A Millennial Invitation

The millennium is an illusion. A trick of time. That is why it is so critical a sacral marking. It is a time, a spot you will stand upon, which is beyond your sight and touch. It speaks of the aeonic, it sounds with the drumbeat of history, and it is all just too non-sensical for any but the mad and the dead to reverence.

So the invitation comes. Transmitted through the stones. In between heartbeats strides the understanding.

It is the now for a new story.

A story which is the song and dance of a new godding.

And I fear to bear this invitation.

For a new story is always a seed sucking the dung of an old. Babe at leathery dugs.

And what is not to be heard again? Never to be spoken? The rhythm laid down in forgetfulness?

With joy and anticipation, I say that it is Fear.

Most murderous and blood-sipping Fear.

The myth of fear. The dance of the warrior. The heartbeat gone tympanic in marauding death.

It’s story is simple: Kill.

No need for the exclamatory. No, it is a bedtime story.

Simply told for the ending millennium. From parent to child, child to parent, children among children, and young to the old. All in unisonance pray, "Kill."

Let me tell this story. Warrior that I am. Child of warrior. Parent of warrior children. I, a godding murderer.

First, there is the Enemy. And it is God, the godding force, the forceful presence.

And it is He. So the story begins. And it will end with only He. For it begins with a murder.

Of Her.

For God is the creator. The creation is not Him. Not His flesh. But other. Distant. So, He creates from out of nothing.

This nothing is both beginning and end of the story. But at this beginning it is not sacral. It is somehow not there by being no-thing. Darkness without Light. So, He begins.

Creation then is the foreign land. To be conquered. The Enemy of He, the God. So, He is its Enemy.

This creation is not a birthing. It is a doing; a conquering.

She, already conquered, bleeds not upon this ground.

No, the ground is spat upon and from it the child arises. One from the God. From Him. As from Him, so Lonely. But conqueror. In need of Enemy and enemies.

Then the sacral liturgy commences. The story begins in memory; so comes the millennium.

From Him and him-child comes Her but not Her, rather only her-child. The trick has been done. Fiat!

The Warrior has emerged. Now with fleshly Enemy. Yes, of great conundrum and mystery, perplexity, for she is from Him and him, so how can she be Enemy? But this is the story. It must be told, again.

It is exactly she who is the liturgical moment. The crisis. The trembling first whisper of Fear. "She!"

Her body is the sacral moment of transcendence. The gasping moment of awe when her presence reveals all that He and he shall ever be; ever want to be.

For she is Enemy and enemy. Forever, the ritual moment of murder. To slay her, Kill Her, forever and forever is the poem of eternal recurrence. She as acceptable sacrifice. She, murdered, as redemptive act.

She and she is only known by her absence. For this millennium, we know no other. Have heard no other. Prayed and accepted no other.

From Adam’s rib. At the edge of Abraham’s knife. Moses striking the rock. Jesus sliced open upon the cross. The Pope infallibly sacerdotalizing the penis. All metaphors. All the same story, recalled and repeated. All chants and sermons in the Warrior ritual.

Kill.

He gives birth. Adam had no belly-button!

Isaac is Her child. Sarah is the ram in the thicket.

Moses struck her with his rod -- stiff spirit -- and only got water, not blood.

Jesus could not die. Only live forever. Resurrected. Marauding, fearful of time. Bloody, not menstrual.

And The Pope. He in the Eternal City. God, Him ever present. Clarifying all the ambiguity. Making ready the way of the Lord. His Return. The millennial descent. Gonads hanging low and heavy. Warrior ecstasy!

The ritual more daily. Called profane. Yet, oh yet, so sacral. Work. Once dance. Once fire of transformation. Once the potter at the wheel.

Work. Now, Work Is Freedom. Only prison time. Locked and chained, to labor by the sweat of the brow. No bread; only stones.

And so they call Her dirt. And they violate her. Mining her mysteries. Seeking Her genetic power by re-working Her into machine. And machine into money; not without humor called "filthy lucre." It is dirt they trade for work; pretending She is not Earth.

It is done everyday. We live this way. Thrive. Re-tell the story. Without blood and gore. 8 to 5. Do your own time. Take care of Numero Uno. Ain’t it a bitch?!

Bitch. So the story forgets itself, and She lives. In the moment of blackout. Stupor. The pangs of hunger to loose Her fat. Yes. We all want to become rib again. Just rib. Skeletons. This is the Warrior’s Quest.

Bitch. Life’s a bitch. Kill the bitch.

War is hell. War is Peace.

Peace is War. Shiver a little. Maybe cold.

Have often have we heard this story?

Seen this ritual enacted?

Plays. Songs. Dances. And Television.

Television. Far Sight. Cool, ain’t it!

Everyday. Stop reading. Flick on the Tube. The story’s there.

TV is the daily invitation. How dare my invitation ride such a decrepit vehicle as words? Ha! Lost in the noise of the thunder-clap stadium. Cheers rising to shriek.

Kill.

It doesn’t have to be so.

But not to be so means listening to the invitation within you, calling.

