye blind in the light, the other blind in the dark.
Whatever either "I" imagines, whatever either "I" hopes for cannot be the end, for our children are never as we imagine they will be, they are something else, unpredictable, a synthesis of what came before, a frightening new evolutionary mutation which may succeed or fail to meet the standard of any of an infinite number of categories in which they will be judged by David Hasselhoff or Paula Abdul.
This right now, this moment, is the frustrated lovemaking of the sky and the sea, one which seeks the clarity of the stars and one that seeks the tangles of the deep. No, not one, one nation and one other nation causing a sensation, an appalling congregation of fertilization on behalf of the acceleration of creation fostered by intense aggravation.
Who are the judges really? And when and where, by which angels from which rung of what ladder will the categories be drawn up and decided upon?
What you know is not real. What you know is the fictitious nonsense of a sedated dreamer. What you deem wisest and worthy is spittle on a mad man’s bib, wait a moment and a nurse will wipe away your loftiest definitions of self, the universe, god, and everything.
Yes, I have been like one of those bad moms on a day time television talk show, broadcast to the populations of the Western hemisphere of that planet earth in the milky way galaxy (which goes by a different name in different company) that confesses that she has allowed her teen to have sex under her roof, only I’m much worse than that, I have allowed serpents and birds to mate within my own consciousness, and not (like those other moms profess) because I thought it was the safest place for them to be, but because there are few other places where angels and demons can get together and do the nasty. There are only so many mind blown mortals, walking about, staring wide eyed at the world, wearing around their necks signs, written with invisible ink, which say:

"Speakeasy through me ye Gods and Devils…
and fuck prohibition!"

This that you have stumbled into, these ramblings, are the dirty linens left behind by monsters of sky and water, alien entities like Spaniards and Indians, attracted like the opposing poles of magnets, things which come together via compulsion laced with reluctance. These things meet here in the house of the holy, in this den of sin with the understanding that Annihilation shall be the name of the new Federation.
If only I can move fast enough to be of service. If only my fingers flap fast enough, synapses fire rapidly enough, mortal body bends and bows gracefully enough, heart breaks open wide enough, then let me serve the new kingdom. Let me be servant to the Federation of Annihilation.

Free Builder

Has my heart grown so faint that I now doubt my ability to construe meaning from the endless chaos? What is there to fear from there? That I will create the wrong thing? Extract and accentuate the improper details? There can be no impropriety. I am the shaper of worlds, trembling with the fear of my own power. Noise momentarily organizes into something we call music and then it flees back into the abyss like a flight of edgy birds. All of the scattered flecks of magnetic dust gather again and dance to the electric demand before they scatter once more to a fine powder. Even my mind momentarily takes shape, becomes a force and then returns to the maelstrom as a ghost and I wander sleeping through the land of the dead. Temporary forms rise from the eternal chaos, the great roar of the beastly mother of infinite night.
We must become magnets ourselves if we wish to bend the dust, our own dust, to our own will. Aye, what is the will but a center of gravity? Magic is the science of propulsion. Didn’t Jack Parsons spend his time launching rockets in the desert when he wasn’t fucking his mother or their dog? All semblance of sanity may disintegrate as the heat rises. The heat is the fuel that powers our little psychic meat rockets. Intense heat brought on by sleep deprivation, sexual deviation, shock, and something else that I can’t remember now. You may well fear what you will become, what you may create.
We depart from familiar shores, and find that it was our homeland that made us who we seemed to be, our island that we identified with, and now launched as we are into the thrashing seas as explorers, adventurers, and creators, we cannot know what we will become. There is no longer a point of reference. We are at the center, and from our pulsing heart, lines are drawn of radiant heat extending in every direction. It is then, when you are crucified by these infinite shining points, that you come to understand that there is no point at all.
It is a little known fact that pirates were often freemasons, not just criminals, not just adventurers, but free builders as well, cruising the endless sea brimming with Eris’s prized pets, monsters of unimaginable proportions, titans that had to be locked away in Tartarus so that order and civilization could come to fruition upon the scalding cracked earth.
I can do no wrong here, kneading and twisting the nothingness to my whim like a child manipulating clay. It is no fault of mine that there is red clay as well as blue. I cannot help but mingle them until there is purple, thus sealing my fate as a heretic. If the shapes I call forth from the fertile possibility are monstrous, then so be it. From the perspective of the limitless, unbound, raw blob they are as beautiful as any other creation. Who am I to judge one random mix against another? I am just a shape myself which may be attracted or repelled by configurations more or less, (even far less) alike to my own.
I remind myself of the words of the puck:

"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,"

Yes a dream, sprung from the unending river of the unconscious, ever running just beneath the surface. A road to the underworld, a convenient place to tuck those thing which do exist, but which we find offensive to our own configuration. An outflow channel to allow some of our infinite nature to run off so that we do not explode with the madness, the fervor, the nectar of the real, like crazed maenads in the wild wood. A shadow to give us definition and three dimensional "depth". A hiding place for the weak hearted.

Experiment: Ad Infinitum

Place the tip of your tongue on the roof of your mouth just behind your front teeth.
Contract your perineum, the muscle located between the genitals and the anus. This may be achieved by contracting the anus itself.
Breathe through your nose and feel the energy flow through your body from crown to perineum then up your back to the crown again.
Technically the energy flows through your legs as well. After traveling down the front of your body to the perineum the current runs down the back of your legs, up the front of your legs to the perineum again and up your spine to the crown, like a figure eight.
Circulate the energy through your body in this way for a few moments daily, particularly when you are feeling sexually aroused.