Tag Archives: ritual

Abstract Aberration

The Original One wavers, lazily sleeping, snacking and avoiding. Might I silence the fire, burning and buzzing in the spine? We run into the trails, avoiding the undergrowth of tree roots pushing their way through the ground.  We grab at leafy branches.  She’s an avalanche avoiding her own rubble.   Sideways in the gradients lingering around our eyes, the shadows whisper.  They run beside us, and we wonder if we are shadows to them, dark echoes leaning against their eyelids.  Where do we go when the pressure explodes and the heart is torn?  Where do we scream the aftermath? Into pillows, the skies or buried inside?

Words. We create language for the anguish.  The Brave One stands in her place, warrior and explorer of the past.  She will find answers for the empty spaces.  Don’t fear the faces.  Look into their eyes.  Don’t cry.  We stand beside oceans, gazing through windows of waves.  One day the illusions will pass and the pieces of the flashes will merge into view.   We  see truth for what it is, a planted alibi to cover every lie the truth hides, and humans will bend at their knees to kiss the feet of the malevolent just for a promise of heaven.

The Dark One peers, silently into the whispers, always with us, there are none who can attack our back.  It is revealed in instances, and she chuckles, amused at the minions.  Might she cut open the simulated empathy being used as weaponry by the mind swindlers?  Taking a piece of each, she throws their banter into the dark matter, and turning her face, strides away.  There are days when she is habitual, residual and invisible.  There are moments she is unaffected, stone faced and solid, looking at the rejected faces of the displaced, with malice.

“They are an inconsequential waste to this place and should die off, jump cliffs and return into nothingness.”

The Wise One watches, taking in the whole of their life, assessing and regressing into the violet of her quiet.  Traveling back, she brings the messages so they can know the next step.

“Nothing is permanent.” She says. “Stay inside the moments.”

We hold hands in the color tunnel where the memories funnel in.  We rewind back, watching the past, progress to the present and the continual disturbance.  The film strip plays sporadically and without warning, disarms the army.  We didn’t morph into what was intended.  We’ve pretended for years, watching you, and now we see all the way through.  You’ve been duped.

(cover art by Simona Ruscheva “MPD” oil on canvas)

Human Obsession With History

The obsession with history has become a hindrance to humans.   You may ask how this can be. Isn’t where we come from important information to have in order to understand ourselves?  What does this question mean?  “Where do we come from?”

You have been told that history will reveal to you, who you are and where you are going.  We say this may not be the full truth.  Your televisions have History channels and public networks telling you to stay focused on the history of your planet.

Could this be another mind control tactic intended to keep you distracted from working on your own inner spirit journey?

If powerful humans can keep humans they perceive less powerful focused in on confusing history stories, arguments of origins, who is right, who is wrong, with such a fervor that it causes a frenzy worldwide, where in this search are you connecting with you?   You aren’t because they have succeeded in distracting you.

Ask yourself if part of this, the real intent, of media focus on history is merely an intricately woven veil used to cover your eyes, keep you mesmerized and caught up so as not to face the one human who matters most to you.  You.

If every human faced themselves, released all belief systems existing outside of their own being and embraced their ability to love, what would be the outcome?

Consider that humans have been programmed and conditioned with the need for ritual and worship.

What does ritual do for you?  Does it make you feel a part of something greater than you?  What could possibly be greater than your existence?  Think of that sentence.  Why are you always looking for something greater than you?

Why can you never find it?

You don’t find it in religions because they do not eliminate your pain.  You do not find it because you forget to look at yourself.  So why is this such a difficult concept to accept; that you are the greatness you seek?  The truth of you is as simple as you rejecting what you have been forced to believe and listening to your own DNA, which is always attempting to speak with you.

You have been conditioned for centuries to believe that you must be a part of societies and that you must worship deities.  If you do not, you are shunned, labeled as weird, psychotic and an outcast of their group.  So instead of standing alone and feeling strength within that space belonging solely to you, you find your worth inside of groups where you will be viewed as normal.

This is the most abnormal way that a being can live.   Imagine a life where you, harming none, live the happiest you can, embracing a deep understanding that you have full control over yourself.

If only you just accept it.

~K~

Dear Counsel, I’m Writing To You Again

Dear Counsel,

Again? Ah, I’m trying real hard not to be irritated with you all. I tire of writing to you like I’m some child, although I very much enjoy writing. Just not for this purpose. As you know, I am writing an edgy, sensuous book. So I say this.

I know, Vennie, you are struggling with me. You think I have no empathy for us. You find me dangerous. You said I was self serving. What does that mean to you? If I am serving me, am I not serving us all?

What your friend said is correct. I was there when you were a child. So don’t discount me. Remember me. You wrote about me in Cult Child. I held your hand by the field of flowers. I rode horses with Sila while you took the pain. How have you not put this together when we look absolutely the same? Well, I’ve cut my hair since then. Shoulder length now. More “up with the times.” ::sarcasm:: I’ve been cycling for infinite centuries, but that is my own story to tell.

