1.
An eye. Very clearly an eye. Pristine, extremely clear. Delineated cornea, wet and sparkling like all living eyes. Not human. You know it is an animal. Brown iris, or rather tannish with softer and some darker inclusions. Panning back, you see the fur around the eye, and then the snout and the jowls and the tongue, then you recognize a stunning adult coyote. You see him vignette-like, as if a still image, but clear, and he is looking off in the distance toward something you can't see. Then without moving he looks right at you. Coyote.
2.
You move through the night. It is warm night. There is a breeze that darts deliciously around. It caresses your face and probes the world. Inquisitive breath of night. Stars of icy purity in a warm blue-black sky. You catch a whiff of something. Sweet but with an undertone of pungency. 'Like datura on the winds of summer'. Ah yes.
THAT smell. The quintessence of female. Devi. Night-goddess. The scent flows in through the nostrils and fills the living frame, pulses into the blood.
Heartbeat drumming and sound of drumming some distance off. There must be a bonfire, you think. You move toward it with inevitable motion. The throb of drums that are heartbeats. Adventure of the night. Then it is as if you stand before a door and inside there is a whole world of flaming life, but wonderfully feminine life. The body of woman. Naked dancing women and girls. You stand before the 'gate' of vaginal reality: Devi-Loka. Nothing else to do but enter and participate just like entering the vaginal space, Vagina-Loka. A reality, a world, a sphere where female sex rules, determines, controls. It's Earth but seen as if from one color-octave lower. You feel yourself and now you have a splendid member fit for a Senegalese prince! but like you, your flesh and your color. Erect and proud you enter the flesh-world of women like a strutting Brahmin, this world all brownish and tan in amber light, warm amber light like the last rays of the sun, but in the shadows of this bonfire girl-world the soft, pulsing light is richly magenta.
Conscious awareness is directed now lower, to the primal center. Spirit moves not soaringly above and abstractly over, but lowerly and down into. You enter the throng of dancing women and girls. You are yang to the ocean of delirious yin. Entering Yoni-Land it is as if you enter with the entire body of yourself, your member pushing irreverently into the soft resistance of femininity. You feel glory in your whole being. Satisfaction, union. You plunge in. The world envelopes you in a warm, tingling blanket of feminine warmth. You are the Raj in this play. King of Kings in a pure, female world.
3.
But the party begins to end. From out of the sides of the visualized image pulses in a whitish-grey light with a slight tawny tinge. It seeps out and 'pollutes' the gorgeous amber-colored light with its reddish undertones. It 'defeats' the pulsing magenta. A grey, cold light like overcast Winter. Flat, characterless. All on the sudden the beautiful body loses its supporting color, that 'prop' of color which made it appear so attractive. But worse than that, this grayish-yellowing light, like advancing fog, ages the splendor of young female bodies. Now, the imperfections in the flesh are seen. The fresh yonis of healthy girls look pasty, clammy, and no longer young but old. It happened far too quickly, sadly, and the vibrant Devi-Loka with its hot breath and inviting glances shifts from Devi-Loka to Yama-Loka, a decay-zone in a world of encroaching death. And all the bodies become old bodies, and all the fresh, flowered yonis rotten, collapsed and even hideous vaginas whose smell, as of rotting meat, overwhelms you. But more than 'rotten meat' it is the smell of old sex, and here all kama and kama's possibilities melds with antithesis. You are now in a death-realm peopled with dying hags. Your own sex and flesh is now pathetically irrelevant. You would run from the very idea of 'sex' now. It has become non-eroticism incarnate. You are old now too and the light of this world is dimming.
4.
