honeymoon of mystical desire💫

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.
Sharada Devi💫

18 thoughts on “honeymoon of mystical desire💫”

  1. I met sharada devi for the first time in 1971 before she died. It was then that I saw saw the one eyed black kali dancing in the burning ground of my crystal heart cave. She came after me as I had just begun walking down the mountain returning to the haunts of men. We met way up high in the mountains under the snow dome of Mount Everest, she was old and her hair was matted all the way to the ground, she walked slowly holding a holy book to her heart, I saw her and it was then she slowly turned to look at me, our eyes met and she stared into me like fire for what seemed like minutes, then she turned and walked slowly away. I never forgot her, I knew she’d come back to me, I was 20 years old. There is no one true but your guru who hears your voice crying out in the pain of the void. You never know the form she will take. And so I say RISE in the dark of her morning right before the sun blurs the true sky and blow that human thighbone trumpet, and ring that dharma bell and call all the hungry ghosts for a feast. “Cut me up real good and cook me up in a big skull cup under the fire of my eternal desire!”
    Fan the flames of your love with the wind of demons breathing,
    your rage is ongoing madness for the hunger of her deathless love which is more than we can bare. Empty now. All the bloody soup and bone broth of you has been eaten by the sucking world of no thought if you’re lucky enough to be full of shit and know it and leave the world alone and behind you once and for all. Come to the mountain, because once you call Her and actually mean it, she will turn to look at you and burn you in the blue light rays of Her lotus eyes. You will die and all that’s left is the guru inside of your empty heart brain. YO MAMA I follow you down the road, my guru is fat because he eats all the bad children. What is It? Get it before the ego rat eats your eyes out. Drink deep of the light and shut up baby jesus. Only you are true guru, we found you at last in the parking lot outside of the nude bar. When the redneck came up to your window and said as he pointed his gun at you, “I’m going to shoot you gook,” then you said “pull the trigger coward! ” and then the rat turned around and scurried away. The pain never goes away only the rats do…… there is no enlightenment somewhere else. Got IT?
    dharma sagara das aka heruka baba bhagavan das riggs
    ocean of the righteous blood drinker who is my beloved MA

  2. I’m in it, as funny as it sounds!!!!!!!:
    -Dog Gone-
    I’m in love with a stripper
    She dangles by high wire every night

    We lay in bed,
    All morning…
    She runs off every day
    With the rising sun

    Can’t blame her
    And wouldn’t miss
    The moonlight.

    1. I know. I know. I know.
      it’s all the same,
      it’s all the same.

      You come to me with a bone in your hand,
      you come to me with excuses…

      and I’m to blame, I’m to blame.
      be careful with that open
      mind of yours…

      It’s a wicked game we play. Haha

      1. I’m in love with the bubble
        Before it bubbles,
        The water
        Before it’s hot….
        Steam me
        Or not,
        Doesn’t change my love

  3. I really get a kick
    out of the repartee
    between the 2 of you
    So buoyant and easy
    like a dandelion in a soft breeze

    1. me and mystical wayne?
      did you know he made a sign that says
      “GOD➡️” and he’s hitchhiking to mount shasta? Everybody loves wayne, it’s impossible not to!☀️Big jupiter who makes
      the whole world smile➡️God👍 Haha

      1. yeah, u and mw…
        how would i know about the sign – oh yeah- U mentioned it above
        but now the obscure reference is disclosed….
        I hitchhiked to Mt Shasta the first time I ever landed there
        I trust that mystical Wayne will have a mighty adventure
        and enjoy similar magical experiences along the way.

        1. It’s no joke it’s a seriously mystical magical place- they say the lemurians live inside the dormant volcano and they’ve been seen- you can find out more if you want-
          they have crystal shops there with crystals you can’t even imagine- something really strange in everyone’s eyes like a light that they themselves don’t even see…
          maybe it’s just me but I think not- the lemurians telepathically lead us there it is said and they wear robes of white and walk in long lines around the brim of the volcano on sacred days that we have yet to discover-
          It’s a portal- a high vibration vortex where anything is possible…ANYTHING—GOD➡️

          1. I’m not joking.
            I did a google search after your blog about being in Shasta a while back. Figured that you were on your way back to Oregon.

            I had a bona fide moment in time that may or may not be that important now , but right then, it was an in-tune happening. And it was all about white. This was back in 1993. I didn’t go to any shops, was headed towards Oregon at the time and only remained for a few days in that one place. I would like to see and feel the sacred crystals that you have written about. This time around staying fixed and longer will be an even deeper experience. I am certain that magic and all things mystic are in the air and every other element. That is why we are all being draw there right now – through you… the cosmic divining rod. ANYTHING and EVERYTHING is possible – I have never been a skeptic.

          2. What do you mean “all about white?”

            “I have never been a skeptic”
            I like that, so funny!

            Oh that’s right you’re Big Jupiter too- Sagittarius- me you and Wayne also.
            Which means we’re super lucky and funny
            and rich! In ways that may, like the crystal not be obvious until you look inside at the
            rainbow prisms of light and good fortune…

            You can count your blessings always because
            Jupiter is like a cosmic Santa Claus and makes everyone laugh at the gifts that life brings and it’s all a gift of whatever we see…

            The crystal only becomes what the holder of it is already…that’s the plan❤️

  4. Crystals are sugar kisses from the Lemurians–

    Trying to,
    Tell you about her
    her pain is most beautiful at sunset

    How she looks
    How she is held in me as she looks, all day long at the sea

    there is no place for judgement
    her pain is most beautiful at sunset

    One. Slow. Collapsing Wave
    After another
    Much. Slower. One
    Avalanches don’t touch me in this place
    Where her skin makes me cry
    And no one else
    Could possibly
    Hear or

    I’m sorry, it’s just for me
    Because it’s impossible
    the jungle in the dark, of each step
    And she’s a black jaguar, in my ruby heart
    All of a sudden

    I’m in love with the rain, friend

    1. her life causes her pain and that’s not sexy
      or mysterious it’s just because she was likely abused, we can’t make her pain our muse when she feels like she is even less than human then we are.
      I mean, she can’t find love or god in herself- not while she whips the chain
      at imaginary men who look like daddy.

      Sometimes it’s not a poem from the goddess
      my mystical friend, it’s a cry for help,
      someone to pay her bills, or another way
      to get numb with a new man….

      you’re a sweet dreamer but it’s true that the world is dark and strip clubs are an extremely dangerous place for you to hang out in and for her to work in-

      Don’t tempt the gods to destroy you because it’s not really what they want and it doesn’t feel good and she’s just a little girl who learned the wrong way to look for love…

      be a friend and be strong- I told you with the first one- and stop dreaming everyone is kali- kali doesn’t work for the man and suffer beneath his horny gaze.

      She stands on top of you both.
      Wake up mystical wayne.
      You’re so sweet it hurts.

      *like an addiction

      1. Oh no, I thought it was clear I was writing metaphorically. There is no stripper. Thank you for your concern; my writing was referring to a reflection in me. One that inspires my expressiveness, and one that was awakened by you. I don’t know what to say to connect the dots because there are no dots and it is ethereal and I’m not sure about any of it, other than how I say it

        The first one is the same one.

        Kali om.

        1. Mystical Wayne,
          I know and my pain is your pain.
          You’re deeper than I might ever even cut…
          everything about you is her eyes and I see,
          your heart, like the jaguar or emerald sea.

          It’s all as real and imagined as we are…
          blood on the walls of this castle called me.
          roots in the jungle, spiders without webs…
          looking for the face where we meant to put our eyes…into her.
          you’re the best☀️
          Ps- no sorrys

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