REBIRTH: DEATH OF A GODDESS
So what does one say to oneself after a failed suicide attempt? I was having a bad hair day and I thought mixing several medications with my Vanilla Cherry might put me in a better state of mind.
“I don’t want to do this,” I could hear myself screaming.
Another part of me replies, “This part of me, this Frankenstein creature that I’ve allowed others to make cannot continue. I am not this creature. I don’t want to be what everyone thinks I should be.”
What trigger this moment?
X
Maybe I should have found the beauty in a flower that day; instead of a passing glance.
Maybe instead of lingering in a sad moment, I should have offered up a smile to a stranger.
Maybe I should have just paid attention to the moment of what I was doing.
I got lost. I found myself spinning as if I was in a tornado and this time I was not the eye of the storm.
I wanted to be dead.
I’ve been researching death rituals.
I’ve study the suicides of various creative people.
Death has always seemed like a veil that I needed to pull aside.
But I always told myself after going through the dark night of the Soul that I am an immortal being having a human experience. I am light. I walk in dark places. But the darkness had gotten so dark, even I found myself suffocating.
The meditations were not effective.
The prayers had lost their wings.
Faith had turned to stone.
All the Gods I met were looking for their God.
Love was something imagined in a way that I could not imagine. It seemed it was suppose to be for others and not myself.
A psychic said I would become a Death Walker. I would be able to cross over and come back.
Another wise woman said, “It was not my time to die, I must go to the Mountain.”
Voices called to me for light.
I had invited the dark aspects of my Soul on this journey.
I turned my back on everyone in a stupid selfish moment.
But a voice whispered, “It is not time.”
All I kept thinking as I was drinking my concoction of pills, whose names I couldn’t pronounce, was that maybe it was time to pass this cup to someone who can handle the job of walking in the in-between places, dancing within the sounds, merging with alien entities, and awakening the ancient part of me that was sleeping in a tomb in a dimension near the Earth plane.
I am not human. I am not wanted. I wanted to shed this skin. I wanted to be what I was in the beginning.
The voice said, “It is not your time.”
“But I will sleep,” I replied boldly in my mind. I had consumed the mixture.
A friend said, “Sometimes when a person faces death, cross over, have a near death experience, sometimes they don’t come back the same.”
My reply was simple, “You watch too many sci-fi movies.”
He laughed and said, “Probably you are right.”
I laughed with him. He couldn’t know. The body remained here. The original occupant had left; and I stepped in for awhile. Again, he couldn’t handle being in body. I suspect this time he will get it right.
The steam from the hot water did not bring tears to her eyes. It was a pain that erupted through her as if her body was being fractured. She whispered his name. Something was wrong. The air about Angela seemed to grow dark. Tears formed in her eyes. An image of an eye looking through the clouds weeping a tear caught her attention. She went to the telephone immediately to call. He was dying. But why? How? This is not the future that is to be.
Guess it comes down to that age old question. Do I matter? Will anyone even notice? I’ve always felt like I needed to stay in shadows. I’ve always been a ghost. I look in the mirror and I wonder what face am I suppose to wear today. I am tired. It’s more than just physical; it’s mental, it’s emotionally, it’s spiritual; and it’s the longing to be with my spirit husband.
I have walked dark roads before. I have been a dark road that many of the lost have walked upon. And now I am afraid, I will be one of those that become a roadside attraction on one of those dark roads, forever trapped in an illusion, a personal hell. I didn’t really want to die but I had taken the drink. Hadn’t made preparations, nor made a will, or combed my hair or put on a nice burial outfit. Even my eyes were empty of tears. And concerning the war within, the darkness had won. I was sending myself to Hell.
I didn’t want friends to think I was angry at them or even at myself. I was actually calm. It would be over; I wouldn’t be around for their short term dramas. I gave up the writing, the music, the thoughts of success, attempts at being in a relationship; I let go of the world that I thought I should be in.
“You should have called,” a friend said. “You know we can always talk.”
“Got tired of talking. Didn’t expect to survive but I did.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It was like shedding an old skin. I don’t feel the heaviness now. I’ve had trouble walking but my mind is alert. There is not so much chatter now.”
Journal entry: I have to pretend to be their friend. I must find a way to distance myself without arousing suspicion. No one can no that I am not human but only occupying this vehicle while the true occupant is on a healing journey. He doesn’t realize that our simultaneous journey will create a new reality. Unless we both complete our task, many will be lost when consciousness evolves into a light consciousness but I am getting ahead of myself. Now, I am here; I must become a “Pillar” in this reality and not bring suspicion or attention to myself as I am anchoring the language of light. But I don’t have time for these “activities” his friends want to commit him to; and yet, they look at me as if they suspect, as if they know, I am not their friend.
Angela making a mental note: He does not look at me when he talks to me. Even his voice has taken on a different quality. He seems confused with basic movements. I pretend I don’t see anything. Maybe it’s just the effects of the pills. He is still cleansing his system from the suicide attempt. And yet, his aura is different. I worry about him but something tells me he will be okay eventually but this new persona he has taken on; it seems more direct, not afraid, and detaches from the mundane. He even looks at food and his surroundings with a different look. Sometimes I watch him touching something as if it is for the first time. He is guarded. He doesn’t like to be touched. Even when I want to hug him, he pulls back. I’m not saying anything yet. I think it’s the effect of the pills. He’s adjusting to still being here. I hope he really wants to be here. I have to believe he wants to be here. So much depends on his survival. We know what he is and he doesn’t want to know. Hope when the time comes he will gather us together.
