Suicide 3 – Angels are Lobotomizing Themselves

Comment: This is an excerpt from another original piece that I wrote. The reference to “beasts” is referring to the large portion of humanity that is unaware. I use the term specifically in regards to awareness as defined extensively by Aldous Huxley. For any reader interested I am happy to discuss the term in greater depth. My reference to “angels” pertains to the portion of humanity who are highly aware including those who don’t even understand what this means. “Angels” are connected more with the spiritual elements of the universe and the interconnectivity of all. They are the thinkers, the dreamers, the artists, the lovers, the philosophers, the poets, and the true prophets. WIthout appropriate understanding of their gift, guidance in their perceptions, and spiritual training aimed to balance and buffer all that they perceive, many will kill themselves or become perpetual addicts to distract themselves from the “voices in their head.” Isolated “angels” are further confused, alienated, and tormented by the beasts which surround them in overwhelming numbers from the time of birth onward because they will never truly fit in with this overwhelming assumption of “normal” humanity and existence. Unfortunately, most “angels” will try to figure out a way to fit in and play the game…to be normal. Many will blow their brains out in the process and many others will be driven mad and into perpetual suffering for their entire existence by trying to be and accept something they cannot be or accept. Some of my frustration at the time of writing with the “beasts” is obvious. Please forgive the over-critique as a weakness of passion and not of cruelty.

Cribb          2015

Falling

                Another, and another, and another, he sees them fall. One Angel, after another, lost… so damn lost; raised by and among beasts… so many overwhelming beasts who possess no awareness, minimal if any intellect, and no understanding whatsoever of the precious creatures within their midst. Angels; swimming in a sea of unaware, unempathetic, imperceptible beasts. And there happens to be nothing wrong with being a simple beast. There is actually a comfort, a purity, and a beauty in being such a creature; furthermore, in all truth, a limited awareness removes the hellacious burden of responsibility that falls upon the Angels. But beasts should never rule, subjugate, torture, drug, deconstruct, demoralize, or dominate Angels.  Never, never, never. Beasts are the children of animals and Angels are the children of God. But a beast cannot comprehend such a thing and by virtue of their ignorance and naivety, they perceive and declare the Angels as abominations.

Abominations….. What is wrong with them? Why are they so weird? Why do they talk so much and ask so many questions? Why can’t they just relax? Why are they so stressed out? Why are they so emotional… so demanding? Why are they so depressed? What is there to worry about, so much? Why can’t they be content? Why can’t they just sit still?

Why would she put a shotgun in her mouth? Why would she let cancer consume her? Why would she welcome a terminal beating? Why would a child arm himself and open fire on a crowd of beasts? Why would he write….? Why would he write…….? Why would he write?

Because, Angels are suffering… for Fuck’s sake….. for Fuck’s sake, because Angels are suffering and suffering…..and suffering. And they are lobotomizing themselves in every way imaginable, so they can just stomach and survive in a world controlled by the beasts. And when the lobotomizing fails, they have to check out completely….. they have to… they have to blow their brains out, one way or another… they must… because they are drowning in the hoards of the beasts that surround them in every direction for miles and miles and miles, and every mile, yard, foot, inch, centimeter and millimeter of that area, is so fucking empty… so fucking empty… that they can’t stand it. So, so, so empty. The beasts deconstruct existence for the Angels. The beasts turn an Angel’s existence black and ugly and empty; and the Angels fall, because they know better… they know better… they know the true beauty of supreme awareness… they know appreciation of the full potential and gift of existence, even when they are consciously unaware of it… and they can’t fucking stand to see that gift squandered, denied, corrupted, or spit upon.

A beast’s world is okay and good for the beasts. It is not okay, or proper, or healthy for the Angels. And this world could, and should be shared by both. But that specific discussion is also a complex subject, and it is story to be told at another time.