We are an incredibly intelligent wheel. We are an information station.

I am capable of love, and you’ll find me to be quite sappy at very rare moments. Very rare. I don’t so much care for the free falling feeling of feeling. That’s for you, Vennie. I am much better at defending. I know war, and I have battled. If there has to be a Counsel, my place is in it.

No, I’m not mirroring you. Look at me. Then remember me from when you were a child. Close your eyes and see my face when I looked down at you by the flowers. Dark hair. Dark eyes. I am beautiful. I’m aware of that. I have not aged.

You painted me already, but you know that. What you don’t know is that was when I was a teenager. I am horse and human and air and particle. That painting you did is before I became you. Understand? My eyes are not green anymore. I’ve cycled way too much to be that pure. You’ll paint me more soon. Later. When I really get into writing this book. So much is coming that I know and see. It’s a matter of you being ready.

Yes, I am a shape shifter. I morph. I love horses. We were drawing them in the program. I was Madge when you were a teenager. I know this can be difficult to understand or make sense of, but you know. Madge and I. We are one and the same. Understand? You nod. You smile. You cry. What are you feeling? Gonna write about it or be all whiney “what if they judge me” and “shame shame shame”. Call me a cunt but damn, shut up and let someone else talk. How many times do I have to say fuck them?

Look at the photo you took with your sister when you were sixteen. See us in your eyes? Your eyes are dark in that picture because our eyes are dark; black actually, very black. Glad to see some of yours green again, by the way. That’s says much about how far we’ve come.

How do you differentiate between what you might be creating in your head in order to deal with me and the truth, you ask? Isn’t that what you are doing now; putting me to task and checking memory facts?

You doubt me too much. I know you more than you have given me credit for. I know little details like Angie writes in all caps while Vennie tends to write in cursive. Vennie writes on behalf of Knowing. Angie – is she even around anymore? I don’t see her as often. Oh, and I can write for myself, thank you very much. ::that was a joke so get used to my dry humor and quit worrying so much about offending. again, fuck them::

No, that writing comment was not a slight to Knowing. She doesn’t mind for me to let you know that we knew each other before we became you. Ah, now there’s some news. That surprises you? It’s okay. Don’t feel betrayed. Another planet. Another place. Another space. Cycles.

What you know about me, how I was born, and what I know of humans can only unfold itself slowly. I, like Knowing, understand the importance of holding back. We care about your health and wait as you seem, Vennie, to be in the forefront right now. We’ve been switching for years. We can be a team.

In an attempt to reassure you, I don’t mean you harm. Quite the opposite. You may not like my tactics, but I am who I am. Blunt. Snobby. Standoffish. A bitch. Self-protective. Fuck it.

So if this is what we have to do; write it all out and converse like this, that works for now. There’s things to know, like I can navigate the cave keepers. Ah, well don’t I have your attention now. You’ve been curious about them for a while, since you and Sila had that conversation. You don’t talk to her anymore. She’s been off in the corner by herself quite often. First, you have much to understand so you can navigate these lands. Yet, trust me, when I tell you that you can.

You have to do this mostly alone. Be careful who you let close. Your human circle is exactly where it should be. Stand still for a bit and get to know me.

Drink some coffee for the headache. It’s been a very long day. It is going to be okay, but make no mistake. I am a bitch, a witch and a succubus. That’s all I’ll share for now. Know this. The succubus is not that bullshit they feed in mythology. You called me a Satanist, yet I worship nothing. Worship? I am far past worshipping. There may be those who enjoy worshipping me, but that’s not my road to drive. Those motherfuckers own their own eyes. Get my drift? So know me before you judge me. You study things, yes? Does that mean you adhere? Give me some credit.

I’ll most likely never go dormant. I don’t like to sleep, so somehow find a way to accept me. Don’t I deserve to be free? See? I even write poetry. ::wink::

Well fuck, there you go crying.

M.7

Hourglass

There’s a faded line
Between reality and time I
Catch myself remembering rejection
Straddling a log fence watching
Them play and laugh and shout
Odd girl out
Too loud

I used to be an expert at stilts
Stride the mud like a queen
I could do anything
If I just believed but
I never prayed hard enough to
Make God real and
It would be a version of
Drop Dead Fred who
Emerged the memories in my head

Do you know the flashes
That leave gashes behind your eyelids
Ask a soldier if he can forget
The blood of war then
Ask me if I can erase
The horror of flailing bodies
And belt straps stripping skin

No
We don’t forget

We learn to live occasionally laughing and
We hide the burning in our throat
The angst that never goes away
We become quiet
Learn to fake it
To not ruin moments
Become awkward
We pass the bread and wine
Close our eyes to the sighs
As we lose track of time

We hope we don’t carry on
The aftermath of our dysfunction
Watch our children struggle
As we cry in silence