Dear Wanderer:
After all my training, I am here; and yet, it still seems like a dream. The transition happened quicker than we thought; but since you were in danger; I had to come through quickly to transmute the poisons in your body. Sorry it was abrupt but your cry for help was heard across the dimension. Too many light workers have died, been killed before they have completed their ascension. You are so close; and yet, fear overwhelmed you. I’m glad my training helped me. I hope you are fine and have time to rest and contemplate the next step. We will talk soon.
Regards,
The Gatekeeper
Dear Gatekeeper:
It happened so fast. When you overshadowed me and whispered in my ears and said, “It’s not my time.” I knew you would protect me. Too even want to lose my life over a stupid moment after all I have gone through. But I didn’t want to deal with cancer again. Guess I’m not a strong warrior like I thought I should be.
Regards,
The Wanderer
Dear Wanderer:
Cancer is an explosion of one’s repression. Nothing stays hidden. Even when we project our dark aspects on to others, it returns and not necessarily in a recognizable form. The psychic disturbances around us, the cold chill when we enter a room, the phantom noticed from the right corner of our eyes who disappears when noticed, the cold wave passing through a part of the body, this is our negative fragments, this is the denial fragment, this is aspects of self we have exiled. This is what is banished when we do not integrate ourselves and allow others to hold us prisoners in their fanaticism of beliefs is instead of adhering to Truth that is within us. Daily life is constructed so you can have no peace of mind and listen to your daemon.
Your cancer is due to the reoccurrence of the primal scene. An incident keeps reoccurring and is camouflaged and you think you have and are living a fulfilled life or a failed life. Your life is stuck in a moment, a memory, a primal act that has resounded in your incarnations like a caged animal. Every attempt to free your self, you find yourself in a labyrinth mind set. You have not found the moment that has anchored itself as a false center, a false beginning. You are the god of your handiwork. You dance through many lives wearing different mask and having dramas with the same people over and over again. You forgot. What you forgot is the basis of your loneliness and you keep wandering. It is like an abyss, a void and you attempt to fill it artificially. Are you an angel of Eros or Sex? Are you a daemon of destruction or creativity? There is no foundation to hold you because the memory you seek is not your grounding. You reach to pull yourself out of this mindset but you are entangled in its grasp because you cannot recognize you are the Abyss. You are Fear in its first movement. You created a stagnant moment to anchor yourself in.
You fear the loss of self, identity, and integration. You will do what you must to sustain what you think is a real life to avoid death, annihilation, non-existence. One aspect of self seeks dominance and enslaves the other whether it is aspects of one’s multi-dimensional self or possessing other’s free will. Man is destructive when he is not integrated. Who originated this drama?
Regards,
The Gatekeeper
Dear Gatekeeper:
I know this must seem strange to you know being in a human body but it is strange to me to have the ability to manifest the body I need for whatever dimension I am traveling in. I know the potential is there but I am still not in solid form, I haven’t been able to anchor into any particular area. I thought it would be different, difficult and it is but I choose to do this. I know some people would think it’s a cope out but I think it will serve us both. You will have the human experience; I will remember existence before my Earth incarnations and explore reality. That is my intent. I can’t explain this in-between place I find myself. It seems to be a lot of white noise; like when your television isn’t receiving a broadcast signal. I think I am hearing something but cannot distinguish what it is. It’s interesting that I am still linked to you. Though I cannot look through your eyes yet as you use to look through mine, I can sense your feelings. I sense your apprehension, your concern, the need to mask your alien identity so no one will suspect. You’ll be okay. We both wanted this.
Regards,
The Wanderer
Dear Wanderer:
It is strange this thing called human form. Soon this body will become the design it was meant to be, the Adam Kadmon. But for now, it is a marvelous invention though a bit of a clinker. I cannot adjust so easily to the limitations. Sometimes it is painful; sometimes it is confusing and I stumble for words. People look at me odd. Your friends say I seem to be soul searching, always looking off into space or in deep thought. It’s like attempt to make a suit of clothes that is a size to small fit appropriately. This human experience will be interesting. It is far different than when I looked through your eyes.
Regards,
Gatekeeper
Dear Gatekeeper:
I’m still in a floating situation. I haven’t been able to anchor. I don’t know why. I haven’t sensed any presences yet. Though there is this silence that seems to surround me and at times it seems to have symphonic quality about it. Feels like thousands and thousands of voices are singing to me. I cannot decipher the words but the feeling of peace is awesome. I’m so glad we shifted bodies before I destroyed mine.
Regards,
The Wanderer
Dear Wanderer:
Your friends worry that I may have gone too far on my spiritual quest. Your lapse of judgment and the suicide attempt keeps them hovering about like mother hens. They mean well; and I tell them I’m okay, meaning you but I can’t let them know I’m not their friend, I’m just occupying this body until he returns. Someone didn’t want you to succeed in this transference and you will come to understand the workings behind the scenes of what you call reality. So many things I could explain but its best you experience them as I am experiencing being human. Walking is such a strange sensation. I feel like my feet want to go one way and I want to go another way. I stumble with them. I trip over them. Sometimes I feel they are moving faster than I can control them. And eating is a strange and wonderful sensation. Food is work. I don’t understand this fascination with chewing, digesting. It is cumbersome and actually seems to weigh the body down. Though I am sample many foods, I feel heavy with them. Sometimes my mind feels heavy and I am forgetting things about my life prior to this one. I will not forget our agreement. I wrote things down quickly in a journal so I would remember. One year from now, we will switch. A year for me will be much longer for you. Time works differently. Well, my hands are tingling. They feel heavy like my feet and moving awkward. This body I know is supposed to be a wonderful vehicle for travel. But until it becomes a multi-dimensional body of light, it is a slow machine. I am determine to drive it carefully for you.
Regards,
The Gatekeeper.