For you are from Her. We all know that. Know in that eerie way. Know in the terror of the moment of absence that we did not create ourselves. And certainly He and he did not create us, alone. No. The sacral is not masturbatory. We know. We know. We know. But then ...

You’ll ask. There is no other way that we have learned to listen but to ask and try to dismiss by laughing at the frailty of the individual. Belittling, shaming and sarcastic cynicism are the Warrior’s most fearsome tools.

You want to know about me. It is the mistake of looking at the vessel and not sipping the common thirst; of saying, "That’s good!" but only having the bowl to look at.

But, I will speak.

Warrior. Killer. On a scale immeasurable. Truly, from my diapers, I slew Her.

Warrior that I am, I excelled in non-violence. And so was I Master of Ceremonies.

In the spaces which permitted the story to thrive, that’s where I have worked.

So fearsome am I that I am convict. Both felon of soul and felon of cage.

Ha! I despise your petty wisdom. I hate you with a hatred so deadly that you have no measure to measure it with.

Behind the altar. Inside the cage. Dutiful to the story. Marauding. Lying to her. Fucking her. Raping the land. Hands dipped in waters of thirsts so dry that no cunt could ever bleed.

Ask me and I will repent! Metanoia.

I, resurrected and so falsely birthed. But, so you asked, and so I tell you: I recite the story with my every breath!

Satisfied?

Now, you.

You are the invitation. That is the invitation I carry.

She is you. Within and Around and Between. Playful.

If you hear Her, the first duty of the Warrior is to kill himself. Kill the him of Him inside. Whatever gender you are.

But Warrior death is only resurrection. Having to journey again, "on the other side."

So, why go through that, again?

Her. Just say Her. Think Her. Image Her. Touch yourself and say Her. Gaze into your own eyes and see Her.

This is the first step of Her work.

You are child. And as child of Her. From Her within male flesh and from within female flesh. Of Her from within male seed and from within female egg.

As child you are forged from Fire. Fire as the consuming, devouring Death feasting upon the Alive.

As child you are forever Dead. And forever Alive.

So the stones are your children. As are all the birds and all others which hum and buzz and thump within the river of your breathing.

Work is not a conquering but a creating discovery. There is nothing such as no-thing; just things, and you among them.

As child you cannot see the parent in you. Not until they are absent. Gone. Maybe that is why the Warrior story arose; I don’t know.

But once the absence shivers through you, then child you become parent.

And all flows from you and through you. All as oneness. A greater self. A smallest of selves. The rain drop. One unseen, unheard, untasted drop slipping from leaf’s edge. This is you. And it is mad to be with you. Madly dancing. As is the thunderclap as basso drum. Shaking the earth; making all tremble. The thunder is you.

So, the dirt is sacral because we are it. So, the Warrior had remembered: Dust to Dust. But now a chant of joy -- because you can die, and be worked upon!

But Her. She is not just Earth and Nature and Water and Rock and Birds and Breaths ....

Her is she, and he cannot be without she or Her. Nor He so be.

The invitation. How I digress! So fearful; killing time. Hmmm.

Yes. The invitation is you.

For you are Her. And as Her, you become child as she.

She is there in the female; always there in the most fantastic way. How did the Warrior come not to hear the groan of creation in the moon season? How did the Warrior come to reverence his cock without the ritual of bloody baptism?

Fantastic. So, it seems to the Warrior. But is it so?

Not fantasy. She is not fantasy. Not masturbatory fantasy. Not just the Whore. Virgin and all that. Yeah, that fantasy is fantastic; unbelievable ... at least if you pause to think about it. No more feel it. Can any Warrior, can any he or He, stand up and really believe that sperm is life sui generis? C’mon, loosen up!

You carry that handful of sperm and you know it should go somewhere. You grind the sperm of the earth into bread, consecrate it and swallow it. But no children arise. Are you beginning to hear Her?

For the last time, look around you. The story is there. Warrior Story. Whether Christian, Jewish, Islamic, Buddhist, Hindu ... aboriginal ... wherever, the story is there. But so is the invitation.

You are not alone! Amen. Can I stop now?

Sarcasm. Yes, I am, also, enthralled by aloneness. From her womb was I raised to be alone and so redeem ... but, no more.

You are not alone. You are parent. And child. Parent and child. You are son and daughter. You are mother and father. You are she and he. You are Her and Him.

You are The Holy Family.

Yes, at once individual and communal.

At once a part and the whole which is greater than the sum of the parts.

Your aloneness is the invitation to your communalness.

Your body is Body.

Your dust is Earth.

Your breath is Wind

Your thirst is Water.

Your blood is Fire.

As Warrior you know all this to be false. Untrue. Not believable. Dismissed as poetry. Drivel. For you are you and only you, now and forever and will cease to exist when you die so grab what you can all the pussy you can and fuck them all and grab the dough and blow your mind and suck the bottle and roll the dice and kick some ass!

Whew!

I hear ya.

But the invitation is to ecstasy.

Yourself as ecstatic.

Yourself in embrace.

Embrace, and so you accept.

Hear. Not that you are accepted.

The invitation is for you to accept.

