You left me standing in the rain looking down at her dead body. In the doorway, I turned around one more time but you were gone, I knew you’d go, we all leave. Each other all alone, cold in the dark. The night was a veil and her body was wet, abandoned by even her. Her lonely ghost floated, pale under the moonlight, wishing you’d return to haunt the empty road that winds through this fog, inside this place. Such a little lonely house where we thought a garden might grow, but we killed her. One way or another it doesn’t matter, at least there is tomorrow. When we can forget her, after you’re gone and the sun has risen over this dark forest where only the animals can see whose really still amongst the living. I remember her, the bright beginning, just the beginning, but it’s gone. The innocence, the pure surrender. Her black eyes. Your promise of the light. All of it, a phantom blowing violently in the wind reminding me that we are murderers and nothing else. Inside these walls I drew your face a thousand times and I did it all for her. The words, the romance of the dark rider who comes bringing shadows. Shadows that cling to drawn faces and rise from the dead shining like demigods. This is where I go, into the heart of pain until I don’t feel the pain. I become the pain and I make things. I write to you, I become everybody. Suffering the way a flower suffers when it’s pulled from her young body. I see colors rise from hidden things, the way a soul bleeds is quietly. I hear the thoughts that birds might have, I imagine I could be falling. I paint pictures of this dream so vivid, from the little nest, from the treetop branch I lived in. Until I fell and began to break even before I hit the earth. And the clouds move around me saying it’s ok to die and the lights rise and fall, this is the end, we end with a song. Songs from voices that weave through the currents of wind all around us. Between us or anywhere, only this pain that howls. But I am making everything sing, the sun drips. I am every drop of it’s suffering, to give itself up to the darkness…In India the sun was red at dusk every evening. Blood red. After the sun sunk into the Ganga river, I would just sit there deep into the night until everyone left, until everything was gone. I would watch the floating flowers and flames on the tiny leaf boats pass me by and I would cry for her inside us all. I would howl softly until the dawn because I don’t know where I am. And I’m looking for you in that place of prayers and loneliness. And the flowers and flames that were offered, made me see that deep below the water an ancient being dwelt, accepting the offerings and yet not consoled by the pain of the giver. The prayers sink, they don’t float forever. Not like we imagine we are. Too lonely for words out loud…speaking of blood red and lit rivers and the suffering twilight….last week I made this yantra. With menstrual blood. It’s tantric magic. It was used during the black eclipse, pure stainless witchcraft. I painted everything in the house with menstrual blood. There have been hungry vultures flying over this place for days, swooping down. Looking at me. Blood thirsty. Death is in the air. This deviant god, this god hidden in forbidden things. Sacred blood, comes as hungry black vulture bodies. Consuming the remains of life forms that have hit their expiration date and yet live on through another. Why, I don’t know. That’s me. I want to be somebody else. I’m like an animal. I don’t even like people, I just feel sorry for them, myself included. Obviously I’m having some DNA/identity issues I would like to claw my way out of this body and into yours. Even that’s pretty violent, like how the native american would eat the heart of their conquest to embody its attributes, become it- the one it has killed. The animal doesn’t even know death, it only knows becoming. And so I’m like an animal that is eating the other animal whether or not the other animal even knows it’s an animal isn’t my problem. What it is is the ultimate eclipsing. Primal yogic knowing. I am a pagan through and through. And there is this woman in Indiana who has my identity and I’ve been calling around trying to get us “unlinked” because she’s kind of a criminal and isn’t it funny. I was laying there, staring at the ceiling -as usual- and I was stricken suddenly knowing so deeply that I don’t have one. An identity. I’m just another desperate animal. Desperate to get inside of something, someone and somehow make a mark. A bloody mark down the back of the beast. I know it’s me. I’m violent through and through. And every animal is just an animal out there in the forest or jungle. And so am I. Every wild animal, nameless without a birth time or day. Just born, just existing, just killing and being killed. And I’m like I don’t want to die, but I’m death. How to escape, I cannot escape. They’ve given me a number at birth since I’m a so called civilized human and so now I’m real and legitimate and most importantly I cannot kill or I’ll be caged once I’m caught, like a wild animal. And do you see how this goes, why we wear animal masks and start fucking like crazy? We’re already caged in a sterilized box made of rules, religion, and endless numbers. The numbers that become us. That we become. Always counting the hours, the days, the bank account, the betrayals. Counting, the clock hangs and ticks so loud I want to kill it. Kill the loud lying clock. But I can’t, I am one. A clock. But I am more like an animal trapped in a clock and this animal of me somehow found out about