Someone said I could have been the last born flower child, arriving at the very end of my generation. The party was pretty much over by the time I arrived but there were leftovers. Even now, there are the remains of those days, reframed into a whole new wrecked blasphemy of sexuality. You can be anything now, leaving off the most extraordinary definitions of your body, as you like it, or visiting on your children what you didnt have the imagination or the guts to do yourself.
Someone said I was born to be gay but I say that was the extent to which their imagination could run to the unusual. I was born to be sexual, just like you, and in that ecstasy we are all different. Sitting in a crowded restaurant today, tables so close, eavesdropping was impossible to avoid. My friend and I spoke about sexuality, while our neighbours squirmed and talked louder of their work and their hairstyles. Speaking of sex, the world around us went grey and dim while the conversation moving between us lit up our table with the blessedness of life. We could have been speaking of God or Christ or divinity.
For the vision is yet for the appointed time. It hastens toward the goal and it will not fail. Though it tarries, wait for it, for it will certainly come, it will not delay. Now is the appointed time. Now is the time to write about the sex.
Though I was too blind to see, I was in the cult of a sexual predator. Doubtless the parallels are easy to make between the backcountry motorhead swindler of our small cult and the weinsteinepsteinraniere train of exploiting narcissists we know of in the world. There are thousands of them. Only a handful are indicted. I wonder what ancestral line of DNA harks back to the powermongers of old who keep on living despite the loveless void that informs their genes? An aloneness without love becoming a dark lineage, as tangible as the lamas of Tibet, if not so easily traceable.
Now that I have stepped out of the cult, cults come in to view everywhere. Suddenly even the Marines looks like a cult. At the head of each cult, there is always some disintegrating charlatan trading on spirituality or other magnetizing mindsets to entice women and men into sexual liaisons that increase the charlatans personal power while disempowering those who he enchants. Every participant in this creaturely game becomes the slave of physical obsession. Each player is yoked to the mental manipulations evoked by sexual desire, slaves to a bodily need that infuses all parties. Nay! I was never in the charlatans beast-y basement but I have been to other places where the same dynamic makes a fallen woman out of an innocent child. Some sexual encounters impress a devastating loss on a young person, the loss of the promise of an esteemed womanhood. Some liaisons force a womans birthright of sexual innocence and life giving power under the thumb of a revelling beast. In any other situation that beast would be powerless.
I wonder if a criminal jailed for sexual assault is inevitably tortured by other inmates because those inmates have endured sexual abuse in their history? The destruction, early on in their lives, of their living birthright, a childs sexuality, so pure. A childs very own personal life giving power, power of life itself, born of woman, and shining unabashedly, an expression of the origins of life. Life beams from children, even those who are starved or injured, life beams boldly from their eyes and knows itself without limits of lessons or too much living. A childs fresh innocence, new and alive is like little else but other children. So easily it is overwhelmed by a stronger persons unintegrated desires. Finally, for that inmate, meeting the rapist, a memory of powerlessness buried in their being, then the tables are turned, and revenge can be had by the child, now a man and able to take it out on the rapist.
The limitless promises of life anew, the pure innocence of the guileless child, must appear as food for the ogres of the sex trades and fiends of cult masterdom. Feasting on an innocents blood to return to life is but avarice of the living dead.
A cult is not a safe place for innocence, and yet cults are very attractive to naive and unworldly beings. Think of spiritually-minded beings still more akin to where we originally came from than where we are all bound, making our ways along the gauntlet of this life. They are newbies on the path, a path that begins in the love we are born of, and evolving toward the love we are meant to become. Challenging terrain wherever you find yourself, A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adams, from swerve of shore to bend of bay…There are stages of development along this way. The innocents are at the beginning of the hike.
Perhaps because my sexuality was unbound in me, not extroverted, but not held in by customs, I wasnt able to see what was right in front of my eyes. Perhaps I was blind to what I was actually in because it was so much a part of me I was unawares. As a child of my generation, I was born to be wild. It is in my nature, I cannot not be in and enjoy my sexuality. I could no more not express it than breathe. It is a grace and goodness of being that fills me with life, the life of my body. However, what sexuality means to me and what is occurring in the cult of the beast are two very different things.
I hear his rebuke now, You werent there, so you cant say.
Thank goodness I was never there. I endured on the fringe in the morass of side effects where some were chosen and some were not. The unexpressed jealousy or noticeable superiority was an ongoing undercurrent very difficult to navigate, all within a blanket of secrecy that stifled development and cowered the will. It became all too clear that the most important evolution was to be known by him, to garner attention from him, to become one with him in his wifes beast-y basement and then moving that specialness into the community. It was a bizarre scene to observe and participate in. Thank goodness I wasnt chosen but the vibe was of it being imperative if one were to evolve within the cult.
His imperative, as he told one of his wives, was to prepare himself for a battle with Satan. That was his reason for taking hundreds of women into his office, his truck, his camper, his cabin, his hotel room, his wifes basement, etc. He planted suggestions in so many different contexts, to make it seem he was lifting women up above the mundane, drawing them into celestial realms through his carnal ministrations. We believed him for goodness sake. In fact, he was exploiting peoples spiritual longings, feeding women to an unseen devil, taking for himself and serving it up to a darkness only he can see into. We imagined a celebration and later learned it was rape.
We are all born of a woman. That is a power men dream of and countless incarnations of Frankenstein have resulted and continue to be bred. In the natural scheme of things, we are all made of what woman is, the receiver of man. In nature, this marvel creates life. In spite of political assertions, the greatest glory of woman is her womb, the place we all come from. Look around. There is no one, yet, who you could say was not born. Some days we wish we could return to that red palace, back to mothernatures care within a womans body. Nowadays the Kingdom of Woke and the trajectory of spike proteins are defying the glory of woman, not unlike the predator motorhead. Wokedom and injections are debasing the physical body while Satans predators defile the subtle bodies of heart and soul.
Im uncomfortable invoking the name of Satan, but that is the name for what is accursed and wicked in the world, for what is evil.
A note that James Joyce is quoted above, his opening to Finnegans Wake. There is also a verse from Habakkuk, a chapter in the Bible.
The most pointed line: “We imagined a celebration and later learned it was rape.”
Sad but true.