The word makes me nervous.
Every time I hear it or read it or think it my stomach twists in a knot just a little bit...especially when I'm overly caffeinated.
I have associations with my world being ripped apart, with my loved ones curling up uncovered in the arms of other lovers, of disease running rampant through the syphilitic streets of Victorian England, of Dravidian Indians carting the severed heads of Hindu priests to blood drenched temples, gaining access to circular ceremonies of sinister sex magic.
And it turns me on.
Even without the ooey gooey sex stuff, it turns me on. The unsettling path of transformation through destruction...deconstruction, through Kali fuckin' with my shit, it turns me on. There is a part of me that craves the annihilation.
There is also a part of me that screams for me to end the torture, to run fast and hard in the other direction, to take up a post as a bible thumping Baptist somewhere in the South, head in the sand of supposed salvation.
Oh, I'm offending someone somewhere, I know. And that twists my gut as well. Oh, well. It seems to be the way of the soothsaying truth sprayers.
I've embarked on a path of healing for myself and others, and fallen in love with my number one lover, and she with me which brings complexity. I know that these feelings that grow from the belly below tend to build a sense of forever, a holding that's clever and attachments that never want to let go...and it wrenches the everlovin' meat from my bones.
I know that this can't last. I see only demise on this path. The crazy ones, they're the faces I see, and yet I can't seem to turn away.
Leave some space for the Holy Spirit, I say.
A little quietude, not tryin' to be rude, just gotta handle my shit on my own like men do. Entrancin', enchantin', dancin' with you, Kali Ma, Durga Ma, Tara Ma, the fierce goddess mother that calls me under the covers for another smother...
Gotta break free and breathe. What a relief, a reprieve, no need to leave, just be...me. Alone. On my own. At home with the One.
Because right now it's gettin' a bit sticky, too many ingredients packed into this shitbrick, too much commotion and loco-motion.
Thank God for massage. Thank God for distant pods. Thank Goddess for God.
Ahhhh...Tantra.
