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Archive for December, 2009

……And truly, stripped of all our social trappings and baggage, in the deepest, darkest part of the night, do not all women yearn, with all their being, to belong to a sisterhood where they are wanted and needed and respected and loved; where we know our children will survive even if we do not; where we are free to be who we are without the artificial constraints of the judgmental patriarchy; where passion is not censured and love can be freely given without fear of reprisal; where competition for food and lovers is minimized, where our sensuous nature and our ability to nurture and our skills as a channel for the Oneverse are virtues valued above all else.

Male or female, it is to everyone’s advantage if the Divine Feminine is unchained and allowed to dance her dance upon the planet once more.

the rest of the essay

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The Hawaiian Islands are a bone of contention, right now, between the native populations and the more recent immigrants. The traditional Hawaiians would be perfectly happy throwing all the Howlies off the islands and returning their culture to the agrarian hunter gatherer system they had before Captain Cook tore down the walls of their isolation and infected them with the ideas of the imperialistic corporate state. There is just one problem with the Hawaiian’s idea of ownership. Technically, the “natives” are not actually native, but immigrants themselves. The islands, being volcanic in origin, cannot truly be claimed by any but the sea. Since rising from the ocean, wave after wave of species washed up upon Hawaii’s shores and took root. Each wave claimed its place and defended its claim against all subsequent invaders.

So too, the planet Earth. You are not indigenous to this place. You are descendants of seeds carried here on the winds of the stars. It is not just one such incident but many that has seeded this planet. Even the OneMother, rider of the Dark Currents of space, is an immigrant of sorts. It is she who ate the Sun and birthed Life, turning this dark little cinder into a big blue marble that has attracted so many.

Like Hawaii, the Earth has taken hold of the immigrants and shaped them to her own purpose. We no longer bear any resemblance to the thing that drifted out of the Dark and fell to earth. Evolution cannot be denied nor can it be forestalled.

Blame the current state of your malaise on the fact that, misbegotten and misplaced as you are, the planet has taken you into her heart and tried to assimilate you into her OnePattern. She dances the dance of evolution and change with the very fabric of your beings, trying to change a sow’s ear into a silk purse, or a human into a Na’vi.

It is useless to resist this. She is a sentient planet and you are merely human. The only power you have is the power she grants you. All else is illusion.

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Might it be that butterflies, confined by their chrysalis jail, come to hate the walls that serve their birth and in that hate, beat with butterfly fists against the rigid stuff,  thereby setting themselves free?

And perhaps the caged chick must come to rage in impotent fury at its perfect porcelain cell, gnashing and biting, until the crystals shatter and the next generation of bird rolls free.

If this is so for small things, what then of the truly fierce?

Terrible must be their anger; Infinite their rage as they suffocate inside their soft prison, ineffable desire to breath free smoldering, until at last spontaneous combustion ignites their fiery sword, slicing through the ties that bind.

Ahhh, but freedom does not always assuage the rage nor quench the fires of hate.

No. A fierce thing, upon being born, emerges screaming berserker screams, brandishing its bright sword, only to turn and slash the womb of its birth into dust, venting its fury upon the very thing that held it close and dear for so very long.

Walk wary about the birthplace of fierce things.

Their blood is up and they are on the lookout for the next thing that needs killing.

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It will not leave me, this conviction, that the stories of Amanda Knox and Neda Soltani are connected somehow.

It will not let me go, this belief that these girl’s stories represent the tip of the iceberg. An iceberg of hate and repression and twisted yearnings.

Neda drowned in her own blood, shot through the chest by a thug hired by an oppressive ruling party intent on its quest to gain absolute power to match their absolute corruption. That her death was the tip of an iceberg is under reported. The iceberg I talk about is the fact that she was singled out of the crowd, followed down that alley for the purpose of murder and that she would not have died if she were plain instead of beautiful, male instead of female, veiled instead of uncovered, actively defiant instead of subservient; that the band of thugs went out of their way to single out women, young, beautiful women who were fearless in their expression of the power of the free divine feminine, a fact that was becoming common knowledge on the streets of Tehran but not yet known to Neda.

Amanda was convicted of murder in a court system so broken and corrupt that from the moment they arrested her she was doomed to spend the rest of her child-bearing years in a cold, dank cell and that the last two years of trial was really a bizarrely twisted form of torture of such sublime skill that one would venture to say it makes the priests of the Inquisition look like amateur hacks. I believe she was arrested, not because of any evidence, as there was none, nor for any motive, except that thought up in the dark and twisted brains of the prosecutor and his goons, but because she refused to play the shrinking violet. Not only did she not show fear of her captors, she barely registered them on her radar screen as existing at all. Her only crime was that, in her innocence and being without guilt, she did not perceive her peril.

Neda and Amanda are the most public examples of the army on the forefront of a planetary revolution comprised mostly of girls in the first blush of womanhood. They are not revolutionaries, per se, (a revolutionary would have to be actively trying to destroy the power base of the status quo) but more the forerunners of the species of human that has already evolved, budding silently in the womb of the old guard and bursting forth, unconstrained by the old patterns and rules which burdened the previous generation. No matter how one beats them or tortures them, they will not bow down and worship at the feet of the old gods. They will not value what the status quo values. Truly, they have stepped through the veil and continued the journey down the path that evolution has preordained for the human species. And, truly, they do not see the people stuck behind the veil, unable or unwilling to follow. The old guard is a rapidly fading ghost on the radar screen of the newest version of the human species.

It is a very dangerous time to be a Neda or an Amanda. The old guard, the ossified purveyors of the old way of doing things, do not like to be ignored, especially by the very beings they lust after most. Imagine being the perverted old prosecutor who has spent a lifetime of corruption establishing a fiefdom in which his power is unassailable. Imagine him seeing a bright and pure and free soul. He cannot possess it. So he does the next best thing. He very publicly tears off its butterfly wings and pulls the legs off one at a time and then when the thing can no longer react to the pain he inflicts, he squashes it, grinding it underfoot. One can imagine the boner in his pants every morning, just by reading the headlines. But secretly he simmers in impotent rage. He is not angry at the bright soul. He is angry at his god for betraying him, because, no matter how many butterfly wings he collects, he will never capture what he has so willfully destroyed.

So too, with the thugs enforcing the will of the dictators. They are the misfits and the malcontents. The unloved and the unchosen. They are the perpetual “sneaky f_cker” because they have neither the skill nor the will to become a dominant bull. The thing they hate the most is the thing they will never have: the bright and shiny new girls, so full of life and passion, who laugh when they should fear, who question when they should mindlessly accept, who leap and dance in the bright sunlight, just out of reach, there, beyond the veil.

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Soft

is the sound

of the ‘Verse

winding its way around

the silence of this world

a vibration

not heard by the ear

nor perceived by the mind

but felt

deep in the core of me

down in the deep places

beyond the doors of this world

a sound that brings a sigh

of pleasure

a feeling that bubbles up from inside

I throw my head back

and moan

no lover

can touch me

as the ‘Verse can touch me

ahhhhh

cruel lover

I am ruined for any other

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