by Kala Joy (c. Michele Neve, 2012)
Giving still, she offers us this death dance.
She swirls as she twirls in cyclones of sand. A whirling dervish artist of dune dreams where the once blue-green planet finds herself again worshipping form, shaping sand into the creatures she once fed, the once ubiquitous plants, the roaming animals, the ever curious and resourceful humans , all who fed her with their breath, their energy, their bodies. All these compost for her growth into the diverse and often complex life she once held.
She eats now only dry grains and excretes vast miles of dunes which she crafts into intricate landscapes of lives lived and relived, formed and reformed in the hope of transformation, her bounty made anew in the bliss world of dreams and possibilities.
How many centuries of desert, sand piled upon sand, did she hold? Beige that replaced the green that once was bursting, burgeoning toward the sun, fed by the stars. How jealous the others had been. Sister Venus, Father Jupiter, red faced Mars watching, ever watching the happenings on her sparkling surface. Each of them in love with her, vying for her notice and sending her love letters in the hopes she would share images of her beauty, send them across the dark plain of space.
Venus in her kindness still sends thoughts her way. Telling her how lovely she is now in her new dress. How the color flatters her. How they all still love her even if their attention is now focused on that flirty planet beyond Pluto.
Once she held fields and vast ocean and rain that fell, flowers dancing in cool breezes, snow silencing all to stillness. Now such beauty she holds only in the ritual of memory, traditions of seasons no more, of cycles of life and death once tangible, the root love of trees that once held the soil in place.
Once we, her children, named her Earth. Yet what we loved in her, what made us possible, came in the gush of water. It was the water that made our lives possible. And the memory of water, her great thirst for it, keeps us here like ghosts. We haunt her day after day. How long has it been? Millennium after millennium. Aeon after aeon.
She remembers with fondness the human rituals of birth and of death. She holds us in this ephemeral mist of mind, formulated in the heart of her wish, conceived, born and gone all in the span of a moment—these storms that were our lives, her life. And then she holds us in the quiet aftermath, when the veil drops and illusions fall away. When all we are left with, our desires, dreams, fantasies, hopes and fear, our mistakes and our triumphs, dissipates back to sand— mandalas blown through straws and dispersed to nothingness with a breath.
When the Desert was Ocean
A green pasture, a lake, and then mountains rising sheer, stately from the edges of her dream, Mira collapses down; her yellow dress crumples beneath her. From where Daniel stands, she is a buttercup wavering in the grass, waiting to be plucked and to mark his smooth chin with the golden evidence of his great love for sweet and salty butter.
He walks toward her; caterpillars, brown and maroon, cling to his beige pants. In his voice a near silent song escapes. Her head turns to him. She smiles. Bunched in her hands, red clover, sorrel, lamb’s quarters—the wildest of picnics.
Mira touches her cheek, then her breastbone, allows her fingers to settle at last on her round belly. She breathes deep in expectation, excitement, pure light from her head to her root and feels her body quiver, split open, sprout jasmine from every pore. Bouquet of scent, she draws him closer, whispers his name.
Mira lets the sound float off her tongue, allows it to rest just behind her teeth; with a pull upwards, her power place invites him. He stands now before her, looks down at her fey eyes sparkling, her lips reddening; her tongue searches her teeth for plant remnants before she smiles up at him—little girl, naughty witch, wild woman glee teases,
“there’s a desert in my mouth. Do you have something…wet?”
He smiles and bends down toward her. Her mouth opens. Her eyes close. She dreams water. Oceans rise. Rivers gush over stones. Raindrops fill a washbowl. Her mouth fills with water, spills over. Ocean receives the river. River empties into her infinite woman mouth, drinks, drinks the essential He. She takes him in completely. He fills her to the shoreline of her being, licking, lapping up, swallowing, becoming Him as he becomes Her.
They dissolve into one ocean—myriad drops of water dance, commune like grains of sand the color of new butter.
She thirsts, and there is no way to quench her. If it were not for the memory, she would not believe that such lusciousness could be possible, and she may be content to simply shift sand from one place to another. Create of herself a glass gown that would mesmerize the stars with their own reflections. But the memory is long, far longer than this reality of sandstorms and imaginings. She feels in her red hot core it is possible to imagine it all back into being. The heart of her still beats deep down below. Perhaps if she can uncover all that has been, she can somehow invite back the rain.
She remembers how the people once danced to bring down tears from the sky. How the tears swirled into rivers and fed the magnificent ocean. How the cycle of water was unending, from sky to earth, to stream, to river to ocean to sky. Over and over, exchanging form, yet always the same water rising away and falling back into her arms. All she needs is a single droplet to fall, and it would start all over again. The Witch
Up the path they meander, step over vines lush with rain dances of the faerie folk, grass high to their knees, an occasional bramble reaching out for their hair, especially hers.
Long to her waist, orange red curls crackle like a fireplace at autumn twilight. Megan’s Irish blue eyes widen and see much more than her glasses ever permit. The contacts allow her more complete vision, unhindered by plastic picture frame edges. In her hand, Joshua’s fingers melt, mold into hers, finger to finger, thumb to thumb, palm to palm, together, they vibrate stronger than each ever did alone.
She sees the tiny house first. The Witch’s house where resides the She who lived there so long ago. It is covered completely in vines and moss, so that Joshua does not notice it until his hand brushes against the iridescent ivy and feels solid stone beneath. It is said that the house keeps itself hidden from the eyes of men, while for women, for her, it beckons. Suddenly, as if the Witch desires just her presence, Megan drops his hand and walks inside alone.
Megan feels Her. Actually sees her at the tiny narrow hearth making soup. She sees in her inner vision the dark matted hair and vine green eyes as barefoot the witch stands before the nooks between stones where she stored her goods. She peeks into past and how when the roof still intact, the Witch would light her fire with earth stained fingertips, and warm in hand stitched furs, invite prophecy, healing, and the curses that heal into her cauldron.
Megan reels and stumbles against the crumbling wall as she is made witness to a scene so violent, she is asked at that moment never to tell about it. Suddenly in the confidence of a long dead Witch, her breath stutters and holds.
Joshua takes pictures with his new digital camera. The flash illuminates the bramble filled interior. The thorns catch at Megan’s ankles, her wool sweater, steals strands of her hair. She motions as if to tell him to stop, sensing the displeasure in the house. But before she can say a word, his brand new camera battery fails.
She apologizes to the spirit of the Witch and listens as whispers reveal a secret somewhere close by: A place the Witch would like to share with her and her lover. She reaches her hand toward Joshua. They exit and walk out the back of the house, find there a lush spot under the trees. A faery ring of ivy and brown and green leaves make a soft and inviting bed.
