Bleeding Edge

Waking up, next to her, it was right then & there, she was there, and waking up was necessary, no more fitful sleep in the hands of Orpheus — but death sleep, with clarity and precision, that the otherness that we might have known as Love will surely kill and disembowel you — in a way deliberate, for you become aware of what is happening, become aware with full consciousness of what is lacking from this place, time, and life we lead, like red oxen tied to the yoke of sorrows & morrows.

Asleep, it might have been a dream, a hint of the unconscious, a trick of the brain, but fully awake, this strange and unknowable otherness was a palpable reality, a muscle spasm, when you pull your arm from under her heavy breast — a fact, not an illusion, nor a dream, a penetrating glance and the sunrise gaze, line of mountaintops from the stone steps of Persepolis, dead Kings bidding you forth and beckoning you “Be Immortal my Friend — Be Immortal.”

That’s the otherness of time and loss, yet love is in there too, as all those spoke about this “otherness” that descends upon me as a white cloud and makes me eerily lost in it’s moist down there mist… counting time for the Ten Thousand Kings, immortal and interned in the sands of Time immemorial.

Love, Lust, and Circumstance, upon close examination are not something holy, jolly, or extraordinary. They are not the edges of the Father, the Son, and the Holly Spirit, nor are there some mysterious energy triangle, nor a light emanating form up high gifting language skills and oratory — but it is the three of them coming together that allow man to become divine, in the sense that we become something beyond personhood, time, and thought.

Our mind is caught in a time-warp that makes us lust after the thought of being there and being in Love with “La Vie en Rose” of this otherness… but it is Grace that takes over when in bondage to the betrothed, slave to the behold, and freed from earthly care to God and Woman alike.

Our body is willing, yet our mind is weak, reeling, and lost, because she can’t comprehend, and our bodies can’t understand, what is happening all around us as we descend to Hades for one more time to bring up the beloved of our eternal spring of youth.

Our senses revolt and cries of danger up ahead drown out the voices of pain and expectance of imminent carnage, but what this mayhem seeks to do, is to turn out the light that escaped the darkness of drudgery that everyday life is — when this other love has left the building. But when Eros’ arrows sailing from the arms of little “Puttis” knock you down in the carnal mud of existence — our new awaking becomes a white-ou,t lost high up in the mountains, walking towards the cliffs of wonder when this awful moist mist descends upon us and enters our olfactory senses causing complete loss of bearings, scrambling our moral compass, and delivering us a soaked consciousness, trembling in tribulation of social intercourse, bearing a pure thought that our logic cannot, ever, not ever, comprehend.

So it is not stillness we should look on St Valentine’s night, but a massacre to make all living things come to be understood in those awfully few moments of “petite Mort” and in the far too many moments of memories that pretend to be any little thing like love.

Don’t bother the traveller of time, to tell the awesome truth that Life starts and ends with Love. Ask Rumi instead. He knoweth it all too well, as he cried sleepless all of his effing half life after “Azzizam” passed down the river Styx to Hades marble cold embrace.

Why on Earth did he then write all about love and took all of our words so that nobody can ever tell it like it is without borrowing his words?

Because maybe this thing is eternal and needed a Homer to bring it forth as the battle of good and evil is waged for the light of Love as this other reward.

This thing, red hot and misunderstood, cuffs our senses in a bondage of tight wraps and rope art of illusions that can’t be analyzed, nor understood, but felt like the welts of the body basking in the afterglow of intimate harshness and abandoned debasement…

Should you be shy about it — please don’t forget that without this immensity of strength and without the intensity of energy — our love-life, and all of our otherness-in-love existence, becomes trivial, tasteless, and sorrowfully commercial…

Yours,
Dr Churchill

PS:

For if you have not got the strength to live in lust, and grasp the circumstance — You shall know the misery you feel deep in your heart when you know that Nobody ever wants you.

And then what, but suicide awaits you, loveless and small, embracing the bridge railings with fervor, as you are scaling over her, to fly away…

Here is where you live like an eagle for a moment brief, and feel Life’s wind cool on your skin as nobody else feels the moment.

Let other lesser men live long and hard like sheep — fear holds them tighter than ropage, and gripping their heart is old age and worse infirmity to boot.

Fear not…

Fear nothing.

Nothing to fear, because death is eternal.

And so is Joy…

You can think only of the known.

Yet, you cannot think of the unknown.

You cannot concentrate on truth…

The moment you think of the unknown, it is merely God.

Seems that truth cannot be thought about, because if you think about it, it is not the truth nor fun and joy…