Dear Gatekeeper
Not sure of this place that I am at. It is very dark. Lights come from inside buildings but there are no street lights. I’m not sure if it is a sidewalk or a dirt road I’m walking on. I don’t see many people. The few people I see where the glow from window strikes them, their eyes seem empty. They don’t look at me. I don’t make an effort to say anything. I don’t want to say anything. I feel this urge to walk. I’m not sure where I’m walking to. I don’t feel hungry. I don’t feel tired. I know this place I shouldn’t stay here but I’m not sure how to leave. I saw this guy I went out with several times in West Hollywood before he lost his mind; through drugs. It was weird. He looked at me. He recognized me but wouldn’t say a word. Is this one of the places you come to when you lose your mind? Is that what this is about, I’ve lost my mind, maybe a part of it. I feel like I’m suppose to meet someone but not sure who. I am approaching a building. It seems well lit and crowded with people. I have a strange feeling about this place like it is a limbo place, a transitional place. Lots of people are sitting around drinking coffee; eating pastries. They are acting like this is a normal thing for them. I don’t think any of this is normal but they seem like it’s nothing extraordinary. I’m looking in the window. Doesn’t seem to be anymore buildings around, so I’m going in and check it out. I will fill you in later. I never knew darkness could be thick like soup. It’s a good thing I don’t have to breathe it. And I keep telling myself, I didn’t fail at life. But why do I feel I can’t move; like I’m motionless. I hear voices around me. I was walking and now I feel like in a box or something and people are pushing me somewhere.
When she heard about his death on the news, Grace came without question. It was not that they had a relationship written in the stars, it was what she felt she had to do. Some feeling stirred deep within her; it gave her an uncomfortable feeling. Imagine looking within and there is an eye staring back at you. This is how she felt. So she had to come and find his grave and sit in vigil. When his death was announced, the whereabouts of his grave were not revealed; no one knew. Only someone he had looked into knew where to go, the revelation was sensed and not spoken.
Grace found the woods; the cave.
She sat in front of the cave. Grace wasn’t sure how long she sat there. But she had replaced another who sat there before her. They said nothing to each other as they exchanged places. She couldn’t remember what the person looked like; sometimes she thought it was herself and then again, she thought it was him; and then, she thought it was a stranger. All she knew was his body was behind this rock. It was said he would return and she stood vigil until she was relieved of her shift.
“Names aren’t important but I want you to know mine. I’m Grace. I won a beauty contest when I was seventeen. I was going to be on the cover of Ebony or Jet, or some magazine that had to do with being a black beautiful woman. I would stand in front of the stereo for hours singing and dancing. I was going to be the next Lena Horne, a Diana Ross, a Shirley Bassey, or a Sweet Momma Stringbean. I was going to sing my way out of poverty. I was going to take care of momma and give her a better life. This town would never contain me. This town was haunted by the bodies of too many slaves who didn’t find the end of the track from the underground railroad. Gabriel knew my dreams. We shared it together. He would come over and harmonize with me.
The kids at school would call him a bookworm. He had that bookworm look but there was a smartness you couldn’t find in books. He just seemed to know things.
We imagined the albums we would have, the tours, and the affairs. We laughed a lot about the silliness of people, or just found humor in everyday living, not malicious humor. Sometimes I catch him looking at me like a boy looks at girl. I wasn’t interested. He wasn’t attractive. I thought of him like the sister I didn’t have. He was a pal, a best friend, sometimes my best girlfriend in a weird sort of away.
My mother liked him. Everybody that came to our house liked him. When he took me around his family, they were polite but they acted like he could do better.
We shared an interest in poetry and music.
He spent more time with me than the boys in the neighborhood. They called him a sissy.
I thought they were being childish. He never reacted to it, not that I saw it.
He asked me one night if we could hold hands. We were walking from the store to buy ice cream for a root beer float we were going to make. A boy hadn’t held my hand…yet. I sometimes watched the boys play football. All that sweat would be running down their chest. I would wonder how they looked underneath the uniforms. I never saw a boy naked until my senior year in high school. It was in the football field late one October night. I never saw anything so big, so different, it frightened me, yet, I’d lay there at night and think about it, think about what it did to me, and how much I liked it. I never thought of Gabriel in those terms. He’s not the kind of person you’d imagine having sex with.
And then…He wasn’t the kind of person you would notice at first. He was cute in a quiet sort of a way but he never seemed to be the kind of guy who did much. You know he didn’t run with the boys. I never saw him at the clubs. He had his own car but he used to ride with this kid named Bernard. They were both weird if you ask me. Bernard was the size of my grandmother’s house. So we called him Big Boy. Never cared much for Big Boy, he had bad grammar.
My mother always said if I was going to make something of myself, I should not spend my time with people who abuse the English language. I would only learn their bad manners. She wanted me to go to college, be a “good girl.” Boy did that get drilled into me all the time. She thought Gabriel was nice, respectable but he wasn’t very much fun. I mean we can talk about things, which he is good at; but I never thought there was much excitement there. He never even made a move for me if you know what I mean; not that I wanted it or encouraged. And when he asked to hold my hand, I thought well, it is something sisters do. Don’t they?
I went out on a date with Gabriel because my mother insisted. She thought it would look good. We acted like it didn’t manner that we came from the wrong side of the track so to speak. People in our town looked down on my family…so my mother would drink a lot, yeah, there were a lot of men about her; but I was determined I was going to better myself and not have the kind of life she had. The more she kept men away from me, the more I wanted to experience them. She had me wrapped so tight that I could hardly breathe when I was growing up. When he came around, she dropped that rope and scooted me into his arms.