Certain that this is not the first time the spot has felt the weight of lovers, they kiss themselves to the ground, overtaken by energy vast and uncontainable, energy of countless lovers spreading legs and penetrating together in one moment which contains all moments. Moments that reveal faces upon faces, an orgy of lips kissing, bellies swelling, genitals gushing—their love whispers, cries, grunts and moans resonate with the music of thousands of voices who join them, some still alive, some long, long dead.
Joshua looks into her eyes as he comes, witnesses there infinite expanses of knowing unseen before in the eyes of this earth woman he so loves. Eyes of a lost world look back at him, glitter with excitement to be in flesh form again, even just for a moment.
He recognizes her from somehow long before this, from a time when in different bodies they shared this love nest, long before the violence that would spill his blood and so separate them.
He remembers it all in perfect detail for just a moment—a strange man in her bed, his own ruddy fists pummeling, the blade she kept beneath the mattress, her blood drenched fingers held shaking over his chest to mend the wound that could not be healed—then it all seeps away into the slow steady breeze and is gone. Just before the spell of forgetting unravels from him the full realization of who he was, he manages to whisper in her ancient ear,
“welcome Witch.” The Stone Circle
Summer Solstice moments away, the Priestess lies in the center of the circle, naked, face up, legs and arms spread wide, flesh made symbol of the sacred wheel of the year.
The drums beat and wild dancers moving in fox skin and stag, encircle her, let loose cavernous growls from their bellies. They have fasted for three days. They are hungry for her.
She pulsates pure light. She emanates a strong scent like an animal ready to rut. The odor of sea and earth, of spicy fern, the dark gills of mushroom and the deep dark swamp. The Sun burns her fair skin while she waits for His spark to travel to the place of perfection. In moments it will penetrate her and enliven the tribe, gift it with renewal.
The Priest, painted blue with a necklace of buttercups, waves his hard, well oiled phallus at the dancers, the drummers, the elders and children who chant and shriek and spur him onward to his pleasure. He bares powerful golden canines and roars like the wild boar, stamps his feet and charges through the screaming crowd, chasing both maidens and mothers alike. He rages his desire in circles around the squealing and toothless crones.
He roars his way concentrically toward the center where the Priestess waits, panting and writhing. Her belly rises and falls. Her mouth streams with low guttural moans. Their eyes meet as he stands over her, stroking his phallus as her fingers hold open her swollen sacred well, waters of love pour.
At the exact moment of the Solstice, when the sun reaches its peak, the longest day of the year, at the moment the rays of the sun exactly illuminate her wide wet Goddess cave, he penetrates deep with one easy, ecstatic thrust and channels the light of the God into her.
They howl as the sun continues to move around the circle. With them the tribe howls, screeches, couples fall to the earth in a wild orgy. Together, they let loose the wild cry of completion in frenzied unison—together penetrating and being penetrated.
Together Goddess and God.
Priest and Priestess.
Woman and Man coming together.
For the tribe.
She was never lonely then, back when those who sprung forth from her great body walked upon her. Even when the cynical among us rose up toward suicide, there were those who knew her, who spoke her name on moonlit nights, who swooned when she opened her crevices to her lover, the Sun. Those of us who understood how our survival depended on her pleasure, who linked our pleasure to hers. We who created rituals to honor her gifts. This not something she ever demanded, still she received our love with gratitude.
Now her children no longer walk over her stones. We are ghosts that swirl around her, knowing it is too late to have back what we lost, but not knowing what else to do except linger and hope and dream. She would have us back in a moment—if she could.
She finds herself wondering if indeed she could hold us in a body now barren, now unable to nurture, to nourish. Perhaps it is okay to accept that her time has come. That she has reached the stage of her cycle where she must reflect and gain wisdom through all that has passed. Perhaps it is time to accept she is Crone and allow herself to die as her children died and perhaps in doing so release us.The Hermit
The villagers brought her food each day. Kind, simple women brought bread and cabbage, berries and nuts and sometimes bits of meat and milk, pints of beer, and sometimes even whiskey.
When she first was called to offer herself to the Tribe, she had no fear that they would neglect her. In the calling she felt so sure, and the people so kind and so in love with their dead. They honored her for honoring the ancestral mound, for keeping company with the blood of their people, and for keeping them safe from the wandering threnodies of despair.
Besides, she had no fear of Death anymore. Not since her first and last child died in her arms. She would welcome starvation if it brought her close again to that sweet boy’s smile.
So she moved into the tomb, honored to share space with ancient, brittle bones and piles of ashes and the endless whispering. She made this her home and like the dead relied on the memory of the Tribe to feed her, to keep her alive. She understood more intimately than most that to forget the ancient wisdom was to sever it from the Tribe. She understood this so well and planted herself to keep the communion between worlds alive, to keep the wisdom flowing forth from the dark ground, so the people would always have access to the knowledge at the beginning of time.
So under the stone mound she ate with them, prayed with them, slept with them, and listened to their stories. Stories of wind whipping through trees, or magpies squawking at noon, red flies buzzing on hot stone, ravens flying suddenly North, a small yellow flower bursting into the darkness of the hovel in the full moon light.
She listened and saw and felt. She honored. Her role was to allow the dead to enter through her to the world of the living. So that the dead might share their experiences of joy and sorrow. So that the people might continue to learn from those who brought them forth into being. And the people in exchange honored her with food, gifts of shiny things, and gratitude.
When she died after many years of service, the world as she knew it disappeared for want of someone brave enough to replace her. The stench of asphalt mingled with the mold of her last supper. A dark and glittering highway slashed through the countryside, leaving in its wake copses of tract housing, warehouses and fast food neon.
The dead waited. Hungry and silent, they waited for the day when another would come who understood as she had how flesh without spirit is but sand falling through an hourglass toward the end of it all.
…and spirit without flesh? What did the ghostly children hope for? That out of nothing, from out of the ocean of sand she would be able to birth us again? So many times she had tried to warn us, sending messages along teutonic plates, tremors of missives that only a few understood. All the hurricanes, floods, did nothing to let us know that she was losing the ability to hold us. Daily we sucked out her lifeblood, poisoned her breath and her waters, cut down the trees that allowed her to hold us to her breast.
She spoke through those who would listen. So few of us listened. She wondered how it was that she lost the ability to communicate with her children. What happened? Was it while she looked past them to contemplate her connection to the stars? While she was flirting with Mercury, speaking witty riddles to entice him? Or while she looked deep within to discover the intricacies of her hidden desires?
