There was a woman with long white hair and there was a man that followed her. She lived in a dense forest of thicket and tall spindly trees. He buried himself in dead leaves just to hear her breathing, to be near her. He was very tall and he was dark. The shadows met his face and his eyes always gazed downward, at her footprints, at the leaves, at what she left behind upon the decaying earth. She was complicated because she was so simply a widow. She was slender and her back arched like the cats she lived with. Her eyes were often yellow like that – and when she was weaving, the way she would, it seemed that silken thread came from the palms of her delicate veiny hands. She would leave white webs everywhere, in his eyes. Red diamonds shaped like the hourglass that sat behind it all, dripping it’s hearts out until the day nothing was left. The day or the hour nobody could know. But her, he was tempted by a death wish he could not resist. She was quiet, it was the cats who purred loudly. These were forest cats, wild and sleek. She was very old, we cannot know her age. At night she would sit beside the moon glowing. No one could be sure where she came from or why. But this man, he understood and although she pretended not to know that he followed her, she knew. And she fed him just like he was a cat. A kitten really, not wild like the cats that circled her feet, but domestic. He needed something. Spider-less eyes. She was all he saw. The days went by. The seasons passed. Her hair grew so long it touched the ground. His eyes were so heavy they burned holes in the earth anywhere she had stood. He gazed wherever she walked as he followed and a black trail of darkened leaves was formed. It was a wet forest and the flame was contained by the earth who was fertile. It was the groove where streams are formed. Streams that lead to rivers and rivers that swim desperately back to the ocean. But this realm wasn’t like our ocean. It was clean and clear and the fish had minds like men. And so evil began to form in the big waters and the woman knew. She knew the earth must meet the sun, in the same way the ocean meets the moon. She knew that the cats were willing to die, die for light. Die for the light I told you. He wanted her, he followed her. The fish were filled with his water. His water was filled with her. The flame had a mind. A central stomach that ached for it’s food. The earth. I have never eaten the sun although I’ve tried. The cats had been with her since the beginning, there were eleven and four were male. There were seven females who she called seven names. She slept in a cave hidden by a giant tree. The cats were inside her.
He slept under a tree, beneath rotting leaves, buried in musk and deep longing. I suppose you don’t understand me. They both live inside is the main idea. Her hair is long and white, he wears a dark hood. She cannot exist without him, he does not exist without her. The world is ending. They will empty the blood of earth like a pool that gets drained. They will burn the last remaining path so that no trace remains. Either of possession or of regret. The trees form a spiraling circle in the dense wet forest made of webs that only the moon sees because the sun doesn’t care. The ocean isn’t far and another place will rise and it won’t be good it will be evil, worse than anything we’ve ever done. These fish breath light, not air. The ocean is black now because of it. Die for the light. Once it’s over, we won’t even notice. She lives here and works, weaving stories to hold creatures that need her and giving the cats a feline queen – herself – who carves minds into intricate webs decorated with spiders who store memories and stop the night from collapsing. This is how it’s always worked here. And the reason he follows her is because he is how you might imagine a shadow. A loyal shadow that became a man. A man who grew warm beneath her and eyes were formed. Then the river inside him became charged with electricity and magnetism and he began creating fires. She was. She is the central sun. He is the quickening glance of fervor. They are the creators and destroyers of imagination and limitation. The cats are large and shiny and walk upon this earth as gods. Gods who eat fish. Gods who see the ocean as a puddle. Maybe we are smaller and bigger than we realize. Maybe there is no middle to anything. Maybe he will never leave her because she is his body. Maybe she is his body because he is her movement. I have become confused and jealous when I think about the quiet, damp and misty forest with traipsing cats that shimmer and beasts that are given a mind by a white haired woman weaving webs from her palms as a tall dark hooded man watches, hooded eyes starting fires whenever she moves – and only the path turns to black – killing nothing – but footprints that got in the way.
I will leave nothing behind me but his devastation. The dream will eventually die. The dream will die for the light and when we wake up the sun will be gone and the moon will be a liar.
