Dragonsloth

It's easier from their perspective, and trying to take their perspective doesn't really get me anywhere, so I decided to try it on for myself.

"They" were the climbers and the seers, a roguish crew I had fallen in love with over the years. For the most part their genuality was aligned with the motors of the universe, and the ones that weren't - or that lost there way, or simply needed a good bitch-slap from the Kosmos so they could shake it off and join the climb in progress with a little more humility and humanity - seemed to fall away or fall in place. Context, brother.

"It" was a blue shawl that Diamond Lou Eddie had brought back from the bowels of a book store in London. He never explained what a shawl was doing in a bookstore, how he discovered it, or why he was so willing to lend it around, but that was Diamond Lou. And that,too, was the crowd. They had born-agained and est-ed and TM'd and chanted and dervished and ranted and painted and primaled and rebirthed and -ed to death; and on the other side of that death was this - a pool of wisdom they would soak or splash or all out nekkid body surf in. The point was that they were realizing the source that couldn't be split, the place before words and symbols, the place of essence - and in there, sharing was not even a concept. It was just something that was.

So I talked with the crowd through note and letter, waited for the psychic torque to kick in, and dropped in unannounced to DLE's place. He was chain smoking, and fidgeting with a project, but most of all, he was happy. The shawl was mine, no price extracted, no payment due. I caught him looking down from the apt window as i walked down the street - looked like he was laughing.

I stopped at the park bench with a book. Was fine for the first few minutes, clear, feet in the pool, aware and simultaneously a part of and apart from the book. Witness.

Then, the Dragonsloth.

Lots of different adventures in the blue shawl, so I had been told - full of thunderbolt satoris and kundalini explosions ripping the crown center apart in a kaleidoscope of blood and fuscia and lilac terrible beauty. That was theirs, this was mine. And mine was Dragonsloth.

I could never tell how quick or slow DS was capable of moving, because by the time I realized he was around, he was already IN me, pulling the lids down, sucking the vitality out through the pineal, constricting and conflating the pupils, generally slow-fucking my autonomic nervous system.

This time, however, I had the Blue Shawl of Power. The temptation was there, of course, to simply lie back in the dappled oak sunshine on the bench, pull the shawl over my face and have a nap - the only foe DS could not deal with - but I tried to act preconsciously BLINK-like, and threw it over my shoulders and THEN!

Immanent interior illumination.

Dragonsloth didn't go away. The ground of being under him lit up in a soft purple light, bathed him in it, and allowed me to see have some witness of him. Then, camera cut in from above, I swooped, sword outright, ready to possess DS through dispossessing him of his existence, but found my sword peeled back like lotus leaves; there, in the nexus, just up from the hilt, threads from the blue shawl, which grew into fingers into strands into a web that linked AND built and fed in a subtle body photosynthesis from the purple light and enclosed us both in it's embrace and now

NOW

Dragonsloth and I saw eye-to-eye. Or maybe from the same eyes.

And while I was right that taking their perspective didn't get me anywhere, it's because their and my perspective were part of the whole, and there wasn't anywhere to go in the first place.

Context

A dream of flying.

Silver body crescented in the moonlight, dimpling the night sky like water. Concentric circles ensconcing planets and stars; I smile and tremble and

Look for direction, and there is relation of here, of me to dimples, dimples to planets, planets to stars; but there is no relation between, and that's what is perplexing.

So I slow and sit, back lit up by comets and dowsed in the infinity of space. Hands around knees, skin blue and white and silver in an exquisite pastel that could never be recreated because it only exists second to second and time

..time needs 'between' too, doesn't it. So there is a feeling of relation, of a slight pull that would suggest time, but I can't have time without space, can't have space without distance, can't have distance if I don't have between.

Which is their problem too. Zoom down or in or just din, into that corner downtown. Keep it upper right. Now that room upstairs, second story, end of the hall. Keep it lower left. Got it?
You can feel the pull yah? Which suggests a between but we don't know what it is yet, just a hint, a wisp, a suggestion that there is a connection, a between.

Corner downtown, you can see her gathering her stuff together for the night. Tarp over the shopping cart, two empty coffee cups with some spare change and some candle wax, cart rattling with empty cans; slightly muffled by the one piece of security she has in the world - her sleeping bag. She's down-alley now, off the corner and a little out of the wind, but the rain is starting and it's time to pull out the plastic tarp and settle in for the night and that's exactly what she does when an available space-beside-a-bin comes up.

Upstairs room, hot words under hot tears being written so hard on the journal paper that she breaks through the top page and bleeds into the pages below. Pain so pure, pulled by the writers spindle across the pages, hundreds and hundreds of words which, in retrospect are really only two ... fuck you fuck you fuck you. Feelings don't need to be validated, but let's be clear ... even the vitriol here is reasonable.

So what is the between ? Upper right, lower left. Their ages repel rather than pull together betweens; their lifestations and paths are not comparable, until we mine the undercurrent that put HER on the corner and HER in her own corner, rocking herself, nails digging so hard into her hand that she's drawing tiny beads of blood.

The between is the unspeakable that was foisted on both of them when they were too young and innocent to prevent it.

The between is IT; and now it's clear that IT is both the act as well as the label for what he is. His cannot be actions of a person; too amoral and destructive and without conscience for that.

Unless I look for IT's context; which I don't have the appetite to do.

Much better to stretch out from my dimple in the stars and continue my skipping along the surface of the Kosmos, and leave

context

for another day.