I attempt, once again, to attempt to write more story. I prayed to my godhead this morning for inspiration before imbibing the Yemeni fire-seed drink. I wanted this to be a libation, not a simple tool to bring about false wakefulness. I sit, I put on music, a powerful melodic roar of strings and electricity, and I fall into a trance of research, like I did in my more alive periods.
Desperately, I attempted to drag this into the narrative, but a smooth, large hand kept shoving me away. The shove felt more like a concussion, rattling the mind each time I would attempt to batter against its force. "Let me tell stories!" I would meagerly yelp, smashing at keys and contorting my mind into a dried, screwed-up mess. The presence loomed large in my heart, lit from behind and wreathed in serpents and vines, dripping leaves and clutching a spear, a gift from the light behind it. I can almost hear what my mind translates as a brusque laugh and a playful, derogatory utterance.
"Go fuck yourself."
Thankfully, my god has a sense of humor, and so do I. I tend to forget the irrational yelps and unbridled fire of being that my god incites within me. I forget that "he" incites me to cease caring about the judgments, the consequences, the imperceptible restrictions that asphyxiate our breath, our True breath. Y'know, the ones that, in spite of having a wide space around your body and all the relaxation and health in the world, keep you from actually getting a breath.
Panic. Greek for "of Pan." The Fucking God, the wildness. We've made him so abstract in our day, either jamming his frequency into ourselves and binding our breath and action in "panic attacks" or babbling on and on about ourselves, our illusory, impermanent little beings vomited out of the biomass and tossed into Saturn's world of circumstance.
Scare yourself, now. You are Beast. You are violence. You drink the blood of footed beings (use of plastic, oil, use of animal products and human resource), you drink the blood of rooted beings (paper, plant matter, biodiesel, lumber, fungus, mood altering substances), you drink the blood of the Primordial Being (water), for you yourself are a part of it all and must inflict yourself upon the world to be a part of it. Involve yourself not in abstraction, not in the far flung scales of the World Serpent; it has the unique proclivity both to envenom and to constrict. The "world," that which you have in front of the vessel of your consciousness, contains all of the information you need to push forward.
Knowledge is as dangerous as wine. It impairs our judgment as much as it clarifies. Knowledge is power, and power is an opiate illusion of the worst kind, pushing us to chase the Dragon, the reptilian primordial force of change, instead of cultivating a safe, warm place for the Dragon to roost in our stillness. Fear not the sacrifices you make toward this goal; they serve Life, they serve our very source. Our dalliances and mistakes give us lessons, give us raw materials to shape that which we always have, ourselves, into the very tools used to overcome those mistakes, if not for ourselves, then for those mysterious other glimmers of being that swim in the same chaotic seas as we. We adapt to our dark and dangerous climates through growth, just as generations of biomass grow around vents on the sea floor and bob in lazy luminescence in the barren, lightless depths. In the darkness, we build our tools to create our next evolution. We create our own light, we change our senses, we grow new mouths to capture the Marine Snow, the foundation of life, in humility.
If it takes a lifetime to move an inch towards the Sun's chattering call, then that lifetime has been spent well. If we live to let in the world, to become a part of the world, to taste of the gutter and of the stars, and commit ourselves to combing and soothing the turbulence in the asensate roilings beneath or above the wall of our universe, if we seek to understand that the words tossed into our minds remain mere symbols, and that no exemptions exist from the connection of all, then we truly live in the light of God, even if that light comes from a bioluminescent angler fish readying to consume us whole.
Nature shows as much mercy to the cautious as it does to the valorous. What restrictions we place on ourselves and on each other serve to sever that connection to the true restrictive source, the limits of which we can only explore and to which we adjust ourselves when found untenable. We don't pick where we were born, and we don't pick what we're taught. We do pick where we go, and we do pick what we learn. What atrocities of separation do we justify? What abstract concept do you feed with the blood of others: Religion? Culture? Country? Ideology? What have these ideas done for you lately? How have they brought you closer to others, and whom do they ask you to exclude? How dare these concepts tell you whom to let in and whom not to let in? How dare a series of idiotic words in a book claim your life and determine your actions? How dare it claim to present the truth, when it presents simple smudges of lines on innumerable dead trees, only to serve its own propagation? How dare this infection muzzle you? How dare these ideas toy with us, pitting infection against infection like gamblers at a dogfight? How dare they shame us into listening to their drivel, justified with the occasional lip service to Universal Love, while stating that some are more deserving of that Universal Love than others?