Somehow, she simply lost touch with us. And we like Mary Shelley’s monster wandered aimlessly, creating a path of destruction and wrath. She thought we were ready, after all. Who knew the result of her desire to see beyond herself would be so severe, so fatal to our relationship with her. Each moment she heard our cries as we cycled through the memories. She wondered if she could somehow reach out now would we hear her? Is this how one reunites with one’s children. By hearing their pain, taking responsibility for it and giving them the love they need to create from the monstrosity of suffering something entirely new?Oweynagat
The grassy mound rose lush over the hole. Long ago before Ireland gave itself over to the highways spreading over ancient rock walls, touching the hill of Tara, to McDonald’s and Subway glaring neon in between villages, long ago before the spirits of the land in sadness and rage watched as the children destroyed all that was preserved, severed the lines of energy that ran along the land, connecting the old sacred sites of worship, long ago there was a group of seven Pilgrims on a journey.
The grassy mound lush over the hole. Oweynagat. The cave of the cats. The seat of The Morrighan. Long ago being this moment for Kala who kneels before the entrance, entranced by how the hole opens so seductively, edges hairy with witch grass, earth pinky brown like woman lips, dew sprinkles welcoming her into the darkness leading down, down, down.
She crawls on her knees toward the hole, amazed that she convinces herself to enter the three foot by two foot opening in her sudden willingness to go back from where she came. She steps into wet, soft, slippery mud, slides down a shute onto stone and enters the Mother. To the sound of water droplets falling she makes her way, follows a faint flashlight beam ahead. The stone passageway is narrow, covered in the soft wet mud. In places the mud sucks her in past her ankles. While she knows the others are with her, seeing here an eye, there a profile caught in terrified amazement, essentially she feels utterly alone.
Her breathing deepens, and tiny moans let loose from her core. She fears the crush of heavy stone, of being buried deep beneath the earth. She fears the lure of the mud and the release of drowning in the thick lake of it. Fears come of losing her way in a darkness she only knew once and only now dimly remembers. Old fears emerge of under the bed monsters rising up from the netherworld and restless spirits with gaping maws ever hungry for her scent. She fears having incurred the dark Queen’s disfavor. Every fear she has ever known slithers up to be noticed, heard, witnessed in the dark, quiet tunnel.
She notices how the others breathe heavily, as one by one they approach and kneel before Her throne. The Fear threatens to send her away screaming, but she takes her trembling turn and in the utter darkness, kneels in the dark embrace.
Lucretia comes. Her sister, friend, lover, comes then. In spirit form, for in reality she is in that other underworld, Australia. She comes behind her and places her arms around her, whispering,
“don’t be afraid; it’s only you.”
Like a river then, the fear pours out of her. From out of her pores, through the soles of her feet, she exhales deeply and releases it all, and lying on her side, curls up in a ball, relaxing in the knowing of how deeply, how completely the dark Mother loves her, how she will always keep her safe. How she will always protect her. She has never felt so loved before, so accepted.
She understands suddenly that the darkness within is there to love her, help her, guide her toward growth. She wants to stay there forever, live there. She cannot imagine a place more comfortable to sleep and dream. She lets herself be held in the womb of the cave until something within her stirs toward movement, a potential desiring to be unleashed takes hold.
The grassy mound lush over the hole as seven mud drenched babes squirm their way to the grass and hold tightly to the earth with wrinkled fists, drinking in sun and earth and air—Mother feeding them, loving them, holding them, giving them everything she has to offer—life and death and rebirth. Life and Death and Rebirth.
Moon and Star
Sliver Moon rises, pulled by Star. Star bright rides the blue into black, into night.
Moon calls her daughter to wake up in the cold cabin; she sits by the fire, contemplates how the scant hair on her legs is not enough to keep her warm. She creates in her mind an image of cavewoman, hairy thighs and back and buttocks holding her heat.
She creates in her mind the caveman who loves her hirsute arms and runs his fingers through the dark strands while they lay in a heap in the corner of the cave, dreaming up the future in flame. His eyes transcend centuries and even today look into her through the content gaze of her lover who lies now on the bed after a whole body orgasm sent him into a myriad of places, times, dimensions: the colors of bliss.
She sees in his face his ancestor, the caveman sharpening stone before the hunt, kissing her before facing the wild boar that holds his death. She knows it is the last time she will see him and lingers long, holding his arm until he pulls away and rams into the world of men. The men who will carry him back to her, heart broken open as her own heart would break when she sees his lips so pale, his face bloodless, his blood on the faces of his brothers who drank from him while he died in the snow.
His blood brother hands to her a skin filled with her lover’s blood. She drinks it, taking in the essence of her lover, making him part of her as the men did. Thus he is with the tribe, thus no one can ever truly leave. Only the diseased and the banished ever leave the world without carrying on in the blood of the others.
Although he is in her and she can feel his smile, his touch from the inside out, still she wails, she keens, she beats her head against trees and the ground and tearing off her skins rolls around naked in the snow. The women come then and wrap her in their arms, surround her in a circle of their arms, legs, bellies and breasts. She cries and cries until every tear that must be shed is shed.
They take her to the woman’s place: the cave beyond the clearing where the women go to bleed. They lay her on the red stained earth and burn cedar and sage over her. They hit stones together and add their wails to her own so the earth knows her grief.
When the hawk cries thrice she rises, and they follow as she walks out and toward where the men sit with her lover, speaking with him as if he were alive, filling in the bits of the hunt that he missed. How after the boar speared him, they managed to take it from behind and slice its belly open. So the tribe will eat tonight. The best pieces will be for he who created the diversion by offering his life for the tribe.
She silences them with a gesture. They lift then her lover and are silent as she follows. They bring him to the cave of the dead where the women clean him with their spit and bits of leather. They purify him with the smoke of dried grasses and cedar. They paint his body with dried red and yellow earth that they mix with his blood and wrap him in his best skins. The women light a fire and leave her with him for their last night together.
Tomorrow she will join his friend, the one who gave her the blood, in his corner. Soon, her new lover will consume her days and nights. There will be children to feed and water to carry, hides to skin, bones to fracture into slender needles. Soon she will remember this last lover only on special nights when she reaches beyond the flames to see there the eyes of her future and when the soft pale down on her forearms fails to warm her against the spectre of loss. On nights like this night when the moon slivers the sky, pulled by the star.
Memories of our once beauty overwhelm her. How hard so many of us tried, shed all of our own tears in attempts to bring moisture back to her flesh, to bring her back from her slow slide toward loneliness. She never wanted to be alone, without us. She wanted us always to walk her plains, swim her waters, sing on her mountaintops. There was never a moment that her anger at what we were doing caused her to wish us gone from her. She did everything she could. Perhaps this is why we remain, helpless to leave her orbit around the sun. We know she would never cast us out and too many of us figured this out only when it was too late. We hope beyond hope for some shift, some return to the beauty she once offered so lushly, so pure from her molten core. Fire’s Rising
We danced around the fire until dawn. This practice not as ancient as you might think. Modern technology with scientific underpinnings, but still ruled by Magick, Mystery and Mother. We were trying to save the planet and ourselves. We were gathering, praying, dancing and loving as if we could change everything, win against the forces that would destroy her and all of us. We were intent on trying, on visioning, on creating our own reality. And we did—dancing, singing, sharing a world that only a few got to experience. We knw we were fortunate and wanted this to extend to everyone—to resurrect our world.