Hospital. Shadow-realm. Ending. Prostrate, you now appear on the stage of death-theatre. Not the 'star' but one of hundreds in a weird factory of pain and destruction. You hear inarticulate phrases from dying lips rehearsing shadowed memories from lives lived and now extinguishing. So strange it is unbearable. This is the point in the drama where everything catches up, where there is no next turning in the road and no next horizon. No more resurrected or reconstructed 'hope', no further possibility. It's the final end and, unlike before, there is no way to turn away from it. The eye must face it as the eye becomes it. Death will be lived. You are blanketed in it but it's blankets of lead, finality, fate. The 'logical end of every motion that proceeded it'. Groans among frail memory and gibberish wails, sobs, whining, negotiations with invisible time-signatures and among death-rattles. Darkly lit, the grey shadows encroach. The tones darken toward black, like dark water. Prostrate, needles penetrate flesh but flesh too weakened even to bleed. What comes out is yellow liquid and it moves through clear tubes to plastic sacks. The attendants are like robots: they sidle up, perform their mechanical rituals on your grey flesh, and then move on down the line.
As if kept going by the habit of hope, you resolve, again, in this darkening dusk to stay a little longer, to hold on. But all of a sudden it just becomes impossible. There is a clanging sound. A flock of dark birds flies up from a twisted skeleton tree. You dissolve in death.
5.
You wake. Your nose in the green. You are breathing. Scent of grass, herbs, dark damp earth. Fresh after-rain smell. Morning. Soft, clear light of morning. Dawn. 'Usha'. She is said to be a girl too. Water trickling. A brook. The singing of flowing water. A gurgle like laughter, soft laughter, child's laughter. It is Dawn herself. A frolicking child. But no, no girl is really seen. These are imagined images. Just sensations made symbols. No laughter, no dawn, no green, no awakening light, no grass, no herbs, no laughing water, nor even, really, you. And yet you are there, witness, participant. New feelings altogether. 'When breathing felt like something new'. There are no words though because this is wordless realm. Here, things are known, not articulated. Words are the past, now is being.
Direct sense, awakening, dawn, beauty supernal, the promised sense of life, the cup overfilled, the golden glow inside not outside. Laughter innocent. Irresistible. Laughter is the song that pulls your heart and
you laugh,
you sing,
you are rejoicing. Never before fully felt but yes intuited. Longed for. The receding yellow brightness behind every desire, now awakened awareness of
home at last. An imagined world takes form. Every imagining is a vessel holding incomprehensible content yet formless ultimately. Here, in ultimate, but ultimately imagined, the eye conceives worlds of beauty. It is 'as if'. As if green, watery, fresh, opening, jewel-like, radiant, wonderful, illumined.
Laughter again. It's tickling in the heart. Nothing and no one to fear anymore. Irresistible. You laugh along. Then, it's as if you are sitting in a field (your preferred place of beauty) and you are not alone. Yet you never were, either. Someone is there, someone you know. Someone with whom you are profoundly related. A part of. A personality indeed. Female, it would seem. Every soul blown like a bee through frozen Winter has a source to which it is related infinitely.
- 'Where have you been, traveller? I left you just for a second and you ran off!'
It is weirdly cliche, even ridiculous. You try to understand and answer with your mind but cannot as mind cannot calculate the sense of it.
- 'You dreamed a long dream. You were home in forever, outside time, in liquid-aware reality self-glowing. You fell asleep and dreamed. Like a moth to the red flickering flame. To the pulsing heart, two hearts pulsing. The drumming of impassioned hearts, but beating flesh hearts. Impostor parents! Masquerading as your spirit-parents. Incestuous portal, curious desire. Interpenetrated flesh. Sticky flesh reality into which you biologically dreamed yourself. The Portal, yoni-land and lingam-land, inviting but strange flesh. Daddy, mommy, daddy, mommy sexy adventure-dream and then: the Portal opens in birth and you cryingly live, born between piss and shit and mommy love. A flesh-bubble in an imagined world.
"Where have you been, traveller? What did you do? Who did you see? Just how was it for you? You followed the beating heart and again you lived in flesh. Now, you are home again with those who love inconceivably you".
Perhaps this is a useful consideration, if only to remind us of the possibility that reality may contain many things we simply aren't equipped to grasp.