I always thought he would make something of himself. He never seemed to mind doing things for me and my mother. He was actually quite nice. I remember the first time we kissed. We were out on our third date when I told him I had something for him. He got embarrassed. It was late when we drove to MacArthur’s Park. I showed him a place to go that was off the main road. There were maybe two other cars there. Then I said, “Let’s not sit here, I can’t show you here.” So we got out of the car and walked over to a nearby tree. The way he acted you thought he was standing on hot coals. It was our third date.
Something had to happen. When we were at the movies earlier, people we went to school with just kind of looked at us. The guys had this look like I could do better. Boy did they look good. They had muscles, firm, tight, bulging. Gabriel was just plain, not defined in any particular way; but he had eyes and the nicest lips which doesn’t necessarily mean a good time. I was still a virgin and very tired of being a virgin. I wanted excitement like I read in the romance novel. I thought he might be clumsy but he didn’t treat me like the other boys. He didn’t act like I was like my mother.
My mother wasn’t perfect. She did what she had to do to make a living for us. But I wanted more. I was lonely. I wanted somebody to love me, have time to show me attention, see me and not look through me. Gabriel looked at me but it was weird the way he stared at me. It seemed he could look through me.
The air was chilly in the park. There was a half moon. I remember imagining all sorts of things: men stepping from behind trees, bushes. Even the slight breeze seemed to carry sounds of people moaning like they were having sex. It was weird. He noticed my shivering a bit. I said it was nerves. I wanted a sweater though it was in the 90s.
What did he know about me that I didn’t know about myself?
He was anxious. I wasn’t sure how far to go, what I should do; but I didn’t want anybody to think I wasn’t with an exciting man. I kissed him. He blushed. I stepped back and said, “Well, that’s what I wanted to show you.” I don’t know why I said it so plain without any special emphasizes or girly like. He got mad for a moment and stepped back.
“Is that it,” he said to me.
I said, “Yes, what more did you expect.”
His face got all twisted. I felt sorry for him. I knew he expected more. I wanted to give him more because he was nice but I wanted to be with a man in that way that could do something for me. If I’m going to go to bed with a man, he is going to pay for it lock, stock and barrel. Nice is something I can’t take to the bank. I wanted to be something in this town.
Gabriel was no where. He had potential but I could not depend on it. He was a nerd. Yes, he wrote me love poems. He even sang me a song he wrote about me. He liked taking walks in the rain which I thought was the dumbest thing. I gave him a kiss. He should be grateful. I never kissed a boy I liked ever again in life but him.
When I look back on my life, I see he got out. It makes me mad. I didn’t know then. He was with me throughout my pregnancy. He was with me in the hospital. He was with me when I brought the baby home. He was with me when I tried to kill the baby’s father and he held my hand back. He was with me when I went to a conjuring woman to cast a spell on the baby’s father. I look back now and knew he broke the spell before it could do its damage. He was with me when I surrendered my baby to Christ. He was with me for a few months as a boyfriend. He wasn’t the man I needed. He was with me in my dreams and my prayers every time a man left my bed, left his smell on my sheets. He always said I was the most amazing thing that happened in his life. He called me Amazing Grace. I fell from grace didn’t I because I couldn’t accept myself?
Change of scenery.
The interviewer smiled politely when she sat the glass of ice lemon tea in front of him. Though he had refused, she had that hurt look and then feigned a dry throat to accept her offer.
“You are a neighbor of Gabriel.”
“Was. I had to move out of the neighbor. There were too many coloreds. ”
“We are interviewing people from Gabriel’s path. The world has not ever had to deal with a death of this type.”
“No man can be a goddess. You people will do anything to make a profit. And to think he’s up there with god. Next you’ll be saying god is black. I think you media people just want all this controversy just to stir up shit and stay in business. Well, I ain’t buying into. Goddess, indeed! He’s just another colored boy who should stop looking in white folks eyes. He will never see the world the way we do.”
“Did you ever notice anything unusual about Gabriel? Were there ever any strange activities around him?”
“You media people like to hound a story into the ground instead of just letting it be. Especially when it comes to colored people, I think there are too many images of them around. They are scaring decent white folks. I don’t think he’s really dead. I think it’s one of those Hollywood stories made up so he become like this cult figure. I don’t buy into all that stuff because you never know the workings of the devil. I always thought he was a nice quiet colored boy.
But that’s just it. He’s colored!
I mean I’m open minded person but colored people just don’t get visitations or are they all that special in god’s eyes. Where is it written they are chosen?
Besides God is white and we know that as in heaven so in Earth so they should accept their lot in life that they will be servants but at least they will serve god. I’m sure they’ll have better living conditions.
Think about it, why would god talk to Gabriel?
For a colored boy, he was well mannered, not acting uppity and knew not to look white folks in the eyes. We gave coloreds too much, now they just want to take, take and take. No matter how we progress in this world, there will always be coloreds to serve us and I don’t know why they cannot accept it. I use to give him fifty cents to rake my leaves, shovel snow. He didn’t mind working hard.
Guess something was eating at him, making him crazy. There are a lot of crazy colored folks walking around. Makes me so nervous when I’m walking down the street, never know which one will jump out at you. White women still ain’t safe from colored. I never thought about them that way. I am a respectable white woman, never let them come to my house unless my husband was there or some male member of my family.
Then I read this magazine article where Gabriel, a colored boy, was supposed to be touched by God, had these revelations and gifts of the spirit. I think it’s a communist plot to destroy white America. God does what he needs to do to keep colored people in their place. They still pray to pagan statutes if we don’t pay attention.
