These Spiritual Flows

I got these Flows, you know?
These beats inside that unseat deeply held beliefs. They cycle around in my mind, finding a space beyond time to query the metanarrational ideals representative of close encounters of the spiritual kind. So I conduct these drills, you know, diving deep into still waters to find the current rushing below. Again, I got that flow, you know?
But how best to express it in a way that doesn’t dress it in pretentious bullshit that shuts down understanding, that feels like someone prancing in ideological fields, flowering philosophies divorced from iconographies of force, pounding people into coarse miasmas of etheric plasma, divorced from the real, the material ordeal that binds hearts and minds in time and space, to a place of essential grace? But that might be way too abstract. Not enough facts, revealing a lack of grounding in the necessity of communicating with tact.
Words stack. One upon the next, phrases coalescing in stages building meaning, streaming intention through gleaming shards of light, information blasting edifices built upon blight, the detritus of institutions not quite visible as such, appearing instead as solutions to problems long sought, build here, not there, upon this rock. I’ve got the flow. I know.
More bullshit. More words, designed to placate the herd. To create hypnotic illusions of complacency, in lieu of a fundamental alignment to conceptions of decency. Perception creates more opportunity for deception. Misalignment with truth, logically bound arguments that demand external proof when the real answer is under your own roof. That’s a metaphor, for your head. Where your attention should be, instead of out among the walking dead, shambling zombies sporting Abercrombie and Fitch, complacent in their privilege, thinking their life plan is coming off without a hitch.
Ain’t that a bitch. Ask a witch, or Wiccan, to be politically correct, if language use is more important than context? If understanding is gained by using words laced with pain? Does it hit deeper? Does it find the flow? Awaken the sleeper from the dream, elicit anger and indignant steam? Are some conversations best held in the highest tones, strident accusations embracing convictions held to the bone? Call and response rhythms bracing emotional blows that shake bodies to the core, while the demands of belief ask for more and still more? What, still, is in store?
What is coming next? Can you see it? Feel it? Like a storm gathering on the horizon, rent by lightning and thunder, still faint in the distance as the sharks and squid plunder the depths of our collective despair. You can smell the ozone in the air. Feel the electricity tingling in your hair as it stands on end. That’s the thing. You can’t pretend. Angels with broken wings still feel the sting of God’s abandonment. The loss of that Flow.
That timeless coursing of love that comes from both above and below. That sense of being a part of something integral and eternal, infinite and both maternal and paternal. The yin-yang dichotomy of opposition where polarities unite and you realize that the fight itself is the illusion, the contusions mere bruises to ego and unfounded fear.
Silence is birthed in the place of an ever-present wall of sound and fury. The storm arrives with lurid intensity and raindrops begin to fall, tasting of sorrowful waste, tracing paths of contentment down my face. My heartbeat stretches into eternity, spiking reverberations looming imponderable and tall. From those dizzying heights, I then fall. Beyond all calls to internalize the need for redemption and false guilt. Pretention fails. Internal dissension is quelled. And I sail, outwards into skies of light, and into the Flow.
You know?
You know?

Behold

The wondrous beautiful of the cosmos
The verdant blush of life’s variagated paths
branching into infinity
diving beneath gaseous masses of heartbreak
climbing into azure clouds billowing
With sensuality
Soaring passion feeds flames of eternity
Blooming in brilliant bursts of crimson and vermillion

Such is the blessing of life
The realization of divinity
Aloft upon wings of consciousness
Momentous and burdgeoning
With the power of love

The Only One

I remember a dream of blue.

For some reason, floating is something I do.

Wakening with the sun feeling like I’m the only One

In the world. Purple and blue voids, nightside beaches of sensuality, bodies undulating, brown, black, red, blue and green, soft sighs of ecstasy permeating the Between.

Life after life, between time I remember asking the Divine what the purpose of Incarnation was. I can’t remember the exact response but I find myself ensconced in duality yet again, and I can’t pretend like I don’t love it. Like I wish I was someplace else, perhaps an Elf in an alternate dimension of Earth, where the Sidhe flee to relax when humanity becomes too much and it gets hard for the Fae to breath.

Floating, thinking, consciousness aware of itself. I wonder Me, like Prince said and contemplate Freedom from the noises inside my head.  Once upon a time that is where I lived, fighting with the tentacles of Ego in order to forgive Self, for allowing time and space to to attack my natural grace and introduce strife as if that was what life was all about. Nowadays I laugh at my ignorance and willingness to do penance for a crime I did not commit.