And even now with the planet uninhabitable, there is the energy of the Fire. There are our voices chanting for peace, for love, for healing. We carry this forth past the ability to incarnate on our Mother. We continue praying for her resurgence, knowing that our prayers will help her to regenerate when she is ready. We who danced the fire are aware of the illusions of the sand and know that what is created is meant for her healing. So we form ourselves from grains and dance.
It is time for love without boundaries, like the loving between Ocean and Stream. How they danced around the fire together. How their bodies flowed easily together. The ease of their connection seen in the way she moved and so informed his movement, the grace of their flow and how they made love without needing touch by simply looking into one another’s reflections. In remembering, I can hear Her sigh, nostalgic to drip wet and harlot again. Frustrated, she finds no wet release. Even tears are but howling specters haunting within desert dreams.
One day she will cry rivers remembering.
It occurs to her that there are moments in the memory of the people that speak of the sort of joy to make a barren womb stir again. Where are those moments and which of us hold them? She searches among the misty wraiths, reaching through time and space to find moments of glory, adventure, of spirit dancing with arms and legs and bellies, mouths open wide in jubilation.
On the billboard, someone had scratched Rockin’ since 1966.
Scarlet reached out and took my hand, “It was good year, wasn’t it?”
“Transformation,” I answered.
“Breaking all the rules,” Scarlet sang response in our unique way of getting to the core of things.
“It was us.”
“They killed Fire Horse girls in China that year.”
“If we had been born there…”
Our silence held images of our sister infants who were smothered, drowned, starved or stabbed so that the rebelliousness they held in their hooves would never get a chance to rebel, or run.
I looked into Scarlet’s eyes, eyes that while the color of the clear blue sky, somehow smoldered with the deep heat of an underwater volcano. Eyes that met my own twin lakes and stripping themselves down to nothing, jumped right in. When Pisces and Scorpio meet riding horses on fire, nothing can be called trite between them. Everything is revealed as big and meaningful. Everything little thing becomes a part of the ever unfolding creation. Besides this, we were witches on our yearly trek to New York City. We expected something big to happen.
We found an herb shop and in it a book of faeries that she had discovered and loved at five, a book that brought her to love the wild fae. She bought it for me from a sweet, tall, pale girl with lovely haystack hair.
From the back room, another girl emerged. A woman with vibrant shining dark eyes, long straight dark hair; Latin beauty and strength emanated fiercely from her core.
I saw on her arm a tattoo of a horse trailing fire and asked the obvious, “Are you a Fire Horse?”
“Sure am,” she smiled.
Haystack answered, “Wood Horse here.”
So we four horses reveled in our discovery, whinnied together with the joy of finding one another so far from the open fields, nuzzled one another in excited and deep conversation. We were untamed, unhitched, free spirits meeting up for a gathering of the tribe, sharing stories of our adventures.
“I have four lovers, three are men.”
“I read poetry naked in the park. I only got caught once.”
“I have a great aphrodisiac spell.”
Haystack showed us her own tattoo: a woman with roots for feet and branches for hair that reached from her sacrum to the tips of her shoulders, covering her entire back.
“Someday every inch will be covered,” she smiled, “I will be completely remade. Even my own Mother may not recognize me then.”
Scarlet and I left there elated and uplifted by the synchronicity of having been in the magical company of those women and continued to walk the streets of the city. We found a shop where I bought on whim a cowgirl hat, remembering suddenly how I had always wanted one as a little girl. It was black felt with a black leather fringe at the back. When I put it on I realized it was indeed me, a surprise because I thought the hat I would choose would be softly feminine, not the wild and raucous energy that hat brought out in me. Still, it made complete sense that I would be a cowgirl in the city, coming from my quiet country home to the big lights, big noise, big energy of city life. It was befitting a Fire Horse and a powerful expression of my nature.
So walking the streets became a greater adventure. People noticed me, smiled, laughed, men were excited by me. This was the prop to get me noticed—me who had spent so many years learning to be nondescript so I could slip by without being seen. So I could observe I told myself. The truth was I was afraid to be seen, to be lusted after, to feel the energy of men burning into me and women jealous of me or wanting me also. I was afraid to be put on the spot, asked questions, engaged in dialogue. I was afraid that I could notrelate to anyone new in a meaningful way. Mostly because I was afraid they would notice how I secretly wanted to kick apart everything and begin it all again. Witches were once hanged for much, much less.
But I was learning to enjoy the attention and promise of adventure that being a cowgirl brought. I was learning again how to be a Horse.
And then we found them: four toy horses grazing in the rubbish on the curb. Two brown, one black, one beige. Clearly they appeared as a sign, urging us onward to further adventure.
“Joy, it’s us!” Scarlet squealed.
“We are on the right path, cowgirl!” I laughed.
The two brown horses were clearly us. The brown with a black mane leapt up and took residence on my hat. She was a perfect addition, adding playfulness to my look—A Piscean twist to the Fire Horse directness. A little bit of silly to lighten up any outlaw’s day.
We galloped our way to Central Park: the great Momma’ that held the city together. How this vast patch of green grounded the fire of so many bodies, thoughts, intentions and aspirations. We snuck past the “Keep Out” signs to our special place: a body of trees— the conservation area. An area left essentially untouched by the city, kept sacred and natural since the 1800’s. Place of turkey, raccoon, deer and tangled brush. We crept in secretly, silently and found the perfect spot for a ritual of deep transformation.
In the silence we kept between us, the Goddesses came. I will not speak of who came for Scarlet. But for me along came the Norse Goddess, Freya, who spoke to me of being adventurous in order to release myself from the stagnation of the past and of moving like a Goddess born into a world new and beautiful. A world of my own creation.
And everything depended on a pink silk scarf.
Which walking down the avenue away from the park, I realized suddenly I had lost my scarf. At such times usually I am willing to let such a thing go, but I truly loved that scarf, one of the prettiest things I had, and for some reason I was called to look for it, as unlikely as finding it in the big city seemed.
I headed back toward the park, Scarlet slowly sauntering behind. I got nearly to the park without any luck when over my left shoulder,
“hey cowgirl, where’s your horse?”
I turned to see a beautiful, dark boy with long thick black hair tied back in a ponytail, white shirt and was he Asian or Mexican?
I showed him the horse on my hat, giggling.
“That’s not a real horse. Want to see a real horse?”