We will trust no one inside the great incubation tube. There will be purring, loud purring, hissing and deep growling. There will be claws leaving blood on skin walls and it will be too late. Because she will be gone. There is not two chances to die is why, there is one. And the ocean wasn’t real anyway but we still were afraid of the hooks that were dangling. The swiping claws, the compassionate beings. Whoever and whenever is beyond us now. This is the death of not I, but my dream. I spent a lot of time sleeping waiting for her, crying for him, stroking cats. Thinking I might not be enough. All of me, nowhere and nothing. Running out of time. Excuses of weariness and hunger. And now the sky has opened over the oval world of imagined forest and I’ve been lifted into another mouth. A mouth without a language. Which is scary. Scary because I’m me and I let it happen like this. Didn’t self destruct on my own before the hourglass was drained. And so I say, remember today is it. All of it. Living and dying, seeking mouth tell me what to do. The big thing, the high thing, the right thing. The low deep way to the left of this world. Die to the light who sees and hears, the seen and the listening. The truth really is, the movement and decay never left this bed, the bed of my dead body. And I never slept either. Who are you? I wasn’t here, my hair was long and white eternity. Growing eternity, he was my tongue. Red body, black dream, white strands that never stop moving. Goodbye empty vessel. Downward spiraling screwdriver. Flames that burst like eggs from inside my own fertile mind. I said die for the light like I already knew who I was. And this story has no beginning or end but is the number 8. Hourglass 8.
I know you’d rather have recipes and meditation tips. And that is what this is. Throughout history people have eaten blood soup. They’ve beaten themselves with whips to destroy their lust and they’ve eaten blood soup to destroy the lust of others. Men and women as humans and other species have always eaten, abandoned and rejected their children depending on circumstance and then the one little one is left to fend for themselves and how lucky you are to be given the chance to see what a twisted ray of light you’ve been exhumed from. This is my advice to myself and all, figure this mess out. Get it straight, there are no victims only participants. Meditation isn’t an act, it’s an approach. One recipe is the only recipe. Rip out your own heart to see how late it’s gotten. Stop feeding on children both within and without. Be aware of the awareness that is so primal we’re ashamed. Fuck the shame. And I mean literally.
This is a joke, these planet reapers with their restaurants and outfits hung in windows on shapeless mannequins. Women with no hips and men with penises too big to fit in their pants. This is a joke- that edible food is to be bought and children are to be tamed. Turned into you and me, pale lumpy prisoners of war drinking coffee and watching phones as they talk to us. As we look for life on the screen and listen for which way to turn, hands trembling high on stimulants and sedatives. Minds confused by mainstream dictation. The way it is, is that there’s only the forest of webs and I am not the one who made this up. I can cook all day and still the blood gets shed and they’re dying from sexually transmitted disease and starvation for no reason but the evidence. For evidence. The clues we won’t see. Look from above down at this sinking world of electrical storms and poison waters. Do you really think you belong here looking through books on what to cook or how to meditate?
Drones fill the sky head and anchors fill the aching heart. Home isn’t across the ocean or even where you are now. You don’t know these people you look at- “family, friends,” television- whoever- they’re masks.
Masks meant to trap you in the web. The mythic creature is covered in a thousand legs. And although it seems invisible, this creature looms just outside your eyes, humming and hovering.
We have a maker, they said it was called “God,”
like we’re so stupid it needs a name so we can beg for forgiveness and help. Shame upon the human is the end of man. Our only home was never here anyway so they can have it- making us guilty for the dark waters and the diseases they’ve spread.
So I’ve narrowed it all down in my own way in the above parable and I hope you recognize our kinship enough to get up and out of bed, away from the dining table and back into the diamond that’s waiting once you flip the lid off this demented wormhole sin pit of trickery and deception. Just so you can’t be you, but a slave to shame. Reading about holy people like they’re somewhere else but inside you. Like you couldn’t be good enough, ever to do these miraculous things. Like you’re caught and hopeless and waiting for her to get hungry and devour your body all over again in the dream of wasted space and dripping moments.
It’s not real, any of it. Sing your way back to the song. Not any song you’ve ever heard here on this planet, but a deeper sound heard below the radar and the body grip, the low song that only heavy otherworldly animals know. And I mean 1,000 legged animal creatures that are made of light without fear noises. That spin over and under all concept and belief. That have no rules,
only one law. The law that is itself beyond all fiction of form attached to direction. You can have no comment, you can have it all.