Diving deep beneath the surface of thought I found myself lost, wondering what it was I sought, my memory fading fast as I left the Ego behind like something crass and to be culled, the deeper I dove the less lulled by Leviathan I felt, the deeper currents of consciousness coursing against my svelt, astral Self, chuckling I wonder again if I’m really that Elf, just dreaming of a human host while my true Being makes the most of each Incarnation, the recreation of the Soul the most elevating goal of all.

Shifting seas of Being remind me that this is a dream, and I imagine my body in a bed somewhere spinning through the cosmos apropos of nothing at all, falling, laughing, shining like the Sun and feeling love coming from everyone.

I can feel my eyes opening, now.

The light, shining through my lids.

Waking with the sun, I know I am not

The only One.

The Science of Inner Sight

Don’t really have much to say, so I have no idea what’s really in play, or what’s about to come out of these fingers, and this brain. Going with the flow, feeling calm and peaceful, chilling like ice after a raging torrent of hot pain. But it’s not – or only partly – my own, being felt empathic vibes, flowing from low to on high, where Souls in Transition meet and learn to fly beyond the mundane. Happiness lies in joyous rides on the soul train, where Hippies greet and B-Boys meet Cowgirls to dance, everybody vibing in a spirited trance, singing old tunes that everybody knows to the intoxicating beat of ambient flows.

The news is overwhelming, the world is ending daily. Hour by hour, minute by minute we’re all up in it, the frenetic pace of the rat race a whisky straight, no chaser and it’s never too late to meet our Maker. Once I’d read the program I realized that I was at the wrong show and now I’m living this Surreal Life ever on the go, marking the checkpoints and life events like an inmate on the wall of his cell, rushing pell mell toward a date with destiny, training to be a victim of a full frontal lobe lobotomy.

Truly some people have no souls, only goals to be met on the material plane as the days of abstract physical satiation wane and the discontented Spirit of the World trains Souls of Light in the Science of Inner Sight. The secret meeting is tonight, and some are not invited: the secret handshake has been changed, the secret meeting place pre-arranged by secret ballot only, the voters a cadre of lonely acolytes who’ve lost sight of what lies beyond the night, the day being the only time they’re allowed to play, or hold sway over the hearts and minds of the fey. The masses have been led astray, the fabled Way of the Sacred Warrior cast away by the lusts of the many, while the few have been allowed to create chaos and disarray.

Intransigent gentlemen have spent an inordinate amount of time trying to change my mind, while their women kneel – knees splayed – in the offal, playing marbles with swine, casting aspersions upon the Divine. The dice are loaded in the Game of Life, the tarot cards are coded with heartache and strife. The Medium lies when she speaks to the Dead, the Telepath cries when he sees the mess in your head. Never mind the dark promises of madness and gloom, the Magician waxes eloquent as he works the whole room. Wonder and terror abound in these days, the path ahead is dark as we traverse this maze.

Kneeling by the River of Blasphemy we pray to Dead G-ds, casting hope into the ether while bloated carcasses float by. We drink of diseased blood and eat of benighted flesh, unaware that the test is not pass or fail, but whether or not we live to tell the tale. An opened Third Eye is not an invitation to pass on by, but a dare to even try, as if our karmic involvement is moot and shooting off at the mouth while turning tail and running south is the order of the day, or the one and only way to keep demons and sychophants at bay.

Living life in the breech is like trying to teach monkeys to sing. Whilst they float on by on golden wings, I clasp my finger and turn my ring twice to the left then once again back to the right, praying beneath my breath that it doesn’t turn into a fight. Making the most of the sunlight is right. What is done during the day doesn’t hide from the night, is not afraid of the Inner Sight. Monstrosities aside, most people agree not to conceal all of themselves behind masks, the task being to difficult to manage without basking in the ignoble while fools dance the Pasa Doble, emitting disfunction like Chernobyl.

It’s only a minor foible to toil lightly, each lifetime shines brightly, each lesson portends the next, complex tests designed to perplex. Holding your hand I shout in joy as we dance a jig, doubt destroyed by convenient fig leaves held before private parts exposed to the Truth, like Sleuths of the Soul, in search of Final Proof. Sleep beckons whispering promises of peace, of bold release and the surcease of worry, the ancient story begins again, the future promises of worlds to end. Rise high in wonder search low for old friends, be open to blunders and always make amends, for this life is poised on the brink of the edge, to jump with eyes closed is the best possible pledge.