We see what we want to see. We hear what we want to hear. Or maybe we hear only what we’re brave enough to see so that we can still feel like we’re hearing the words when really we’re only hearing what suits us and allows us to remain unthreatened by the immensity of what acting out of true, ruthless devotion would mean. I know you feel love and devotion and I know you mean well but these words and these emails and this tragedy is that I feel like I’m talking to a wall. And maybe I’m your wall, but I am the wall that rattles because I know there is a way out of here, a door through the excuses and denial that lead to the open field of a defenseless freedom. Some people think they need a billion dollars to fulfill their devotional aspirations while others are willing to hitchhike across a country of demons all alone holding up a sign that says, “GOD” just to reach the one they love- and so god in any form will deliver them here. Who is the one that reminds you of yourself without lights, who feels the deep eyes of sorrow just for you, who knows the words before you speak them, who erases the dollar signs from your heartbreak- this is the synchronicity of a love well equipped to fight any war for freedom. The heart is not a prison like the mind is- and yet you want to spin it and adapt it and give it conditions to express it’s highest culmination, which is the pure love of devotion. Your head flings me all sorts of words of an understanding of love, how you’re getting it or how you’ve got a long way to go but you’re doing your best and how you understand this now more than ever- but how it’s still just so bad that you’re all tied up in knots of survival and demand, that your responsibilities to your materialism in whatever worldly form are more all consuming than your grief of recognition that you are indeed, hearing what you want to hear and you are in denial of the One Great Noose that holds you back, the one great thing that keeps you from excelling, the one great excuse that keeps you circling in your samsaric karmic pit of endless doing, the household, the bank, the distance between us. Love is revolutionary and if you aren’t then you don’t. Love isn’t a vacation it’s a destination. Love isn’t a guru or a dirty river behind your house that you imagine must be holy, because after all India and enlightened beings don’t really effect the objects of their focus, because no, I see what I want to see, the answer that comforts me. I see the excuses disguised as solutions to the dilemma of my own impure mind stance. I have no freedom but if you tell me I don’t I’ll spend hours writing you long emails defending my free will and my position of servitude to my “normie” life that makes it oh, so much easier to deal with my childhood pains that have now gone so deep, I don’t even recognize who the man really is in my dreams or my bed anymore. I thank my enablers for their wisdom and I sigh in gratitude at how easy it could be to disown my dynamic, wild heart in exchange for my slave heart. No, I never got what I wanted. And so words are just trash no matter how clever we disguise them. I see what I want to see just as you do, the angle and perspective are inherent in the gem, the perspective gets clean with retrieval of the cause. But nobody pays any attention to the cause and so the effect is thwarted. Nobody wants to turn their “my life” radio down long enough to see that their life is mechanical and out of tune and singing along as if it isn’t- is insanity and that’s why you’re crying and running into the bathroom to hide, because this too, isn’t you any more than that hindu trip was. I never tried, cared or wanted to be your teacher and I also bind nobody to Bhagavan Das. Nobody signed their name in blood except for me. And so, I am only grading my experience of you based on my gauge of a love that is the sunlight you speak of. I am in love with love, I am attracted to attraction, I know the magnet is eternal and I want to go down as low as high is.
And so it’s obvious to me- something unhideable- when my sight of you in the astral light grows dim and murky and yet, you speak of this new order of ordinary human love- which is what any love is anyway- ordinary perfection inherent in the grief that precedes it. Death makes us sad because it seems we may lose a lot and we wonder in amazement at the simple glory of life and I agree…but the fact still remains that there is something beyond the “simple beyond” and this sort of grasping at a resolution- takes work- and by trying to convince me that either you aren’t “spiritual” – but yet merely a mundane, baby making chocolate eater- OR that you are just a stones throw away from being god, either way you’ve gone mad, more mad than I could ever be. No matter what either of you or any of you say, I’m not buying it- and to even try to tell you why is pointless. There are a couple syndromes out there right now – one is the jesus syndrome and one is the mommy syndrome. You don’t have to explain to me any of the reasons because I already know, it also hurts to not feel anything at all. And so, go ahead and keep walking on that water and go ahead and nurse the kid until she’s 14. It’s not about anyone but the one who only hears what they want to hear- spiritual experiences don’t make you jesus, your actions do. Babying your children because nobody babied you doesn’t make you a better mother, your independent clarity does. What are you doing with your life?