He’s probably dead. No one ever paid him much attention. He was quiet. He never made any noise. Yeah, he’s probably dead. No resurrection for him. I don’t believe he can save the world. Only god can do that. I don’t know where that writer got all that nonsense from. It’s the work of the devil. The devil will do anything to take our mind off the Lord’s work. He’s probably the anti-Christ. That might be it. I never thought of it. The Anti-Christ could be black. Wouldn’t surprise me the devil works in mysterious ways.
He was such a nice colored boy. It is a shamed to see that he’s the devil’s handiwork. But Satan will use coloreds to get his job done. You know I’m right. Think of the world black. Black comedy. Black magic. Villains wear black. The things that go bump in the night, the night is black. Black scares us whether we are awake or asleep.
He used to sit by himself most of the time. We use to have a cherry tree on the left side of the house. I’d be out in the yard tending to my flowers. I noticed him sitting there. Though the tree was on our property, he’d like to sit there underneath the branches. You’d hardly notice him because that side of the property was lined with branches. We never liked looking that direction much anymore since Old Man Morrison died. The neighborhood started changing after he died. Negroes started moving into the neighborhood. We never had much to do with them.
They kept to themselves and we kept to ourselves. His family wasn’t like those Negroes you see on television; these tended to mind their own business, kept their yard up. Children could be noisy sometimes. They were always laughing and playing except for that one. Don’t remember ever talking to him. I noticed the way he’d sit there reading. When the library truck would come down our street, I noticed he would be the first one standing there with a stack of books. He was such a little boy holding such a big stack. I was surprised he’d read them all. Some nights before I would go to bed, I’d sit on my front porch and have a beer to calm my nerves before I’d go to sleep. I’d see him sitting underneath the tree looking up at the sky. I’d look up to see what he was looking at but I never noticed anything. Just stars and more stars. He’d sit there until I’d hear his mother calling him. I never noticed him playing with his brothers much. He’d sit on the front porch listening to music. Parent’s always had to call him in at night. I saw him hugging that old tree that was sitting in the front yard. I thought, he really needs to get some friends.
Now I really don’t know if this is true or not but I heard him crying one night. I heard him screaming like death had descended on him. I thought he was being killed or something. My husband told me to mind my own business. A window was opened and I could hear him screaming “Don’t hit me, don’t hit me.” Days later I was tending to my flowers again. I’d find him sitting under the cherry tree reading.
There was something about trees and bushes with that boy. I’d notice sometimes when I’d be hanging my clothes out to dry, he’d be sitting in bushes singing to him self. Maybe he thought he was a flower or something I don’t know. One day I saw him sitting in the bushes, covered with insects, laughing. For a moment, just for a moment and probably because I didn’t have my reading glasses on, he seemed smaller, like an elf, pointed ears, gold in color. One early Saturday morning, I saw him sitting on the steps of his back porch looking off into space. His brothers ignored him. He was looking straight up in the sky, a smile on his face but it was not a smile like you and I smile. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t human like at all.
Acted like a girl child sometimes. I noticed he’d help his mother with the wash. Sometimes I’d see him staring out of a window. He would just stand there motionless, with this scared look on his face, or sometimes it would be blank. I’d walk to the store. They lived next to this small grocery store, people there were very friendly toward Negroes only because they spent their money there. I’d come by with my shopping bag, and he’d be standing in the front door just looking out. He was never there too long. I imagine but it always made me feel so sad. I don’t know why but he seemed lost. I don’t understand Negroes. I don’t know what they feel and it was best to leave them to themselves. Lord knows I had my share of problems. I don’t want to think about what Negroes are thinking; just stay on your side and we will all be just fine.
He never would touch a cherry you know from my bush until I offered him some.
I heard him crying in the bushes once. I told his mother I didn’t want him sitting under that tree, it was my property and I didn’t want the branches broken, plus I noticed too many cherries missing on that tree. Children should be laughing, playing and not sitting under trees weeping. Well, that’s all I can tell you about him.
Wayne sat in front of the cave. He replaced Grace.
We weren’t boyfriends. We were just sort of roommates, temporary roommates. I needed a place to stay. I stayed with him until I could get settle when I moved to city. We had sex once but I was embarrassed because you know he was, you know, much larger than me and I felt like I would not satisfy him. He was fun to be around, a good friend until he started doing strange things with that woman.
“It wasn’t a sex thing. She was kind of like a witch you know. She knew spells, things like that. She was always dressed in African attire. Looked like a queen with those eyes that would send you to hell if you crossed her. She and Gabriel always talked about communing with spirits. It scared me sometimes but she had a good sense of humor. I found her interesting but I kept my distance though. I slapped Gabriel once because of her. It was out of anger, out of fear. It’s like every time he looked at me, he could see me, no matter how many curtains I pulled down, seemed like he could part them. Every time he visited with her, he came back different. His eyes, seemed to be open, I mean open like he could take the whole world in them, analyze it, understand it and than expunge it. I was afraid I’d be trapped in his eyes, in his head. His words were like, this is going to sound weird, like they were binding. Don’t get me wrong, I think he’s weird but I think he’s an okay person even though it ended badly between us.
Gabriel would spend hours chanting to himself and singing songs he’d make up. Once he yelled at me to get out of the apartment because he was battling a demon. Needless to say, I didn’t see anyone but he claims some great darkness is trying to consume the light in our apartment.
I wasn’t able to talk with him anymore about anything, he just mumbles that he is transforming into some kind of alien deity. I wrote a letter to his mother telling her, she should bring him home before he totally loses it. He chants every morning about being some entity that was forgotten in creation and he would tell me heard these voices telling him to go back into the light. He professes to have psychic abilities and keeps doing these strange sounds and dances saying that he is shifting into other worlds to take light and to combat the darkness. He wears a worn out old blue bathrobe which has seen better days, and his hair is long and not styled nor does he look the way he looked when we met.