My first thought was to say no to say no to what seemed to be his obvious suggestion, go back to my friend and get on with our night. But I realized this just may be the adventure I was calling in. He held out the crook of his arm for me to hold onto and started leading me to the park.
“Wait. My friend!”
Telling him I would meet him at the park, I ran back to her and told her the news. Excited, always ready for a lark, she picked up her pace and joined me to meet adventure.
Jesus was from Mexico. We asked him twice his name, saying it to his face the Mexican way, but speaking of him as if he were Christ himself. And what a savior! Twenty-five and gorgeous. I could tell he was a Leo right away. His confidence, his kingly way when he held out his arm to me. He introduced us to Arnie, the brown and black carriage horse that he rode through the city and then offered us a ride after his shift.
And so began a night of decadent pleasure that broke all the rules. A night that arose and became for us a challenge to allow our wildest selves be free. Midnight carriage ride on velvet seats through New York City followed by a clandestine slipping into Central Park and showing Jesus our spot in the woods and true to our passionate fire horse natures, we gave him a ride he said he would never ever forget. Not ever.
How she misses the joy of passion spent in flesh, the sensuousness of trees caressed by the wind, the intimacy of the fly being eaten by the spider, the ecstasy of animals joining together in the act of creation. Her bliss when we human children learned to look deeply into one another’s eyes to bring ourselves and her into a more complete satisfaction, the essence of what we tried to express in the word Love. She misses the small moments of joy—the smile of an infant chimp pressed against her mother’s breast, and also the climactic moments—moments of calm after an ice storm broke hundreds of branches and scented the air with pine.
She misses feeling her children making love to each other and the way the beauty of the land, the plants, the creatures made love to anyone who stopped for a moment to touch it. She longs to touch herself again in this way. Perhaps if she rubs, sand on sand, the magic again will happen. The sparks will fly again and elements excited, ignited, inspired will gather together again in the act of creation. Or perhaps the sparks will set off a reaction that will reach down, down, down into her core and allow her to explode at last into one last expression of her nature. One last cosmos shattering orgasm before breaking off into so many pieces, every star in the universe would one day touch her. She would touch them all. Every star would be her lover.
Morning Glory Bridge
Leaving behind the habit of just waiting for her man, Jules picked up her pen and wrote and wrote and wrote. She wrote for so long the park bench slats imprinted themselves into her thighs, unprotected as they were by her short, short, short skirt.
She wrote and wrote, recording her impressions of the park that summer day, of the infrequent passersby, of her yearning for her lover to return and hold her again. She wrote with intensity and because if she did not write, her imagination would instead conjure various scenes of abandonment by her lover, a habit she had carried with her since her first love affair—an deep wound that never seemed to heal.
She wrote all morning without distraction, until sweating in the mid afternoon sun, she stopped only because she was sensing something—someone—staring.
She looked up, and there he was across from her on the opposite bench, drinking from a porcelain tea cup that was decorated with tiny red roses. He chewed slowly a bright green apple. He was dressed in a short skirt himself, rave pink to her blue. His black mesh top, as barely there as the skirt, revealed his tight tummy, tanned and with a belly button crystal piercing. His eyes squinted like cat’s eyes with his smile. The kind of eyes she most loved, crinkled at the edges, bright and honest, yet mischievous. She could tell by his obvious flirtation that he was definitely not gay.
Her thoughts went to the man she loved but who was away on vacation alone. John whose smile sent her knees reeling and her heart pumping blood by the gallons. Looking up, without quite knowing why, she smiled back. Immediately, he rose and joined her, sitting so close their bare thighs touched, placing his hand over her hand.
Images cycloned through his hand and brought forth a dream so tangible, so real, she lost consciousness for a moment. When she returned, his infinite blue eyes, soft and open, looked at her lovingly.
“We’ve met before,” she told him.
“Yes, I remember. It was so long ago. I think I thought I’d never see you again. And here you are.” His eyes shone wet and tinges of an old sorrow passed by before he brightened again. “Well, that was before. Here we are. Another try?”
She looked long and deeply into him. “I was a man then and you, your favorite color was pink?”
“Yes, yes…” And suddenly I saw her softness hidden as it was behind the masculine edges of his chin, five o’clock shadow and Adam’s apple. She was beautiful, radiant, infused with such a deep unfulfilled sadness.
“You were so young…to die that way, so young.” She hardly knew what she was talking about. It felt silly as if she were making it all up. Ridiculous. Deeply disturbed, she rose to leave, her throat swollen, her eyes holding back tears.
Gently he touched her arm. “No, wait. This is real. We are both remembering. It’s simply in your head. Give it a chance. There’s something here for us. Be brave.”
“That’s what you said before you left!” She screeched suddenly, throwing his hand away, appalled at the sudden memory of how he was then— gaunt, pale face, spent shining eyes, thin hand touching ever so gently, beseeching her lover to be brave as she left forever. She remembered the violent anger and the destruction that ensued in the wake of her death when she left him forever. “Rosalie!” She gasped, crying out the ancestral pain.
“Not forever,” he smiled. “I am here. Now I am Theo.”
Just then a butterfly landed on her arm. She stared at it, realizing it was actually a moth. Creamy colored with brown and red spots, furry tan body, tiny proboscis tasting her skin, finding it pleasing. He pulled her toward him and kissed her softly on the lips. “We found each other; all that is over. We can leave it all behind and be reborn, together again. This is our resurrection.”
Swooning, I thought again of my darling lover, who I would not leave, not for anyone, not even for this.
Reading my mind again he answered my inner dilemma, “Oh, don’t worry, I can’t wait to meet him. We’ll be a family.”
“Lately, we’ve been monogamous, but we’re open…” she replied.
“In whatever way works so we can be together,” he said, looping his arm around her.
He smiled then and gestured to the apple tree behind him, which lay beyond the stream. Across a sloping bridge, brilliant blue morning glory vines stretched like a tidal wave across worn grey stones. On the grass under the tree sat a beautiful smiling girl with long violet hair. She waved and her heart reached out lovingly toward both of them. Sweetly he added, “I come with family too.”
Their hands met and a charge so strong with ancient love empowered every movement from that moment on. Suddenly all her waiting, longing for love, fears of being left behind had stopped for good. She held in her hand limitless healing, completion, deep and lasting fulfillment of her highest vision. Her love had returned and was willing to move into tomorrow with her.
Together they walked, moth wings flapping on her shoulder. Together, they crossed the bridge, swaying to the creek making music below. They had waited so long for this moment and now there was no need to wait even one moment more. Jules paused only to pick with the ink stained fingers of her left hand a single violet centered flower.