Oh I forgot, I’m the one reaching too high, looking too hard, I can’t seem to find god on netflix because I haven’t yet ended the honeymoon of mystical desire. No honeymoon, no mystical enchantment, no tears of bliss, no
hope beyond pencils and pens…no, just this, my ordinary “enlightenment” my self denial of my personhood, my lack of integration, my churning and churning in the night- and so I eat and I get pompous and I obsess and I expect recognition for my position as relevant at all? Sorry but the whole bag must go, not only part of the bag. Daddy comes in many forms and you just aren’t looking at your own creation. Mommy comes with many kinder faces but that doesn’t mean she isn’t creating the same neglect with a different more palatable twist. The cradle is rocking, the world is crumbling. It’s not the same river, just like frequency is a real thing. It’s the frequency of love that this is- that frequency is undeniable and the subtle orchid of spiritual love is a bliss beyond the weighty security of the comforts of our little worlds we’d rather call love because they protect us from ourselves and we feel it’s all doable- rather than the love that rips apart our story whatever that story filled with excuses is…the love that is ruthlessly trying to free you from your desperate personality- your clinging to position and stance and viewpoint- the personality that tries to convince me of its relevancy, that defends its position, that needs a billion dollars to manifest devotion or that needs the state to change its laws- but until then you’re just fucked and I mean that, I wasn’t half the whore when I was dancing naked on stage as these housewives I know who fuck on command a red faced husband who won’t even look in their eyes…creepy shit, this haunted life we defend while kali walks down the hallways at night warning us that tomorrow is still coming and so what? Close your eyes tighter and write me another love letter? Where is tomorrow, at the grave of another dead face you pretend is the sunlight?
I went too far this time, I touched you all, the eclipse had fallen and we were three strikes from the raven moon. I took disease and I took sexual pain, I took hot rocks and I took cold hearts, I took every devil head that bent down before me- I took the night crawlers out of others into myself as the razor tipped in cyanide blade that knows no forgiveness- and then I wrapped it all up like a cat plays with yarn into a big white ball covered in blood and broken veins. I bled the moon to death for almost three years after that and I drank the putrid blood of people I didn’t even know- just so that I could live in mutiny of this single fear that eats the world we call home- they shoveled me pounds upon pounds of death into the incinerator and I never missed a beat…and it wasn’t until then, even after all of those years, that she opened her hidden wings above me and brought me into to her empty heart, there was nothing there but a broom and a single unflinching flame…and it wasn’t until then that I even knew you ached, and I was nothing less than a miracle that stood up and walked again down these haunted halls. I’m still looking for myself and I know you’re here somewhere. I hear the muffled moaning of a listless torture, I hear the dripping of sweet life into the unnoticed puddles that either stagnate or evaporate- up or down- it’s all her grace…
whoever she is, she feels like light to me. However, I disowned her, I wanted to sell her, I couldn’t even look at her without getting annoyed…”you tried to kill me and what did I ever do to you. What did I do to deserve this…” she never said a word, and I think that’s important. I could never figure her out, she was too deep and I certainly was not going to swim out that far, and she knew it and so she made me…she made me swim into the center of a black so numb it was unbearable, unbearably void of even the black- and I don’t mean you, I mean me- a vacuous nothing so shocking, a static cling so lucid I cannot describe this, the blink of her one bottomless horrifying god eye- into the mother light- I dematerialized and I left and went far away from here- and then suddenly I was SNAPPED straight out of my own mind and I watched someone called forever cut my life away like it meant absolutely nothing at all, even after all of this, even after you…so self less I became not even in a way that you think would feel holy, but self less like a hole going from nowhere into nowhere- just this self less “person” who should smile sometimes, speak wisely and not let anyone know I was floating in a space that seems as uninterested in me and my devotion as I am in yours- I was looking to fill back up with something solid and good, but alas, there is no such thing as any of it, as me, as you or as a net to catch us in- In this me at all who doesn’t exist, feel move think or feel there is no concept of guru, only devotion to the depth of what I found in my own emptiness, obviously hard to describe- and so I write to you just to be here, I move just to prove I’m alive and I love just because there’s nothing else to do and love doesn’t have to feel good I hope you know…and the word is stupid and generic “love” -I guess a better word would be “notice” I notice you and you’re separate from me and that hurts but it’s still love…whatever the defense may be, I feel the hole in you too…and that’s all this has ever been about…this place nobody talks about without trying to make it easier to enter…”guru just is” and so notice the space of his dwelling…appreciate and don’t recoil from his manifestation. I found nothing but the guru in my emptiness and so I believe in only this. Devotion is the thing that let me float and not sink, in the darkest of dark places, I had only that invisible friend, my love for the guru who isn’t “real” either- yet the only force as real as the blackness- was that light that suspended me in itself which is the guru without a doubt…
