First of all, let me say that I hate discussing sex in any public forum. I was raised in a family of devoted and faithful Mind Your Own Business-ers. My Dad would probably call that “a real mick thing.” He, an Irish, early model baby-boomer, born in 1940’s San Francisco, would instruct us in this social education by saying things like, “Who cares shithead,” in response to guests on The Dr. Phil Show, whom he would note as he would walk past the television my brother and I were watching after school. It should be added that the only reason we would be watching Dr. Phil in the first place would be for the sheer purpose of provoking him to say that, so that we could then laugh our fucking heads off for three minutes straight. “Dad said shithead!” we’d shout with the kind of glee that is really only appropriate if it is Christmas morning and you still believe in Santa. “You little shits are just trying to harass your poor old man,” he would say, with a gleaming look of pride that let us know he had purposefully raised us to be good at harassing people. But the lesson was “Don’t air your dirty laundry, and maybe not even your laundry!” Now, in a lot of ways I tend to agree with this philosophy. Although my reconciliation of it is far more liberal, and I find leeway for myself in exchanging knowing and feeling with others, I feel that these sacred secrets lurking through me, like ghosts, tend to ground me in my vessel, and give me just enough loneliness to feel alive in this world. And so while I’m pretty open in a lot of ways, I have my secrets, I keep other people’s secrets, and if it goes in the secret box, it will be spending six feet under with me.
As a result of this tendency in me, I will, in regards to the personal nature of this article, refrain from any personal anecdotes. I actually experienced a good couple minutes of straight up, “So this must be sorta what a heart attack feels like?” palpations when I received the message to write this piece this morning. I’m not even going to lie. My first thought was, Oh Jesus Christ, Universe, are you fucking with me? The sciatica you kept me up with all night wasn’t enough I see. Now I realize I probably sound like Church Lady at this point, to anyone who still even gets that reference, but it’s just my personality, and I don’t think everyone needs to be like me. I won’t judge you for not being super secretive, like me. In fact, I’ll probably secretly cheer you on, with a secret twinge of jealousy at your lack of secretive neurosis.
And us being on the topic of the baring (or at least, down to bra and panties wearing) of the soul, gives me the perfect segue to my point:
Every shitty, painful thing in your life is your soul on its way to a climax.
Hmm. Now. Could I have put that in a more sensitive way? Perhaps. But try to think of it as my bad writing helping your soul on its way towards climax. And if that turns out to be true, which it won’t, then you should probably, definitely subscribe (which I hope you do anyway.) All kidding aside, I’m serious. I know this whole “bad things happen for a good reason” thing is nothing new. And I know that when you’re in pain, it pretty much sounds like, “Every bad thing that happens is just a good thing turned upside down! So put on a happy face and eat up that burning dog shit life left at your doorstep!” Now, don’t slap me, but that’s soooooo my point. See. Orgasms have taught me that just because it can come across as trite, doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Things, even human attitudes and philosophies, begin dishonestly, and end up revealing their origins. The lie tells itself. The pain gives up itself, expands beyond what it is, and echoes in ecstasy, and torment, at once—finally finding itself in the paradise-paradox state from which logic had once divorced it. This is the heart of life.
Each heart beats, and accelerates with exhilaration in times of pain and other excitements, taking on an erratic and delirious rhythm that eventually leads the subject to some sort of collapse, exhaustion, and often the most, long, slightly death like, peaceful dips into the cold black shadows of sleep. And what is a good sleep if not, the death that we live for? This is the medicine of life’s madness. This is the machine in love’s ghost. Your soul is a scrambling little cog in its grotesque, and yet elegant wheel. It isn’t romantic to think of it that way, “Wait so the spiritual plane is basically the industrial era?” Well…think of it more as a work of art, a masterpiece, masquerading as a thing in order to make its point.