It’s hard to explain it but his face is sort of different, it seems to change especially when he rambles on about psychic attacks while claiming he is a guardian over the doors of hell which are beginning to open. I cannot take his weird conversations anymore. There were strange noises in the apartment since this started. He stood in my doorway one night doing some weird chant. I think he wants me in his madness. I was afraid to go to sleep at night thinking he might come into my room and do god knows what. He would sit in front of his altar all the time chanting, praying and crying, sometimes I feel this strange cold breeze coming through the room but the windows are closed. He cried like a baby, no matter what words I’d say, nothing seemed to comfort him. He is always talking to someone that is not there. I do not know what he has gotten himself into and if his friend, the witch is responsible or in cahoots with him.
I have tried to get him to leave the apartment, get fresh air, but he refuses. He keeps talking about they are coming for him. I do not know who “they” are but I couldn’t take it anymore. He was having a nervous breakdown and I didn’t want him there nor did I want the responsibility of taking care of sick person. So, I called his mother and told her to come and get Gabriel. He cannot make it in New York.
I think the lack of love did this. He was in love with this guy named Jerrod who blew him off. Once Gabriel even liked me more than he should and I turned him down. Yeah, I had sex with him but it didn’t mean anything to me. I don’t think he got over Jerrod walking out on him and it drove him mad. Guess he needed love where ever he could find it. Maybe he thought some spirit would love him. Gee, isn’t that a weird thought to think you have to love someone dead to find love.
During one of his crazy moments he was telling me that he saw my death and wanted to prevent it. He was afraid some demon was after my soul. He couldn’t get over the fact that I wouldn’t love him. Yeah, he would massage me before I go to bed, sometimes I’d get excited and have to go to the bathroom and jack off, sometimes I ‘d let him jack me off, he was there, I was in the mood but I knew he’d want more. I was having trouble adjusting to a new city, he would let me lay in his arms, always encouraging me, it was like a maternal thing more than sexual.
Tony replaces Wayne.
“Gabriel was not the sort guy I would pick up. But it happened. Shit happens I say. I remember it was our first date. Our official first date though we had already had sex together. We went to see a James Bonds movie out in Westchester area of St. Louis. Before the movie we were talking and I was thinking he is cute, but he’s not very exciting to talk with. We didn’t have much in common. The sex was okay. He seemed very scared but well, it was the first time. People do worry about performance, me, I was there, if you know what I mean. I like sex. I like having it with a lot of people which was a side of me Gabriel didn’t like.
I don’t remember what really triggered our arguments. It was an attitude thing. He had too much of it. I wanted him to know up front he wasn’t important to me. I told him I preferred men who were more attractive, more muscular. He got this surprised look on his face like I had slapped him hard. This will take him down a peg or two from his pedestal. He then retorted, ‘I don’t usually date short men especially when I have to bend down to kiss them.’ You could have hit me with a ton of bricks. Well, he had some fire in him. We kind of had this hostile attitude toward each other throughout our ‘official dating.’ I don’t know why either one of us bothered too but we went out afterwards and danced, had a drink. I wanted to have sex with him again so I invited him back to the air force base. I forgot to tell you I was in the service. Don’t ask, don’t tell.
I told my roommate the second time Gabriel came over to spend the night somewhere else. I wanted to have an entire evening with him. I played piano. We sang songs together. He had a beautiful voice. I don’t know what it was but there was something in his voice. It was like a magnet. It drew you close. I always felt safe in his arms, like a baby being nursed by his mother. When he would hold me, I thought of him as a mother. I felt safe. It was like he had wings wrapped around me. Then I’d see that hurt look when I’d tell him about some guy I tricked with. I like to fuck. Even though my dick is small, I still like to be top. Never let Gabriel touch me with the lights on. It always had to be in the dark. It was the only way that I could accept him. Funny, too feel that with a man you know…but it felt like that with him. He was thin, so tender. His kisses reminded me of fresh flowers picked by my mother. He was always very touchy. He seemed afraid of sex though. He always had this look of terror on his face. Someone must have hurt him somewhere, sometime. He never spoke of it. I never asked.
I never liked him talking to men when we would go to the clubs. He’d get mad if I did though. But it was okay if I did it; but I didn’t want him to do it. He never liked any of the people I was around. He sat quietly even if we were all laugh and acting crazy. They thought he was stuck up or crazy. He had this look in his eyes like he was watching us from some place else. I felt guilty and hated him for making me feel guilty. I liked sex and I had sex with a lot of men at the bar. I had sex in cars on the street. I went to bathhouses, bookstores. But every time I touched him, it seemed like he knew. I didn’t like feeling dirty but I felt that when I was with him, like I needed to purify myself or something. I liked sex. I wasn’t going to apologize to him. I’d take three or four showers before I had sex with him. We went our separate ways for about year before we hooked up again. We were going to be a couple in Atlanta. He’d been a there a year. He disappeared after I slapped him one night because I saw him talking to someone else. I don’t remember exactly how we found each other but the moment I saw him again I knew I had to be with him. Men were just endless faces and asses, no personality. I was in school studying to be a nurse. I wanted someone at home. You know, the all American ideal of a family.
In my case, as close as I could make it to being the normal family, I was going to go for it. I told him I would move to Atlanta to be with him. We had sex together. It was like he was never there. It was like I heard this crying in my head. I wanted him to loosen up, get wild, get crazy. He always held me like I was an infant, someone who needed nurturing. I said this boy needs to be fucked really good. He needs to experience life. I took him to a porn bookstore. He didn’t want to go. I told him if we were going to be together as lovers this was a part of the package. I had to come at least three to five times a day. Sometimes I’d go to the bathroom at work and jerk off, needed that release. No man could give me all of that; I knew that so I had sex with a lot of guys.