clocks and how I’m not free while I count, add, subtract…miss every opportunity to be free. And it’s only violence I feel when the numbers start crowding me, dates, cash, the fucking loose cold numbers that we get so tight over and the animal goes down into it’s hole, it’s cave and starts sharpening its claws looking for its next conquest or war. The war to get inside of something, a free place. Primal without dates and issues such as identity and the numbers these match me so I can be accountable and kept track of. Let me out of this cage. I am not what you want me to be. I am not able to cage anybody including me. I’d rather kill us both- and I know I said I’m tired of all the killing- and technically I am. But what’s my other choice. I’ve tried waiting, watching the door, the mirror – for death to come and take me. But I’m death. I’m caught. I’m wild. I’m calculated. I’m stollen. I’m desperate. I’m hungry for blood. Because life isn’t held on a line that anybody can control. Prison lines, bank lines, phone lines. We don’t have a name and a number, don’t you see why we lie. We’ve been stuck from the start being sterilized and mummified. Being tame. Doing tricks. Begging like domesticated dogs who wear outfits and whine all day. Collars and leashes. Bowls to eat out of, vaccinations. Special contained doggy parks where we can meet other dogs just like us. Do you wonder why you’re so fucked up? This is why. We are not humans in the way they made us. We are wild and we live in the forest. We follow the moon and stars to our destination. We hunt to eat and we don’t even know the word love. We just do. And are. The way the light leads to God, we carry the knowing within us, we carry the river within us, we carry the dark curse of time. And the angst is a blessing that reminds of of what’s missing. The existential angst that this just might not be working out like we meant. That whatever we are might not be a name or a number and yet we serve this as we serve time, we have no choice. But maybe we aren’t a number or name, like REALLY, for once tell the truth. Who are you? Liar! Stop lying to the only face. Get out of the mirror and lie face down in the dirt. We are dirt, less than dirt. Animals that die unknown, unseen under a forest of stars. Going back, face down into the truth. The earth who knows my face. Says I’m dirt after the animal crumbles and after I forget how to count and to hold accountable all that we are. This is nothing without money to pay for more money. There is only the vulture swooping inside every breath, every tick tock of the god clock. And so I am a pagan. Without anything I can define. No numbers. Just an animal watching the fog roll in and out of your eyes. Looking over the dead body of tomorrow. Tomorrow never comes. Not for animals who give all they’ve got. You know that. And so the primal weaver said this wouldn’t work out unless all the threads were tightly pulled, and we understood what this basket was meant to hold. This womb with a symbol inside, the symbol is a secret. This yantra. I painted it with menstrual blood. It’s magic. It is an offering to this goddess, the goddess of love and sex magic- during the black eclipse we were the weavers of pure stainless witchcraft. Look at me. Death is in the air and so I flirt back. You should have been here waiting for the light to die like I did, praying and becoming the invisible band that holds heaven deep inside of hell. But you weren’t, you wanted peace. Maybe you didn’t look at the evil black sun, maybe you think I’m controllable, predictable. It’s a stance to be mastered mysteriously, you cannot will to attain by the power of your ambition any lasting stance whatsoever. You’ll see, life is rugged that way. Not perfectly quiet, whispery, kindness. It’s prolific. It’s insane. Fear drives even the most well meaning acts, it’s insidious and yet always the impetus. You still want to be important, somebody. We all do. We never are. Making wild magic with a strict and deviant god is my way. A god hidden inside of my forbidden things. My yantra who opens magical doorways to places inside that are unimaginable. Sacred blood, formless symbol. This portal leads to a cross, we make the choice to tip the scale, we cut with our words for better or for worse. Making magic. I hold the end of it all right at the tip of my tongue. And this magic is exacting. The ritual that bleeds form into being. Transforms mortals into symbols of God. The peace that results is natural and authentic. Not man made, man directed. Not a structure of rules and theories. But raw paganism. Also, no one is going to find the lake where I hid this, no one is going to find the lake where the jewels are. It’s an astral lake. Your eyes touched death in me. The place where I hide, that I cannot escape from. There are jewels hidden in your eyes, you are a forest. The forest that ends in me. There is a bottomless lake filled with me. The forest is a yantra and I live inside the yantra. I am an animal and nobody knows I’m immortal. Because I don’t sin and I don’t take. Because I’m not an identity but a destination. I am destiny, this is it. The perfect place where we let go and everything enters as form…and it gets wild. Inside where I cry by the river who loves me. That’s all I really wanted to say. In the heart of me, is every part of me, dying to get out and shine. Like the sun, on the river, inside the beast. As this bloody yantra- I rise for the darkness who loves me. For the light who feels me as the face of my very own.
Trust in death. Sharada Devi