Between them in her bed, Maya thinks about which full lips to kiss first and how to balance the demand, the magnetic pull of two lovers needing at the same time the clear light shining up and down her slithering glow worm spine. Her head turns to the right toward the scrub oak bearded traveler just in town after months walking the Appalachian Trail. He is the dessert, the juicy sub-tropical fruit tempting her forward into the hunger of a loner just landed again into her port.
She is surprised by what he remembers from before. How he traces without seeing the dual dragons that guard her sacrum. And his memory of that first awkward night together in the hammock, long hours boiling over the edges of the claw foot bathtub, the midnight cemetery journey where they just missed being bathed in the spray of an enormous mother skunk. Three days of lovemaking four years ago and in between nothing heard from his world of shift and change and moving along quite literally from signpost to song.
The moving along part being just what Maya has learned to expect from world travelers. Like Erin who she dove into the previous summer before being slain by that cool goodbye smile, a smile that for weeks afterward became a sharp toothed laughing demoness holding her head under ice water while she flailed and begged for breath.
She thinks about how she could be with her right now, riding the horse caravan in South America, her hair matted and her fingernails dirty, creating her wildest art of birthing herself into being in the desert of dreams. But she chose instead a serial monogamy sort of connection to places, being at one with the land for years and years before moving on to create in another place, another home. A different art form crafted out of hair she brushes most mornings and hands clean with washing dishes. It is a world she needs with equal intensity as the forward movement to new destinations, new landscapes, new worlds opening to her.
Swallowed in the rigid kiss of sleeplessness, she feels now the pull from her left side. She turns her head and John’s eyes like blue planets that she revolves around and around shimmer at her without judgment, but with a slight quaking of the iris that shakes up her core. She fears herself in danger of spinning out of orbit, knowing with regret that when the traveler leaves, they will have to talk.
So one last kiss and the traveler leaves only his Florida orange scent on her pillow and not so subtle shifts made of consequences.
On the floor, facing John, she settles her eyes on his wet cheeks, the tears that come easily for him now since he learned from her how to open to the wound within.
“You ignored me all night. You would have tripped out if I did that shit to you.”
“I know. I know…I have such a hard time balancing, giving myself in two directions. This poly thing. Am I cut out for it? Could I be monogamous? Do you think we should be monogamous?”
“When I’m into a girl, you are always first. Whatever it is I am feeling with her, you are my home. There’s no way anyone or anything can get in the way of that. I just don’t understand how you can shut me out like that.”
The moon quivered then on her axis, certain that soon she would feel herself reeling off alone into space, Maya bent down her head and cried.
“It’s okay, I’m not angry with you, I just want you to know how it felt to be in my own bed with the two of you as if I didn’t exist. Maya, if you want to be monogamous, I can go there with you. I just don’t think that’s really what you want. Or what I want honestly.”
His eyes glowing luminous with his deep acceptance of her and her ways open a door in her pelvis that she realized with amazement had been closed now for many years. The truth of the words pours over her head, washing the pain from her most sensitive places. With a gush and a pop her body opens before him.
When she comes, her eyes open wide, wide as the owl, and she sees more, hears more and calls out to the moon her epiphanies. At the same moment, a fisher cat screeches desire in the compost pile while chipmunks scratch themselves in the hay beneath the floorboards. Momma’ breezes move through the treetops and sing her to sleep.
Dreaming, she climbs ragged mountains, swims in the womb warm ocean in January, makes love to worlds of men and women in daring twilight romps. Then as morning light brightens, she rides her gypsy caravan home under blue sky into sky blue eyes.
Oh, to be in love again and to make love again and to give birth again! She cannot but hope that it is possible. That one day she will find herself swelling with life and love and beauty burgeoning upward and outward from her belly. She would burn mugwort then to release all memories of the past pain, of her memories dried up for want of moisture, of the loneliness that not being able to hold life brings.
But this yearning, can it be transcended? She wonders if the mere acceptance of her new stage of life would bring her peace as well as those beings clinging to her in hope of resurrection. Moving past blame, past cause, past yearning for what has already been, could she then learn to embrace what is to come? To weather the dry ages alone, knowing this is for her growth. Knowing this is as it should be? Lifetimes of pain released in the cyclones of sand. Lifetimes of joy celebrated in the pictures carved into stone. The desert of her body longs only to be honored and accepted, to be loved in her cronedom for exactly what she is.
I was ready to let it all go. There was lifetime of pain to let go of, lifetimes of pain letting go.
It began with a dream and a woman. Sent by the Goddess she came. Her name was Selina. I did not know yet her face, but two days later realized she was the one who had come up from Florida to live here in the snowy North. In the dream, she offered me a potion for my healing, and I took it.
So when I saw her again, a year since our first and only meeting, I told her about the dream. She offered me the potion then—and her hands for healing. Her eyes glittered dark and her steady gaze held mine. I knew her then as sister. I knew her then with the deep knowing of having known her many times before.
We met before the full moon ritual. She asked me what I wanted. I told her I was there to let it all go. We set the intention, allowed it to tap, tap into my chest with my fingers, allowed it to tap, tap into my forehead, my cheekbones, my skull. We tapped the intention into my deep self before heading off to cast circle.
The people gathered. Loved ones and new ones joined together in a circle to state our intentions for the evening. We called in healing and love and fun and dancing. We called in transformation and illumination and revelation. We called our highest selves into being. We called to the moon to come down and dance with us, to cradle us and nurture us throughout the night to the dawn.
My lover, Shiva, beside me, I ate the sacrament on a slice of orange. By the time the last meditation ended, I was levitating several inches off of the floor.
Then came a desire to let go. My bowels loosening, I ran to the bathroom, allowing my body to cleanse, be cleansed. I sat there, lights off, releasing, becoming at one with the darkness, becoming less able to hold onto the reality I knew I created. I hovered somewhere in between life and death and wasn’t sure which way to lean toward.
Noticing the lack of toilet paper, I climbed into the tub and ran the water hot over my thighs, my buttocks, cleaning myself, allowing the blood of my moontime to wash down the drain—everything let go. Blood and shit and fear of humiliation and fear of losing my grip letting go as I lingered under the rushing, scalding water, feeling the waves of some deep dark demon child clutching my belly to stave off birth.
But I knew it was time. There was no way to keep it back. The time had come. Shiva came then to check on me. He held me as I dressed and led me to the bedroom. I lay in his arms, sweating, feeling the waves of feeling drenching my skirt, my black velvet blouse. He asked me who I needed. I muttered, “Selina.”
So she came, bearing ginger tea and hands strong enough to hold me. And they held me, Selina on my left and Shiva on my right as wave after wave of sheer raw pain poured out of me, down my left shoulder, my hip, my leg, my foot and into Mother Earth. My cries deep from some ancient core of me let go and with it all the pain that had accumulated since my first breath. I felt it all fully, experienced it nameless, faceless, raw as it poured down my body like an endless muddy waterfall. I gave birth to utter darkness and offered the shadow child to Mother Earth. I was born again, held by my Mother and Father who were the loving Leos of the creative fire who shared the exact same birthday. They held me sweat sopping wet and jubilant and affirmed my ability to let it all go so I could create my reality as love.