Think of it as…the soul simply playing its part along the stage. And let’s face it, the soul is getting something out of it: an orgasm. The little, noisy irritations of life; the most heart wrenching sorrows; the deepest and most horrifying and infected of emotional wounds…they all go somewhere. And what is going somewhere but evolution? What is evolution but getting better? What is evolution, but the physical dimension’s linear time perception of divinity’s path, wherein the past is always the caveman, the present is always the wondering halfway-man, and the future is the space flying star child, whose best friends with a robot. We see everything in the successive motion of cause and effect, because we do not see that cause and effect happen at once, and directly influence one another, and are in fact layered upon one another, in a very quantum mechanical sense, or as I prefer, a David Bowie-esque sense. The thought of cause losing its role in the theater of destiny robs us of logic. And that loss is evolution for us. But it only happens because we have the logic to lose in the first place. The Angry God has to consume us in his fire belly to expel us into divinity and ashes. We go though pain and thus evolution because of logic—because we’re on earth, where logical separations exist in order to slice like Michael Myers knives into our feeling experience as souls. And this slice opens up our veins, and lets us freely bleed out. And we have to go through that, we have to be sliced open, so that we can bleed in the final, and sweetest release of….
In this release, we know and yet we do not. We look out from the unknowing-knowing paradox kingdom of our Garden of Eden, pre-earth, pre-3rd dimension, gaze. We are in ecstasy—we return to the paradise of our consciousness, the garden we were cast out of, because the angry God we fed with fear discovered that we were bad children. This angry God was our logical, conscious mind, making his rude acquaintance to the quiet dreaming subconscious soul, and this world became the soul’s knowing of him. And ever since, we have lived as souls in the flesh of this earth, in one dimension of our existence, which we assume (wrongly) to be the only plane upon which we currently operate. Our freedom is in traveling out of this dimension. We literally seek to exit through the bowels of the Angry God who consumed us. This God, who is divine because he swallows us, and forces us through the battles of life, into the anticipated release, and resurrection.
It is only through intensity, which can only come as a result of a well satisfied familiarity with disaster, heartache and suffering, that we find this release. Pain is the friction, and its release, the gratification. And although we think one causes the other, there is no cause, only infinite interrelation and destiny, along the star-crossed paths of pain and wonder, which have no beginning or end. And once pain and wonder at last align, their paradox creates a child, and gives birth to new consciousness. This is literally how we cross from one dimension, into another.
Consciousness, at this time is shifting. Our awareness is evolving, out of sheer force, out of sheer pain, and out of sheer necessity. We are giving into ourselves left and right, sharing in our combined agony, and our actions that result, will be the labor pains that give birth to a new version of ourselves. We’ve been evolving all along. We’ve gotten better at killing each other, but we’ve gotten better, in some ways at least, at helping each other live, too. We have all kinds of ways to help people live, because we care about them. This means, contrary to the doomsday feeling in the air as of late, that this is not the end. The gloom is only just the darkness, that always falls loftily before the dawn.
Collectively, we must all reach a point of pain, where the pain is effectively spread so resoundingly, that we finally know there is nothing we don’t share. In having this realization, we lose the logically induced separations. We achieve the nirvana of being the truth of ourselves—which is the paradox of self and God in one. In the sense of being a self, we are the individual, and yet we are God in the sense of being everyone. We can only be everyone if we are connected to ourselves, and we can only be ourselves if we are connected to everyone. And what is more, those connections must be built by strong bridges, intense bridges—and one of the best materials for building strong bridges? Bricks. Pain. Pain is love. Pain is love being crushed by the reality, stacking up on itself, building a bridge away from itself, and to itself. And reality is pain and love becoming each other, being the connection, and the connected things at once. The reality is the release. The reality is the orgasm. Life is the sex that gets us there, the release is the orgasm, and a new dimension of realization is the child born as a result.
See, our souls don’t care about pain. Our souls just want to….
Finish the last line for yourself. And if your mind is in the gutter when you do, recall the fine words of Oscar Wilde, “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
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