I of course had stories and excuses and I still only see what I want to see…but I left that paper weight illusion of me for good- and it’s time and time again that she comes looking for more- more tears, more heart and less of me…and so I suppose it’s all about that, what are you looking for in me? I see her in you and that’s a tight squeeze because the tunnel is contracting and exacting and there is nothing inside of her but the loudest silence you have ever heard. Inside this black hole of me where everything really happens, where I terrify myself and expect some reward that is separate from her rooted love? I know. I thought that I could make her leave me alone but she’s like a skilled stalker and there’s always her shadow behind you pretending it’s allowing you to be out of her darkness, the darkness you can’t control- and however you defined your experience tinged by the false promises of religion- she doesn’t really care, she’s not a person wearing any outfit, she’s in your eyes….and she is- where she shines- the gem for the morning, while you still lay in bed dreaming about boys from highschool or money you have yet to earn…who have we married after all, only ourselves on some level of chaos so undiscovered that we’ve somehow found a way to organize it all- and so we call it the new grace of her- that we should organize and compartmentalize death into such a way that she no longer threatens us from his snake eyes but rather that her updated version soothes us back into a grimmer denial that even though he’s coming for you, it’s going to be ok that you actually were NOT ever enough for yourself- and so now that you’ve “come to terms with that” and have become ruthlessly honest with your newfound clarity and ordinary upheaval of a dulling inertia you’re pretending is “peace” you feel that death is just another definition you feel on your walks everyday? You can’t even leave highschool, you won’t even try- and that is not called the discovery of a sublime level of closeness to ourselves. That is a lie. That is called convenience with a noose around its neck and your ground is still shaky and you still are lonely and at least stop lying to yourself in these emails because you can’t lie to me…and so the crystal kiss at midnight was really just the eclipse of my disappearance into the hallway and away from the room of a lesser me. The room I still try to hide in and pretend I’ve found me somewhere else, somewhere more feasible- I’ve finally seen in my “old age” that I went where I never even needed to go, in search of the beloved who is merely me drenched in second hand smoke. I see that it’s all a mirage, a fantasy in which we search for the thing that we already are, we go to sacred places that are truly just in our backyard, that I can be honest and say I was a fake and I didn’t love god, I loved the party of god, good thing I’ve finally found peace next to hubby. But since neither one of us is ever actually home- in more ways than one, I think this mirror on the ceiling in our dusty bedroom doesn’t need to be cleaned after all- since, truthfully, neither one of us even look in the ALL telling sex mirror and thank his christian god for that ….because we now have each other deeply held- in this new and more modern movie of spiritual love- and I’m safe here from the upheaval of imaginary tantra, and witch circles and warlocks like him, I’m no longer seduced by the magic of deities so far beyond these walls of subterfuge- that I can’t even hear her walking anymore, and although I know she is coming and because I’ll admit I’m “afraid” I’m actually not because life and death are not separate just as I am not lying to myself, just as all my words are only words and my heart doesn’t lie in the silence or the astral world. The astral world that I don’t really even notice or care…but nevertheless it’s the place I call to you from crying about how I’ve lost my only real home and I won’t wake up from this suburban nightmare of me…all because of our one night together, the night that I burst into flames…
the flames that burnt away all the stars that reminded me of you. We see what we want to see and isn’t it a tragedy that people think little girls are afraid and they never really are, they’re just welcoming you into their hearts and too bad the naughty monster got in is all I can…the ways we are raped are many, and don’t think that your heart isn’t a hole that has just as many rights as your more forbidden body parts- it’s all very sneaky, how we get defiled and start feeling dirty and wanting a cleaner love in the guru- but not yet, no bypassing- remember. the perversities that we won’t claim steal everything that loves us back. Name the first dangerous “guru” who was suppose to show you love and figure out the one who drives the cars that we can’t see…I’m just saying, we see what we want to see- and we hear daddy’s easier voice when that’s what suits our primal security and feeds our family beast.
I’m at the point, the brink of the flash…this is not the same words again and again, this is hunting season. And Bhagavan Das always says, “people get the guru they deserve.” And the funniest part is, it’s not your choice of course, life brings you so many versions of death in an attempt to get you ready to face life- the random words of a stranger will bring you back to me. Who am I? Nobody filled with a disinterested wrath or maybe just nobody bored with another rodent game of monopoly- or maybe I’m just a rat gnawing on my captive babies- but none of it is intentional- I’m racked with an undefineable grief that attempts with words to find you near me- but I fall short and remain all alone, reading the hieroglyphics on these walls trying to understand why- why she left me here with nothing to do but miss her and write letters to people I’ve never even seen…I’m not trying to be anybody because it’s all hopeless- I like to think it could be perfect as it is- but I kind of doubt it- guru, god, goddess, rat, middle aged lunatic- whatever I could possibly be- this effortlessness of my defiance-this refusal to conform to my american body- the all knowing being of fluff and false whip romances that I play within- the things she says, the nerve of her, stirring up the incestuous waters of the holy river that’s just a block away from starbucks. Hahaha!!!
The fun never ends.