He stood there in the bookstore like a stone statute. He walked around with me once. He would go into the booth. He was really an ass if you asked me. There were all these good looking guys standing around with dicks of death hanging out begging for a blow job. Went down on this guy in front of him, when I finished with him, I remember Gabriel taking a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiping my mouth, kissed me like a mother kissing a child good night and walked away. I grabbed him quickly. He was crying. I slapped him so hard, I thought I had broken a mirror. I heard glass shattering. I knew it was in my head but I never seen someone look so defeated. He said he wasn’t a whore and wouldn’t be treated like one. He ran out.
When I came home several hours later, Gabriel was sitting in a tub of cold water. His eyes were red. An empty bottle of wine was lying on the floor. I remember sitting on the stool, taking a shit and staring at him thinking I can’t live my life with him, I needed action, excitement. I wanted somebody who wanted to get down to the basics of sex. He didn’t say a word. I finished my business on the stool while he laid there in the tub in an alcohol stupor swallowing tears and walked out, packed my clothes. I stayed with a friend for a few days and flew back home and didn’t look back. I heard he left Atlanta several days later.
Funny, sometimes after I come with a stranger, I can hear him in my head, it seems like I am being chastised but I’m not, it’s my imagination, but he says, ‘I’m not a whore.’ You know, he should be, maybe he’d learn about the land of the living.
The air in front of the caver shimmered as the Dreamseller downloaded and replaced Tony.
Dreamseller. “I must emphasis the importance of containment of the human will. If we do not restrict its evolution, as humans would say, ‘we’ll be left in the dust.’ It is imperative that measures be taken to keep the human will subject to our needs. Will this body of gods and goddesses become a source of irrelevance as we become self indulgent and bickering children and not continue a focus on the greater design? If we do not respond to this crisis, immediate and effectively, the human will may bring the twilight of the gods. Have you become ineffective, drunk on your self indulgence not realizing the danger that is creeping into every fabric of our existence? Death is coming to the gods and we walk blindly toward it. Death was to bring humans to us to recycle not to bring an end to our existence. I fear we have digested so much of the human essence that death might be a finality for us. The human will is becoming like buzzards, they are circling us waiting to feed off our flesh instead of them being our sustenance. This governing body has reduced its effectiveness with petty bickering. We should not be our own enemies. Will we allow the human will to turn our own tactics against us?
There is a slight tremor. A voice descends on the Dreamseller. Michael is coming!
Spotlight comes upon a Roach. He speaks. “Café Bardo presents Black Roots” in his never ending Star Seed performance art piece, “The Dark Diva.”
“I was born to be light, to remember who I am and why; to let go of the illusions that I have walked in as a human and thus, have allowed myself to be a passageway for man’s dark desires where I thought I had existence in his sexual embraces. I remember as a child looking into the mirror examining every part of my body and not understanding this form that I was in? Why do I feel so different behind the eyes yet to everyone around me normal? Normal was something I worked hard to achieve because of my upbringing. Hour upon hours I would sit in my room looking in the mirror trying to pull this person out of me that was hiding. I would sit in the attic looking out the window watching the neighborhood children playing with my brothers while singing softly to myself and holding tears in my mind because this family seemed like strangers. It feels like a place I was placed in to hide until someone I could not remember would come for me. I never understood as a child who they were; but I woke up many nights staring at the door expecting them to find me there and take me away.
Thy androgynous daughter weeps Father
for in a man I hide like in the tree before my time.
So many angels part the clouds as Atlantis falls
in strangers who want to drink from my name.
He rises again, the Dragon. He eats the eyes and roads
as he weaves and dances me into his webs of lies.
My hair falls like snakes eating the scorpion,
the goat bites my left side which now bleeds.
I yearn for thy touch as I cry in a material form called man
and I cry for the lies that have been woven in this form.
My womb is turned out like one of the girls
on Hyde and O’Farrell who walks like the serpent
desecrating the sounds of love.
Where is the Eye? Oh Father, my 1001 eyes cry
as I stand veiled in fallen hands.
Thy androgynous daughter weeps.
“I moved through my human family activities like a ghost, doing the expected things but always being carefully watched. I never seemed to say the right things or make attempts to do things that were supposed to be “normal” for boys. I continued to find places to hide like my mother’s closet, under the stairs in the basement, behind stacks of wood in the garage or in the bushes in the backyard that bordered the neighbor’s yard so that no one would see me, watch me, hear me crying to myself because I couldn’t understand what I would see through my eyes. Seeing with these eyes stopped when my mother bought me glasses. It was as if someone pulled a shade down. I retreated to a far corner in my room within myself and stayed there with a blanket wrapped around me.
Conversations seemed to be like clouds in my head carrying rainstorms and I found myself searching for a rainbow through a kind word, a gesture, or comfort wherever I could find. And strangers, who never wanted to know my name only my body, offered a smile with a price; and each time I was touched, something inside me walked away. Maybe one day I would just melt from the kindness of a stranger than it would be over, I’d be dead, I’d be free and then maybe I could find out in another place who I truly am. But strangers took away, as well brought me their problems; and it seemed their images were pasted across my body like those cheap music posters you buy of your favorite artist. I felt molded into another image that pushed me farther down.
Where do my dead bodies go?
These bodies who are unfinished thoughts,
the illusions of people I could never be,
the songs twisted in the mouths of morning after lovers.
Shards of my light are cast in misbegotten forms.
I gather my dead bodies in plastic garbage bags,
stack them in a living room with no signs of the LIFE
and spraying perfumed words on these soiled bodies
to cover their pungent smell of desires,
decaying in the matter created from dead gods.