After the tremors and waves had passed, the light descended. Down from the sky into my crown, pure white light covered me in sparkling, glittering prisms that filled the space where the darkness had been. Selina held me and looking deep into my eyes affirmed for me,
“You are love. You are accepted. You are whole. You are joy.”
And even while her face changed moment to moment, frightening me as it shifted from wild forest faery to fat momma eskimo, to crepuscular old man, and back again to Selina, I believed her and as if they were my first words, given by my beautiful new Mother, panting and laughing, I cried,
“I am loved. I am accepted. I am whole. I am joy.”
I shook and trembled like a new born beast while Shiva held my hand. I was ready to face the tribe. Together we stepped out into a rollicking, chaotic party of mad tripping family. Like a child, I walked by them, hiding my face, protecting my new found innocence. They looked at me to connect with me, to feel the newness I held now, but I only wanted one person.
Savaria, five months pregnant, smiled at me and beckoned. I went to where she sat and slid down on my knees, resting my head on her lap, against her burgeoning belly.
For many hours I sat there, comforted and held, ignoring everyone and everything except my need to be held, to be safe, to feel the light of my new life growing within me. Like a new born child in the arms of her mother, I closed my eyes against the intensity of the world and created around me a safe bubble that nothing could permeate. I understood now the importance of protecting that newness, and I knew that staying true to what felt right for me was how to do it, even if that meant spending an entire party sucking my thumb held in the arms of my sister.
I am loved. I am accepted. I am whole.
I am Joy.
Shall it be then magic that changes everything? Healing the past and creating a new future? Perhaps deep in the core of her there is yet a lingering touch of spark, there is a molten core streaming up to burst upon the land and from the flames, the fire, the smoke will create its opposite—water. Water to feed, water to drink, water to hold the miniscule creatures who will begin the world anew. Burst up and out and turn her inside out. The seed of life awaits within. The creatures that dance know and hold the secret. The creatures that dance await the day when the inside is outside and the outside within.Falling Through the Cracks
Eyes watch from the forest. Ancient eyes. Lidless eyes. Wild eyes felt rather than seen by Jilly’s own two human cosmos spiraling over leaves and patchwork pieces of sky that also watch. They watch her as she walks on the dirt road, her Earthshoes crunching on gravel, her Tibetan rainbow hat dangling yarn down the side of her face and resting on her yoga-relaxed shoulders. Her eyes shimmered dark and large and alien as the creatures tittered just beyond the stone wall, keeping themselves out of sight, but not out of her fantastical somewhat still child mind.
step on a crack
Their whispers just out of earshot, but somehow still heard by her inner listener. Jilly wonders if they truly call to her and whether such words pose a threat or a warning. They remind her of an earlier time when while walking on the sidewalk in front of the Ravenwood house she would chant that old rhyme, tongue sticking out the side of her mouth, intent to avoid every possible crack so as not to
break your mother’s back.
Had they heard her then, speaking that old spell? She thinks about her mother’s recent back pain. So severe she cannot do much of what she once could. For her, no more bowling, no more vacuuming, no more baking her famous and luscious goodies for the family. How difficult it was to watch this loving, strong and sometimes even terrifying Goddess of her early days wither into an old frail human woman.
It occurs to her that the answer to helping her mother might just exist somewhere beyond the rock wall that separates the dirt road from the deep forest land. Up until now, she has feared stepping over that barrier, that edge of sanity. She has prided herself in being able to hear the whispers yet also keep a firm grip on “reality.” But if she actually stepped over the wall, would she remain grounded in the realm of feet touching dirt, of getting up in the morning and driving to a job, or would she slip out of her skin and become like the forest creatures too wild to live in forlorn human form?
Heavy, she steps, heavier as she edges closer and closer to the wall. The voices cackle louder, buzz into her brain like offended wasps. Her eyes follow the sound into the jagged cracks between the grey granite stones. She never remembered that they were in the fissures, somehow she always pictured them behind the wall, teasing and taunting her into a game of hide-n-seek. As she approaches, she realizes how it was the wall itself that called her.
She sits on the stones feeling minute, frantic vibrations through her jeans and leans against an old white birch that makes a perfect backrest, a veritable throne for a fairy princess, and contemplates how to shrink herself down small enough to journey within the labyrinth that some farmer long ago pieced together to hold himself away from the wild and separate from his fellow men.
Red berry, red berry, for answers why
She hears this just as her eyes focus on a sprig of green vine that winds around the white birch. At the very tip of the vine, a shining bright red berry entices.
“Should I?” she asked aloud.
You could try, you could try
She had hoped for a more definitive answer.
She reaches out and holds the vine in her hand. She fingers a serrated leaf and brings it to her nose, to her lips and kisses it. She plucks the bright berry and holds it in her palm, allows it to roll back and forth over her life line, wondering if this were the time when the line comes to an end. She brings the berry to her lips, lets it linger there, licks it and then bites the bitter taste into her body.
Now you die.
She three again and playing the crack game, avoiding the long lines, avoiding the places where tiny saplings break their way through asphalt to greet the sun. She three and wee and gleeful and singing the song the even littler ones taught her while they sang along. She avoiding the cracks until the door opens and her mother appears to bring her back to the world of
As she jumps out of the trance, and toward the needs of her belly, her foot mis-steps, mistakes, and misinterprets the game, falls straight down on the mother crack itself: the biggest, thickest, deepest crack in the sidewalk.
In another world, another time, another reality, she may have simply ran inside, forgotten her game, her spell, but this time something stops her. She falls to her knees crying over the crack and wailing.
Her mother comes instantly, kneels before her and holds her in her arms.
“It’s only a game,” she tells her.
But she knows better and continues wailing, inconsolable.
She looks out into the forest at the stone wall and watches as the creatures dressed only in leaves and sunlight who had been her playmates fall laughing, dancing into the cracks between the stones.
‘It’s only a game’ chasing them away from her sight.
“No momma!” she yells and runs to the wall. She reaches her tiny arm inside, between the stones and grabs her naughty friends by their little hands, or sometimes feet or a wing and pulls out each screaming one. As her mother watches, befuddled by the vision of a line of motley naked faeries sitting on the wall, shuffling their feet and red-faced with shame for being caught, she forces each one to take back the spell.
Step on a crack
Heal your momma’s back
Heal your momma’s back
Heal your momma’s back!
