I’m going to finish the White Horse story. I’m going to have to. Finish me and my story. I know you don’t care, why would you, but I’m doing it anyway. I’ve lost everything. All the Chinese have taken over my blog, I can barely find your comments, if you’re commenting at all, it doesn’t matter. I’ve lost it all. I’ve got a long track record so it was inevitable. My dogs are gone, Bhagavan Das is gone, he’s been gone for weeks. He left for his “retreat” and said, “pretend I’m dead,” did I tell you this already, I can’t remember. So the days and nights are a blur, I barely notice the difference. I slip in and out of the dark, I avoid mirrors. Mirrors are dangerous in case you don’t know, they’re portals into other unseemly dimensions and right now, I’m not into making new demon friends. All these demons are very attracted to me as if we’re the same, but it goes nowhere, how could it, they don’t listen. It’s enough, this big death trip. I’m dropping dogs off one by one, pulling off the tics, paying his credit card bills, trying not to fall on the ice. This ethereal Indian woman, came to me one night last week, she had a beautiful voice and told me I was Saraswati as if that means anything- I know, believe me- I KNOW. What a joke, but it really did happen- But what she actually said was that I was the Swan. The Swan herself that makes sounds that become Saraswati. That I glide upon the great waters and make sound that only grows more beautiful the closer I get to death. You’ve heard of the Swan Song right? Well apparently it’s real. There’s a reason, but at the moment who cares. I’m just holding it together, insanely coherent while in the midst of utter confusion, calamity really. I’m losing everything in a big way and I’m letting it happen, not even trying to stop anything. Like this was my religion, he was my everything and it’s gone the way the road slowly disappears in the heavy mist and there are no lines to follow, just an eery moving forward because you have to. Go somewhere, get to the place that’s waiting for you on the other side of the fog body. I am just gliding like a white swan, drifting aimlessly, animated by the winds of grace upon the waters of a reflected sky. The song feels like a sorrow so enlightened that pain has nowhere left to go but here, into my open heart wound. There is no religion, just me watching you, breaking me open, leaving me again and again. That you might come back is the love that makes me consider bothering to breath one more time. Down here, where I fell, through the earth while riding the White Horse. My lonely story of how to find him. White Swan, White Horse – same difference. I shouldn’t have left him stranded, or her all alone looking out the window watching him suffer- but I did, maybe it’s just my way of getting revenge upon a love that will not cease. I cannot conquer Pan, the virile black stallion. He is my probably my raging soul pounding anything in the way of my song or maybe even for my song. We know he always hears and destroys anything that would stop this righteous fire. There is nothing in my way, but the story of course. Strange how addicted I am to conflict. Go ahead and quote me on that, I don’t care. I was going to go to India and then canceled, but I think I will go after all. Even though what’s the struggle I can’t tell, to be spiritual…well, somehow I missed the boat on that one.
Swan, I sing and no one hears. It doesn’t matter. Swan, I cry and no one cares, there is only you inside me. Swan, I am soft and white, my feathers are broken. Let me lift you into the light. Swan the dark has swallowed me. I am the dark you call the light. Swan, I have nowhere left to go. Come to me. Come back to me. I am your body. Swan, the goddess is lost. Singing as we approach the moon who floats beneath us, above in the sky you are heard. Swan, is there a God even now. Even now God gives the tears that we rise from. Full and round. Swan, is it true there is only me and yet no me. There is only the song listening to itself.
Paramahansa means Great Swan. I think of the pale little flower girl named Azalea and how she rode the black vulture. How she was motherless and yet surrounded by jeweled skeleton temples of mothers. How she sat on top of the mother skull. How I’ve been concealing the Swan in the wrath. This little girl knew me. Me, in the story. Yes I was everyone how else could I know. My mythic revelation is ever increasing it’s velocity upon the waters of my mind. My mind obeys my heart because I would have killed myself if it hadn’t. That was the agreement, the mind isn’t as stupid as we think it is. It will listen when it needs to. So I resorted to threats, became suicidal even. When I was 18 I even had to be “turned in” so I wouldn’t hurt myself. I couldn’t even use a toothbrush without supervision. I guess it’s technically possible to stab yourself in the throat with a toothbrush if you really mean it. My roommate was a manic depressive girl. She was a big mess, I hope she made it to the end of her song. We should feel the suffering and know we can’t be the only one alone, because we’re all alone inside, making this story happen. It’s our choice what we do with these figures inside. It’s our entire creation based on God’s whim. God whoever. So I should make some more noise. I’ve written a lot I’ve never sent you, more revenge I suppose. I like to think I’m not also passive aggressive but it’s cool sometimes to play it cool, while others squirm and wonder. Not that you do, but remember it’s my program I’m running. Please play along or I’ll erase you. Finish what you start ok? Meaning live it, big.
