The mosquitos are really bad right now. Theyre everywhere and theyre fast. Their sting feels like an injection and histamine is in turbo drive rallying at so many puncture wounds. They seem to be moving with a new intelligence, harder to track, harder to kill. If someone in the world has a mosquito factory making genetically modified bugs, the current swarming could be a balancing reaction from the naturals against the modified. I believe its the naturals swarming me but who really knows?
Some say we need to be more tolerant. Some say we best not be so attached. Many say if youre spotting it outside of you, its the spot inside of you, the one you dont want to see. I am about ready to pop with all that everyone is saying, huddled inside of me, whispering words of wisdom, and I cannot let it be. So I come to this keyboard, but this time with what is the equal and opposite experience of The Calm Clear Reality, that former state of sublime calm, able to contain everything. Is this the way of it then? A momentary view of reality activating a reaction from the unreal? Or is it nature, reacting against the modified?
It seems to come down to two sides of one thing, creating a crooked line from one day to the next. Meanwhile birds flock. Loved ones pass. Unidentified sounds prowl around. A green mile from start to finish but never in a straight line.
As part of my own crookedness, I took out the body of writing in the substack titled It would be hell to live forever, because it was too close to the bone and actually not my body to cut into. Incest was never my thing. Its not part of my journey to come to terms with. It may be what the motorhead guru is up to but its not for me to say. Whatever his journey, whatever he will assuredly account for despite his lack of accountability, hes troubling a lot of people along his way. People I know. Women and men. Traumatized.
Just think, if we were all quietly making our way through the world, taking responsibility for our actions and not creating trouble for others for the sake of sex, money, and power. This just wouldnt be the world as is anymore. It might be heaven.
Honestly, I dont give the dark lord aka the motorhead that much thought anymore. Only when he comes up in conversations. Only when an old photograph surfaces. Only in a current photo, showing him in an embrace with a grieving husband. The husband is wincing in pain. The motorhead is expressionless with his eye on his coffee cup. That expressionless countenance was all I needed in order to spot just about anything I could imagine in his presence, my projections on his expressionless blank screen. His beauty. My ugliness. So when I bump into blind and guileless culties still enamoured of his horror show, I wince on the inside, pained by the memories of what kept me under his thumb. As if he could cleanse my ugliness, return me to innocence. As if I could become what is not stained by this world.
Like the children cocooned in his cult. They appear sometimes in public, almost transparent. Angelic, as if winged and levitating and barely materialized. They are full of a strange light and empty of any mundane substance. Untouched by worldly things, they seem naive and open, so open. So vulnerable. They hardly look real, standing there smiling and shining. They have been modified, living in the security of the cult with the world safely on the outside, nothing to worry about, no need to grow up.
Someone leans over and says loud enough for a cult member to hear, how is it possible for a person claiming an awakened consciousness to have absolutely no accountability for his actions?
He watches as his wife is being pulled away from him and deeper into the motorheads horror show, like watching someone drown through binoculars, he says.
Im wincing. Its painful. Im leaving this scene. Like Humpty Dumpty.
Next morning I spend the day in bed, bruised inside and out. Nothing wants to move but its not sublime. Nothing wants to carry on. The phone pings. The messages mean nothing. Another long day in bed, aching. If only I could stay in this life, being as I feel I should be, telling it like it is, whenever the opening opens, and not eat myself up afterwards, like the mossies in my garden, hell bent on more of my blood.
Please dont tell me what a great time these times are. They simply arent. Everyone on the scene is staring spell bound at something lit up digitally and amplified. Theyre jumping up and down, moving their sluggish bodies to surge with other bodies in a torpid mud bath toward the next magic act. How often did I feel the same in the field of the cult leader? Wanting so badly for something to be real, I imagined it. I let someone else inform me.
Now everything inside wants to pull away from everything outside. Head to Ramanas cave. I cant fake the love of culture anymore. I imagine a higher aspect is calling me away from the world and it could as easily be the torpidity of culture calling me away from my self.
There is no call to anything any more. There is nothing but my duty to others. Like Arjuna, I dont want to do what I must do. Rather, I have seen enough of this world, felt enough of it, had enough sorrow and insecurity. If the spiritual goal is to be unmoved by any and all of it, unattached to anything, I give up on that project. Its not going to happen. This hurts. Im done. Wheres the exit?
Youre too sensitive to live, said Dad, as he reached for ice cream from the freezer, his sedative of choice. As I remember my Dad’s voice disclaiming my ability in the world, I remember today is the anniversary of his death. Then death, like a lover, comes close, making me wish it were me who died instead of my brother. He had a whole new chapter of his life to write. It should have been me instead of him.
I am only dust in the wind. Just a drop in the sea.
I spy a figure in my minds eye, shaped like a shell of white blue sea foam colour. A womans presence, alive on a tonal scale above the material world. She, who appears to have watched from within me throughout my life. She, who is some kind of spirit, some soul essence. I dont know, but I feel sure she is an unseen form that departs when I do, although not necessarily in tandem with me. She comes to me while Im lying adrift in my bed.
Its her.
It’s her— the beautiful lady! The one that creepy motorhead swiped from me! Exploited her in his own narrative of false truths, used her to abuse and misinform his sheep of another fake fantasy, so real to me, so opportune for him, engaging his minions in a new illusion they could busy their selves with, while he busied their lives with his wants and needs.
I should have never told him about her. Soon as I did, he turned it into his own device for coercion, using it to entice more unwary women and men into his lying lair.
Ive heard said that female mosquitoes need mammalian blood to reproduce. The dark lords females need ever more magical material to continue believing in him and his so-called celestial secrets. When I admitted to one of his buglings that it felt like he had ripped something precious away from me to use for himself, she said, oh he was probably just waiting for someone to open it up. In the culture of the cult, everything belongs to him, and he is the source of all and everything. His bugs are so brainwashed.
Im exhausted with my thoughts always turning like an unbalanced wheel towards the opposition, towards him. Forget about him. Let me listen for the voice of this sea foam coloured being, shaped like a shell, existing inside of me, as she listens to this world. She listens through me to a world she is unable to materialize in. She travels in my consciousness from sea to sea.
Popping out of that inner experience, divine or deluded, I land on a map of consciousness where I believe shell creatures are at the very start of an evolutionary journey, a journey from the ocean of life and love that begins innocently. The journey ends in the very same sea where it began, yet the love that returns is aware and awake, with a deeper understanding of its meaning. Could be. Who knows?
Still remaining is the sea-foam-feminine-being curved over me, looking down benevolent and sure. She is no longer shocked by when the end may come. Shes getting ready.
My last words, not mine but echoes I have loved:
Ride your emotions. They will never resolve until you feel the feelings.
I dont care about money.
I will never leave home again.
I never knew the way around myself but I listen now.
I will answer the call.
Oh Creator! Here I am!
What is of the earth is of the greatest worth.
The Lords got me.
Can I find the place within to live my life without you?
My saviour, my sin.
Even if were just dancing in the dark.
Lets put all these words away.
thank you Jessica for such an amazing piece. went straight to my heart! I am with you
Make it riffs and
fundamental failures
one sides thrashing bashing
oh sure, you'd wanna know which
neither nother both, surface both, to far in both
how dire estimate, neg motivation commotion delivers
before the angel sets the compass straight
its about you only
but please spend the righteous juice
before it sours, on lazy non understanding
killing is illusion as is stopping it
who will the border wars save from what
the fake patriotic throw aways
chance burned and burned in
where we going to go
geeeeez rookie!!!
where ever you go, there you are -
getting meaner or leaner?