Those with Wings must Fly and find One Another

                The Angels must rise. Rise. The Angels must believe in themselves, and that other Angels, also exist. Believe. The Angels must accept the inherent difference between themselves and the beasts, and not interpret such a difference, as a curse or isolation. They must accept the difference as a grace… a wonderful, blissful, amazing, transcending, grace. Accept. The Angels must not lose faith; they must not give in to discouragement or lose hope in repetitively failing to help, to nurture, to educate, or to uplift the beasts, because beasts prefer to exist as beasts and not as Angels. Hope. Angels must embrace other Angels. They must look for the signs. They must eliminate all distractions….eliminate all excuses. Embrace. They must spread their wings and fly. Fly. They must sing from the depths of their soul, and as they do, resonate the melodies of swirling existence; melodies composed of passion and sorrow, ultimate bliss and the fact of loss, yearning and hope, love and the unfortunate distortion of that love, which leads to fear and contempt and hate. Sing. They must love without reservation or fear or consequence. Love. They must let go…let go of all of it. Let go. They must learn to see, to accurately turn their eyes upon themselves, and see themselves, for who they truly are…to accept what is viscerally present within…and then, and only then, will they be able to actually love themselves, not just in word, but also in deed and in profound unmitigated instinctual truth. That truth, that specific truth, alters even the vision of Angels, and it allows them to see things in a synchronous state of the highest transcendence; it allows them to see the whole damn world…the beauty of it all…the grace of everything…existing as it should…..every single bit, existing contently as itself…..beasts, existing as beautiful beasts, other Angels, existing as radiant beings of love and awareness, and themselves…themselves, existing in their own exquisiteness.

The acceptance and application of such vision…..such awareness, is a love that transcends all. It transcends fear. It transcends anger. It transcends insecurity. It balances all of it…..all of it. Such a force, such a choice…..such a simple, basic, concept, could save all of us…every single one, as we dance together through existence.

No one, Angel nor Beast, should have to suffer for simply being themselves.

Cribb          2014

Love vs Sex 181

For this one I’d wear pink feathers, purple stars, if that were what he wanted; or anything else, even the tail of a rabbit. But he does not require such trimmings. We make love each time as if we know beyond the shadow of a doubt that there will never be any more, for either of us, with anyone, ever. And then when there is, that too is always a surprise, extra, a gift.

Being here with him is safety; it’s a cave, where we huddle together while the storm goes on outside.

The Handmaid’s Tale

Margaret Atwood          1986

Love vs Sex 180 – What?

What?

I look at her.

A tilt of tangles.

Blushing.

What?

Nothing.

But she knows.

What?

Oh silly Fairy Queen.

Seductress.

Siren.

Nymph.

Goddess.

Valkyrie.

Angel, blazing with the glory of God.*

I shan’t yield to you like that.

It isn’t proper, my Love.

What?

Exaggerated, pleading, stomping, begging.

All gentle.

All soft.

All supple and absent of gravity.

I found you, you fool.

You silly, illogical, impractical, idealistic dreamer of such impossible dreams.

I found you, despite it all.

You should know better.

Why haven’t you cut it out of yourself?

You won’t ever do it.

I can tell.

That’s the difference.

Foolhardy, stubborn ass, unsmiteable love only bonds upon itself.

The difference for the difference.

The only love complete.

Such must not be weakened by words aplenty, mundane, depreciated.

Loose lips are a sin despite intent, the default inadequate, unworthy at best.

And with the sly sauntering of a tail and a grin of delightful scrumptious devourment stretching from one ear to another, a Cheshire Cat sits quite poised though drunk upon the madness of love and tacitly reveals the truth to all of those who attend his antics.

Rest not on pillowed proclaiming
heralded from your future or your past,
for such pillow supports
not head, nor heart.
Lost in the present,
one finds such sleepy words
to be
more eclipse than comfort.
It is the wonder of the present,
the wonder of what,
that wakes life
from its slumbering hibernation,
that turns meaningless utterances
of numbing habit
into the titillating sensations
of undeniable existence.
Only there,
only spinning,
spiraling,
bouncing,
tumbling,
falling,
floating,
down or up,
or whichever way it happens to go
at the moment,
in that rabbit hole,
will you find
what?
you are looking for…