Swan, this is deep. Sink to the bottom of me. So, I wrote something else…based on that sinking…
I heard a noise. There was a tail entering a mouth…the distance it takes to go around myself I guess is based on the moon. Apparently the galaxies are lined up waiting to get back inside. Long black rectangles, coffins filled with stars. Pulling through the heavy space, toward the giant victorious magnet. I’ve entered headless many times, a trail of light was all that was left, then it faded, disappearing without even a wish to make me remembered. Like I was only a ghost…a fog body hiding something big.
“My heart is empty.
But the songs I sing
Are filled with love for you.
A man said that to me.
That’s how I know.
Sometimes love it does not show.
Sometimes it does not even know.
There is no witness to my anger.
When it stabs until he dies…”
Headless. Betrayed. Following the root…one more time. Old footprints where I once walked…
“The stars are bright tonight.” My face was covered in blood. I stood watching the reptile watch me. I have holes in the back of my head. Holes that light pours out of, this night means nothing to me. I looked down the drain into the bottom of what you want, the dirty child. The worm inside. The naked baby crawling over the womb covered in germs. I would give you anything. Spill the death from your poking eye. The reptile, the lizard standing and looking for a star inside the tomb. I began cutting with razors the middle of my hand. What a little knife. I hate demons, only because they’re so boring. The night started making noises, distracting from itself just to lead you to this. To the form of the jagged cross, the mystery star, Between the trees made of mutated flesh. I have eyes. That’s where I am. Where he said to meet him when the night was done making holes in my head. As bright as him coming out of me of course, inside the sound made of unseen walls. All alone, the moon rises looking for herself in the sink. I laid upon this shape of death. I once drew and gave to him all of me inside a square. Noises written in spirals, blind reptilians follow me in the emptiness of these feelings. Feelings that are red and oxidizing as I breath. Air, exposure to manmade lights. The underworld birds that are lizards with feathers live in me. I said the skies would be void of birds and that’s how we’d know we descended. But I lied, the skies would be made of birds, these hybrid creatures so black and thick. Beaks and claws so sharp and deadly. Noise so cold it would freeze anything that heard it, would be the only thing left, the past, the other higher world that wasn’t even much better but at least we could see- things like echoes and clouds and the shadows that bow to the sun, finally giving my wish to this place however bleak. But now, it’s just that. The return of what we did. Birthday girl. To ourselves, rancid and desperate to breath something clear. Rectangles filled with dead churning mothers. Blackened by time. Old blood still lives, even on pieces of plywood. I am an invisible temple. Starlight in the tomb. Written above my head. That which leads from darkness to light. There will be a smoldering poison inside. Sound barrier, cooing-bonding destroyer. Breastmilk and vomit. Bright lights and voices that mean nothing. The throat that rejects the baby, purging what could be redeemed. She doesn’t care, she needs to breath you. Blood bank, leftover grief from the death before this one. Recycle. Drain. Fuck. Destroy. Recycle. Smother. Suck. Push harder. The end of the world is upon me. Hot bodied mothers, stop blaming your babies for your desperate need to seduce them. Sickened by family needles and threads. I have had a fever for a very long time. Blood draining is an ancient practice. I am not without direction, even now in the presence of you. To be an anarchist, you drain your own blood and the heat becomes cool. Alchemist. Wash the pain away for us all. Bloodstains my face but it’s not obvious. I do have a fever burning even now as the color fades from deep black to white as a ghost. Ghost that I am, a cloud that covers like a blanket…little secrets. Babies I never made but were born. Star, seed, wet dark hole. Needy silence. Blue air. Loss is karmic reduction. Pass over the pain with a whisper.
“I am looking for the strangler
To help me, help me with my crime
Show me the way to warning
Warning for the morning light
I will stab it with a knife. The blinding sun. The heartbeat for the time to come. The honesty.That lies to you. My heart is empty. But the songs I sing
Are filled with love for you…”
The songs I sing are quiet and watching. The songs I sing go down the drain, into him. Up up and away. Star pusher.