I shed a tear for a memory.
I gather dead bodies like sticks in a bundle,
throw them over my porch balcony
into a sea of dead semen dreams
where amphibious creatures with razor sharp teeth;
consumed the dead bodies I once called temples
and a wind pulls at my hair
as I breathe in the alien LIFE.
I walk up stairs of zodiac signs to the Beyond
to find the Heart that will not touch me like roaches,
will not touch me like vines sprayed on a ruined temple;
but will touch me when I am a Symbol of my ascending and returning
with the LIGHT, my brother, my child, my consort.
I walk now as a celestial whore drinking my light
from remains of fallen gods
and sing my essences to my 1001 eyes
so no more dead bodies claim they are from the LIFE.
Men, my strangers, the roaches call me Mary when fucking me. Mary this. Mary that. Oh Mary. Men don’t understand the meaning behind this?
My drama is still being played out. It is so ingrained in the human consciousness. No one understands the basis of it. How I long for my Beloved when my history is now grains of sand. Yet, fascination, fantasies, myths immortalize me. My youth is when my Beloved knows me. Scars of manhood have etched in on my face. Smooth like a artist stone, calm like an ocean sleeping under the sun, my Beloved held my face often saying I was his sun. He would come to me many ways to know me, morning dew rising upward, a fog rolling off the banks, the mist skating upon waters, tears of unrequited love. Yet, too hide his affections the wilderness I brought to his eyes, I adorned myself as a young maiden so I could follow him. He knew me not as a woman but as a man and together we partook of the mystery. I became like a turtle swimming through seas of consciousness as he shed his light upon the inner darkness to awaken angels sleeping within. I have been stoned by words of jealousy from my traveling companions because they know me not. My celestial nakedness never met their gaze. So let their words build walls of stone to keep me from my lover, they called Master. They knew not that he had awoken me, his mystery that he used as the key to unlock the door. He let my body walk upon the Earth after his departure so my heart would be his gateway. When he revealed the way of a return, to be born of man not woman, those who served the Archons wrote lies through which I walk as a myth. Yet, within the sound of the story, the fallen daughter, the Uthra, unfolds within the parts of body sleeping.
Nowadays, as the perfect feminine consciousness in a male form, its hard to meet a man. Most men use sex as recreational sport, fishing to catch the big one. Anytime emotion moves in their voice when they want my body, they called me Mother Mary when they come and a whore when they go. I’ve known so many faceless men reaching outside themselves and are still lost. Yet, I still offer what flesh denies and what their heart cries for - love.
Where is the love that I know exists for me? Finding it was like knocking on someone’s door and no one answered. My brothers teased me from a distance but never made attempts to come close but were like warriors in my defense if they felt danger from neighborhood bullies or anyone who tried to take physical or mental advantage of me. Once the danger ceased so did their efforts to be around me. Then, I sought companionship from women because I felt they were the closest beings I could relate to though I still found something missing.
To defeat my enemy, I must consume myself
so no man can hold my name in his mouth.
He tries to breathe in my life
hoping, he can crown himself with my feathers.
Yet, my light soars like an eagle,
sings in his night like an owl
and passes over him like a breeze.
I let him sail upon my mystery
like covering the ocean, the celestial sky
but still, no man can hold my name in his mouth
without the Light.
I am finding the more I want to fit it, be “one of the boys,” the lonelier I feel because I feel I am being bonded to a group mind which is not a part of my makeup and retreat further within to hide the feelings. I’m always afraid of my feelings because of how destructive I can be if my feelings go unchecked. Exploring these destructive feelings as an Uthra have been the best way to heal. I find exploring myths, my own that I create is a way of understanding, expressing and freeing what is supposed to be my history, exploring the idea of gender to experience why I feel there is a deception with male and female forms and the imprisonment it creates with social expectations. Yet, there is always this voice whispering, “fit in, fit in.”
Knives are my teeth.
May I talk with you
while swallowing your words.
My nibbling leaves track marks
on your neck, your chest.
So many feelings come on you like a storm
as I remember sacred names
eaten by dark gods like you
who disguised themselves in painted smiles,
in words holding worms
to eat the leaves from my tree.
Foolish, foolish me living again in lies.
For a moment, when I thought you were a guide,
my brother, who will take me back to the Light
your sex leaves my shame growing like vines entangling.
Strangers’ demanding my ass, my Uranus,
the mystery sleeping in my mind in a tower high
surrounded by the dragon’s children’s on a cigarette break.
Stranger’s words now sit on my head
like religious temples persecuting my righteousness.
I bite these unholy half formed entities
erecting structures upon my names.
Knives, swords, daggers
now encase my body as armor
to protect me as I walk through
the cave dwellings of the Dead.
I past through lives swirling in my head,
through the webs of demons of the mind,
using my teeth like knives, my tongue
like a sword; and my body armor of knives
to strike at false creators falling from my head.
I remember a moment in childhood when I was sitting under a tree in our front yard that seemed to stretch its arms out to cover me, the moon was full, and smiling and seemed to be singing a soft lullaby to me and I was sitting with my back against the tree weeping, looking up to the stars, looking intensely to see beyond the stars and asking, “Why Father, am I here? Why did you forsake your child? Why am I so far from your touch? Don’t you remember me? Why did you leave me here alone so far from home?
So I have been on an inner journey to unlock the mysteries of my existence and resurrect my ancient name. More than anything, I want to return to the light of my Father/Mother. I am an Uthra! No longer shall I be the fallen daughter.
Wake up Michael. We are One!
The body of Michael is stirring in its grave as he is dreaming.
Recent Comments