She wakes just as she vomits over the side of the wall. Red bits of berry mixed with the slimy breakfast pears splatter over the leaf bed. She runs then, faster than she ever has. Her mother in the kitchen, smiling, pulls a pan of cranberry muffins from the oven. Standing straight, she rubs her lower back and smiles.
“Mornin’ Sweets. Hungry?”
So magic offers itself to her. And we revel in the sudden hope that fills our mouths like rich and buttery colostrum. The Universe speaks to her and to us. Rhyme without reason, the elves of chaos come to teach her. “It’s like this,” they say, “One, Two, Three…Pop!” The spell that makes, that mends, that sorts and sifts, that mixes and bakes treats fit for her table. She comes to understand in a deeper way that all is shifting and changing, how colors sift and sort from one state to another in never ending fractals of potential.
She sees her own death and accepts it. She accepts the death of us, her children. She urges us to let go, let go of what we once were. She insists that now we have a way to create something new out of the dust, out of the ashes. How all we have to do is let go of all that we were, all, all that she was. How we must be open to how we will look in the new reality we create.
She tells us we must all concentrate together. Hold each other in our imaginings, hand to hand, heart to heart, and jump as the one being that we are into the darkness where all merges into one, where the shifts and changes of creation and destruction exist as one entity, one solitary sound: a lone cello singing of life and of death in the same long note, a song to end all songs, a song to serenade another chance to be.
Rhythm and harmony and counterpoint beat to the power of now. Together a motley choir joins voice to voice into one anthem of praise and gratitude for all we have been. And like fools, jangling golden coins and laughing, together we jump over the cliff of our lives into the cashmere abyss.All We Need
I flutter in the new Aeon. It is a world that is changed and for good. What is that word that we once knew—was it poison, toxin? Such words no longer form our vocabulary. Such words are no longer needed in this age where simply more light illuminates us. In that past existence, I did not believe it could happen. I hoped and prayed even, but in my core, I did not believe.
I thought I had to believe in it for it to come about. So in my essence, I walked in the world depressed, despondent, even while I smiled and laughed and made love and stood in awe at each sunrise, each moon bright over my head, each new leaf that unraveled, each tree that ended its life with a mighty crash on the forest floor.
And now, every dream I could not bear to believe in has come about. I live in a world where Mother Earth and all her creatures are celebrated as sacred. The land did not become the desert that was its destiny if all remained the same. And it all happened at the last hour. The world saved at the last possible moment. The waters of life came, we all drank it in, bathed in the pools and so resurrected our lives.
The beauty that happened I could never have foretold or expected. All of us who were here and illuminated by the suns that passed our part of the galaxy and so brought clear thinking and a release from the ancestral pain we all carried in the before, all of us got to experience the miracle. The miracle of growing wings!
It was not an easy transition. Not as easy as the simplicity of each person waking up to a profound love of being alive and actively stopping the madness of environmental destruction and relationship dysfunction we had been caught up in for too long. No, the wings that suddenly burst as tiny horns from our shoulder blades, that broke open our skin so that blood flooded and pooled around our feet, that slowly and painfully grew, centimeter by centimeter while we writhed in our beds and screamed for relief, these wings that we have for so much of humankind’s history longed for, dreamed of, fabricated metal or fabric copies of, these wings were birthed through our skin over months of agony and blood and scabs forming and reforming. Until in the end, they emerged as bright and colorful new toys for discovery. In the process, we gave birth to ourselves and became again as children in awe of our bodies and this new potential.
I remember so well the day I staggered from my bloody bed and unfurled my new appendages for the first time. Despite all the miracles I had witnessed in the awakening, I was afraid. So many problems emerged in my mind. How would I wear clothes, what would happen on the subway, in elevators, how would I make love? I did not know yet that things such as clothes or modes of transportation or old ways to touch and be touched would no longer be relevant in the new world.
With more light came a world of warmth and balmy weather. And suddenly having to wear clothes for modesty became unnecessary as a new trust grew up between people and the old shame fell away with the clothes that now decompose in our gardens to feed the worms. We do dress for fun and pleasure, of course, and found we could fashion elaborate and beautiful creations that made room for and showed off our wings and our bodies to one another in joyful displays of color and craft.
And, of course, with wings, subways and elevators, planes, trains, automobiles became out of date and completely unnecessary and sadly inefficient compared to wings that took us where we needed to be much quicker and with less hassles and no waiting in lines or need for the now archaic concept of money.
I remember the day I first looked in the mirror at my new being. I could feel the new parts of me, wiggle them, unfold them to reveal bright blue spirals chasing black circles, all shimmering like a snake skin, or dragon scales. As I wiggled and flexed and folded them, I became aware of another sensation. An unmistakable creep of pleasure moving from the edges of each graceful flutter into the center of each entered my torso like warm honey flooding through my veins and downward to my belly and lower to my genitals until as I flapped and flopped around my room, waves of orgasms like I never before experienced left me wet and panting and curled up on the floor, afraid that if I moved at all the waves would take hold again before I could figure out what was going on and find myself flying out the window in a scream of unbearable pleasure. For some reason at that time, this was important to me. That I understood what was happening to me and that I not expose myself or my sexual discovery to others. Now, this all matters not at all. When every movement for everyone brought so much pleasure, it became necessary to shed all sexual shame simply in order to live day to day. Shamelessness became practical.
I remember how in the days after the wings emerged seeing the flushed faces of my family, my neighbors and friends as they adapted to an orgasmic reality. Shame fell away quickly. Pleasure came to save us all from hidden lives. We learned to live authentically. Not only real about the pleasure we could no longer hide from one another, but about the pain we felt, our disappointments.
We learned to bare all as our wings led us into a life blessed by real emotions, no longer held imprisoned by the past and the way things were. Life became joyful, filled with the sounds of love being made with each movement. Traveling became pure pleasure and taken on for the love of it, rather than necessarily having to be anywhere or doing anything. I have since visited all parts of this planet, entering each new realm with cries of awe and gushing my juice down into the dirt, the grass, on buildings, into the mouths of lovers in their own climax below. A result of all this spilling of juice, of seed, of love energy pouring into the earth and the seas has been a great healing—blood of war replaced by amrita running in rivers. The Earth revels in this and poisons have been transmuted into pure water, lush forests, air crisp and clean, pristine soil—an alchemy of love and desire.
Once I remember hearing someone say that love would save the world. Well, someone was right. Love has come and the world is made new. Love is the law. All you need is love. Love is wings unfurling at dawn, shimmering in a dance of pleasure and deep healing for all. Love is wings curling up at midnight brushing against the trembling belly of lover or lovers. Love experiences pleasure with each movement, each moment a brilliant kaleidoscope of color that takes us into brighter and brighter territory. Indeed, we are here to love and be loved, to love and be loved. So love and be loved. It’s easy.