The fear and joyful trembling is that She is within you, and your accepting will become a birthing.

You are the womb.

And as womb the creative fire and suck of all that is.

The womb is because it accepted. Not that it is acceptable.

Become womb and you will fly in raucous laughter from the inept humor of Kill.

As womb you are Death as well as Birth. Not one without the other. Both.

Yes. Womb. It manifests itself through Embrace.

Embrace which runs the risk of holding the other so that you do not see them. You see behind them. Is this the illusion that spun the Warrior into being? The child’s fear that the parent embraced was no longer there because no longer seen?

Embrace runs this risk. Brings this insight. Spins this Warrior story. So the child squeezes so hard, terrified that it is alone, and slays the parent ... and rushes about, squeezing the life out of everyone and everything. Killing. Hating parents as abandoners, ones who do die and disappear, and so claiming no one as parent; running amok; pleading, "Accept me!"

But Embrace is accepting others. Allowing them to enter into your intimate space, your fire. Close to mingle breaths. Close to sweat together. Close to be flint and strike, one to the other.

Embrace is the invitation.

It rises upon your flesh’s desire.

Accept this desire. This craving for skin. This maddening impulse to couple with others. For this is the beginning.

And, so, She calls. Calls you. Calls you not to accept her, but to accept yourself. Know yourself as you allow others into you. Be womb.

For females, you are the metaphor of womb.

For males, you are the simile of womb.

Embraced, locked in frenzied desire, craving for skin, this then the beginning: He and Her, she and he.

.........

Story. Now ritual. Now liturgy.

The Warrior ritual and liturgy is all about. The Warrior discipline is the killing; the slaying act; the conquering motion.

So, of The Holy Family?

Understand, first and once again, that in the Warrior Story females are not metaphors of anything. They simply do not exist. And males are not similes. They simply are. And here The Pope is without blush: the cock is God. There is only a Son of God. No daughters; no Daughter. There is no womb. Only cunt and pussy and snatch.

Yes, the Discipline you are invited to is sacrilegious. Profane in that it no longer has use for the Discipline of the Warrior. No more scourging of the body. No more denial of the flesh. No more hatred of self. No more marauding killings.

She calls forth yourself as metaphor and simile. In your every motion, your every breath, your every thought, your every embrace.

You eat and you become all that is eaten.

You drink and you become all that thirsts.

You breathe and you become the lungs of all living things.

So, you embrace and you re-work the loneliness into a fuller heart.

Accept. Let the world touch you. Explore you. Thrash you about like potter’s clay. Let others bound through the howling darkness and burst into the bacchanalian light of yourself.

This is how She will Return.

Return as you return. Turning in the sense of turning towards; turning inward; turning back to return; turning the wood creating a new sacral stick, sacred pole, totem for the coming millennium.

You and me. He and She. he and she.

The Holy Family.

Manifest yourself. Sing this song interred in your genes. Breathe! Yes. Eat and talk, dance and game, sing and groan, laugh and lift pangful cry ....

Where? When?

The millennial evening. After embracing. At points sacral to you: you as metaphor and simile; and so sacral to The Holy Family.

Anasazi village, Canyonlands: one spot. All images and stories from sacral pasts and times. They shall be spoken. Received. Accepted by you and us. You shall hear them all. Feast upon them. Lament with them. Repent as they are repented. Yes, embraced shall all they be, for they are you; and you are like the womb, and you are the womb.

At your table. In your backyard. Cordon off the street and invite the block. Attend the sacral spots of ancient ways and of today. Church. Synagogue. Mosque. Temple. Meditation Room. Green Pasture. Wherever. For wherever is where you are; and The Holy Family shall be.

The invitation is you.

Embrace yourself. And The Holy Family becomes.

.............

1999, when is it 2000?

Now, right now, as you embrace The Warrior and emerge into the story of The Holy Family.

But, matters are more prosaic. For you exist as The Warrior story. Yes. It is so. Embracing this story means taking practical steps. Ritual movements. For The Warrior story is all ritual; that of slaying; of murdering; the killing of time ... and to respect it, so you must ritualize it and through that ritual make present The Holy Family.

The invitation then is mundane.

You talk to others. Invite them. Find a place. Surround yourselves with symbols of The Warrior Story. Take turns working that Story. Grasp and share what it has been like to live as if not simile, as if not metaphor. Live only as cock: males and females, both. Living in masturbatory fantasy.

Then, explore the story of simile and metaphor. This takes great courage. For you face Death not as outside you but as you. Death and all its absences and abandonments, these you embrace. Embrace as you embrace he and she, and so Him and Her.

Remember, you are child. Everyone is someone’s child. Being a child is not a matter of gender! Everyone is child.

Remember, you are parent. Everyone is someone’s parent. Being a parent is not a matter of sexual procreation! Everyone is parent.

Work at embracing.

Daily. As you dream.

Indeed, so the invitation ends here.

Dreaming.

It is all an invitation to dream.

Not live as The Warrior claims: only in the darkless light.

But to embrace dreaming; where we are simile and metaphor.

Come to Anasazi. Come to yourself. Come to The Holy Family.

Ever!

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