Push back against the screen, tunnel vision…there is a way out of time and space to a death that is not repeated. At the threshold of the one eye, do not be averted by her cries for more. At this point, I won’t dare say a mantra or bless the unknown. At the juncture dare to cross over. It takes time and space. Lay down your lesser weapons. The blade is eternal.
This is not new age jargon, this is reality. There is an indigo doorway in the center of your forehead. It’s a projector and it becomes a diamond portal leading us through when we focus. The thread of time through the needle of space. Our two eyes betray us, are not showing anything valid. Our one indigo eye is the only truth teller. We read what we see by it’s colors, invisible colors coming from the spectrum of the crystal that we, as the human body are and in a more condensed way, it’s all in that crystal violet eye. There is a sound war going on all around us. One we can’t hear and are not only effected by but engaged in. The sound barrier that encapsulates us here on earth is rattling, pressure is building. Weapons seep out of every body like the sun shedding rays. It’s what the human body was created to do. And we don’t know, we see the things that aren’t real and generate noise due to this confusion.
You already know my body is a sacrifice. I gave it to the lord of the underworld, a.k.a. the Dark Sun, who is the keeper of my heart. The story goes on…of course we will be together. Pretty much forever. My fate is sealed. This is not about compromise, this is about the excavation of the crown. Nobody punishes me with these whips and chains. Nobody needs to see my stains of blood tears. Fallen in the pain of descent, laying down at his portal. I am the doorway to him. She is never alone. You do remember the dark sun, the other side of the given light. What about the taken. It is me. Abducted to the side that no one dares to see, no one can love him because that would mean something else, a love you can’t give without dying to all this, the lesser realm of perfection. I will not sleep or eat without him. I watch the moon for his shadow to cross. There is the White Horse embodied as the reason for it all. This emblem of purity that carries the light down below. I came this time, to finish the job. I don’t project murderer onto anyone. A killer is a killer very visible to me in the blue astral light. In that moment when the eclipse crosses his face and I know he is the one. The water I float upon, all these words sink below his mirror eyed counterpart. Another one. My many dark suns. I’ve taken so many with me, letting them be the abductor. I have no problem being on the bottom. I’ve shown you, I’ve written it all down. I live covered in these born again feathers, made of unearthly elements that lift dust back into the veil of this imagined night. It’s a tangible pouring of us upon each other, one turning into the next. And the pain that comes with that loss is the perfection of death. Acute, boundless loss of my only earth body. White feathers. I went to the top of the world and I stood looking down. It wasn’t very big after all. I was hot with a fever. I was sick for the suffering heat of not knowing. I will burn down below with him as my shield for everyone who doesn’t see the bliss in endings. Who cannot slip through the cracks where he rises from as invisible smoke. The smell of sweet flesh. Eye of the needle. Sound body. The crown touched me and I disappeared. I am everywhere, inside. Dying to be found. The god you cling to is incomplete. Everyone wants to be the one. But you don’t get how low low is. You think I took you to someone holy but you never looked at me once. You think it was the temple that made these stars, it was me. My words. You take the sinner and you chain him to these constellations in the sky. He never gets to suffer the breathless falling, just wonder what the deeper hell I hold might feel like. I gave you every chance to see the blind bursting and yet you kept your eyes closed philosophizing about goddesses who circle in outer space while forcing the punishment of purity upon the isolated impure, evil concepts. Duality rises from inborn passion. Inescapable yearning for warmth. Rising from nothing you can ever do, fantasy. I saw the truth. Moonlight, he was there. It’s not real, it’s a projection. Blown wide open. The galaxies line up waiting to get back inside. Black hole backwards, sun made of ice. My heart belongs to you. Silver blue without an answer, I’m calling you. Warm mother wings. The knot is hard. Give your whole heart to the plunge.
Do you want to hear something funny? Someone called me Sharada Devi(L) spelled it just like that. Wounded girl light, fallen mother moon, don’t talk out loud, the ghost will hear you. The rain will come, pounding you, underneath the one you can’t even see. Some feel like that’s a rape, I see it as a prayer to be free from lunacy.
Broken by a spirit that feeds this pain like sunlight feeds flowers. Rain. My eyes say the words and it’s enough, without writing it all down. I am there, on top of him, watching the world cry out to me. And I was nobody but whoever you saw…unidentified, gliding through skies made of water…heavens made of hell…vultures made of Swan. Me made of you,