Cribb
2015

*borrowed and appreciated from BSG in reference to Starbuck

Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 98

The Great American Consumer

American consumerism is not only about outdoing your fellow man in gluttony, hoarding, and the display of your accumulated possessions for all to see, to witness, to remember. It is also about the power trip of over-dominance that the consumer may subject upon the employee or business owner on the slightest satiating whim, free of any justification or repercussion. The American consumer is a “Great American” who can buy whatever they want, even if insanely in debt and without true need, while basking in the delusion of their almighty unquestionable dominance and egocentric value. These traits have been intentionally indoctrinated and fostered in our populace to destabilize the overwhelming majority of the herd. The destabilization occurs easily since it satisfies humanities need to transcend (feeling greater than one’s physical self and limitations) in a downward (meaning more animalistic, without association of any sort with the higher principles of spirituality, and a parasitizing of energy from other life forms only for one’s own benefit) fashion. In other words, such indoctrination taps into the lowest, darkest, and the most isolating aspects of the human psyche where we all become demons with the “soul” purpose of shitting on all others just in hopes of proving that we are the greatest demon of all ourselves. Money and its purchasing power have not been utilized by the herd as honorable, noble, and uplifting instruments of mutual benefit and respect. Instead, they have been used as bastardized rewards to instill and reinforce the powers of over-dominance, fear, and subjugation in all. As bullies or demons, those less or more aware, we torture ourselves and others, no matter our marketing or mask. A noble dollar of exchange and a free market of balance, appreciation, and appropriate reward is a nice dream to hold on to, and it is a profound dream of unification and respect. But for now, Americans eat themselves in their egocentric consumerism while their greater demons continue to laugh and applaud and prompt their progressive madness by praising them all for being such great American capitalists.

Cribb

2015

Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 97

Maynard James Keenan. Perhaps a tid bit of an infomercial, but interwoven extremely well with his philosophy of art and creativity. That philosophy seamlessly couples with ultimate sustainability and the importance of local economies in such intent.

Suicide 2

I pray where I am, sitting by the window, looking out through the curtain at the empty garden. I don’t even close my eyes. Out there or inside my head, it’s equal darkness. Or light.

My God. Who Art in the Kingdom of Heaven, which is within.

I wish you would tell me Your Name, the real one I mean. But You will do as well as anything.

I wish I knew what You were up to. But whatever it is, help me to get through it, please. Though maybe it’s not Your doing; I don’t believe for an instant that what’s going on out there is what You meant.

I have enough daily bread, so I won’t waste time on that. It isn’t the main problem. The problem is getting it down without choking on it.

Now we come to forgiveness. Don’t worry about forgiving me right now. There are more important things. For instance: keep the others safe, if they are safe. Don’t let them suffer too much. If they have to die, let it be fast. You might even provide a Heaven for them. We need You for that. Hell we can make for ourselves.

I suppose I should say I forgive whoever did this, and whatever they’re doing now. I’ll try, but it isn’t easy.

Temptation comes next. At the Center, temptation was anything much more than eating or sleeping. Knowing was a temptation. What you don’t know won’t tempt you, Aunt Lydia used to say.

Maybe I don’t really want to know what’s going on. Maybe I’d rather not know. Maybe I couldn’t bear to know. The Fall was a fall from innocence to knowledge.

I think about the chandelier too much, though it’s gone now. But you could use a hook, in the closet. I’ve considered the possibilities. All you’d have to do, after attaching yourself, would be to lean your weight forward and not fight.

Deliver us from evil.

Then there’s the Kingdom, power, and glory. It takes a lot to believe in those right now. But I’ll try anyway. In Hope, as they say on gravestones.

You must feel pretty ripped off. I guess it’s not the first time.

If I were You I’d be fed up. I’d really be sick of it. I guess that’s the difference between us.

I feel very unreal, talking to You like this. I feel as if I’m talking to a wall. I wish You’d answer. I feel so alone.

All alone by the telephone. Except I can’t use the telephone. And if I could, who could I call?

Oh God. It’s no joke. Oh God oh God. How can I keep on living?

The Handmaid’s Tale

Margaret Atwood          1986