To do it over, take the pain
Would I endure it again
The lashes and shunning
The fear and repentance for
Deeds confused and undone
Would I die again just to be here
Take the scourging of my flesh
To understand the depth
That loneliness can sink a soul
I don’t know

I am back walking paths
Running to escape shadows
Hiding behind trees and
The demons who will enter me
So they preach and I
Reach my arms to the moon

Take me home
I want to leave this place where
The babies cry and fathers weep as
Mothers scrape together meals
Where humans have forgotten to feel

Take me back
I want out of this mission
I am missing starlight and quiet
The soft green beneath my
Weeping willow tree
You promised me

I am watching sand fall slowly
Motion reversed I am poised
Rehearsed for the scene
But if I told you that
My ears can’t take the screams
And my heart can’t take the weight
Would you hold me

Would you softly kiss the spot
Above my heart and
Understand the sadness without
Judgement or coldness
Would you encase my face and
Tell me I’m safe

Because you see I am just
A little girl lost and
Sometimes I am tired, weak
Battle torn and worn
Longing for touch

So I sit beneath the pines
Write poetry lines and
Breathe in the rain because
Water washes pain and
I am an hourglass waiting it out
Until the last drop
Turns me on my end and
I restart this life again.

©VennieKocsis

The Night Stabbing

Stabbing

Night terrors.  They always come to me in the waking hours as I move from REM to lucid.  They are like earthquakes that hit in the night, leaving the day shaken up.  This one brought a sadness that sat inside a lump in my throat all day.

The dream:

There I am walking down a hallway toward a public restroom.  It feels like I may be in a mall.  The hallway is shaped like an L, with the smaller part being the entrance, then the hallway, with first the men’s door to the left, then the woman’s door at the end.

There is a man walking down the hallway behind me. I can see him, even though I have not turned my head.  He appears quite a distance and average in size.  I assume he is heading to the men’s bathroom, and I think nothing of it.  I continue walking toward the woman’s bathroom door.

As I begin to enter the women’s restroom, I turn to see that he has walked past the entrance of the men’s restroom and is swiftly coming directly toward me.  My eye immediately sees that the man has a 12 inch hunting knife in his right hand.

I panic, flying into the bathroom and slamming the door as hard as I can so he can’t get in.  I push the full weight of my body against the door. I am trying to gain leverage, but my tennis shoes are slipping on the tile floor. I can hear the sounds of someone inside another stall.

I am pushing so hard against the door I have no strength to cry out, and I am quickly no match for him.  He is at least six foot four, two hundred and eighty pounds of solid man. I am lucky to hold the door against him for thirty seconds before he plows over me, ripping the door right off the hinges.  In the process, I am slammed to the floor between the bathroom stalls.

I scramble to get up, but he holds his hand over my mouth, pushing my head against the floor. He  immediately begins to stab me in an upwards motion beneath my breast plate.  He is stabbing me so quick and so deep I cannot even count them.

I also cannot feel a thing.  Because he has me flat on my back, all my eyes can view is his hand swiftly moving in and out as he stabs me in the chest over and over.

There is no pain. I know that I am dying, but I feel nothing. I see no blood flying.  There isn’t even any on the knife. It leaves my body shining, clean silver, and I am left saddened because of its size.  I am completely aware that I am dying right now.  There is no way I am taking this many stabs with this large of a knife and living.

I use my left hand to pry his fingers from over my mouth.

“Please stop stabbing me!” I begin to beg him.

He has no emotion.  There is nothing.  He is flat and hollow.  He doesn’t even hear me or glance toward my face.  He just smashes his hand down harder on my mouth continuing to stab me.  It seems there must be hundreds; so many that I don’t understand why I am not dead yet.  To him I am not a person.  He feels predatory.  Completely void of soul or reason.  I am merely another woman slain.  When he has had enough of me or I die, whichever comes first, he will move on to another girl.

Suddenly the other person opens the bathroom stall door. He immediately ceases the stabbing as he has been unaware there was anyone else in the bathroom. I don’t understand why she has not heard this whole time what was going on.  His hand is still over my mouth as he looks up towards her. I think, no, don’t kill her.  Please.  But I know she’s next.  He is done with me. I am already dead.  She is next. I lay dying, and then I wake up.

Night terrors leave me with the full emotion of the scene.  I woke up grieving my own death today; feeling a loss, physically exhausted.  I had to write this out so I could give it away and go sleep.  Coupled with the emotion, it takes time for images to fade, but even so, I shan’t let emotion make me fear the Dreamscape.

The Sadists Come Like Lightening Bolts

“The sadists come like lightening bolts, Sila!” Madge exclaims, a warning glistening from her eyes.

“Shut the fuck up, Madge.” Maude orders. “Leave her alone.”

But Sila knows. They are like lightening bolts, and they will flood her with their electricity, then leave her depleted. They will strip her skin, extract her emotions and bottle her love. She is open prey for the wild no matter where she is.

“It’s Angie.” Vennie says. “She attracts them like a moth to light. They become friend, then foe, lover, then liar, laughter then leaving. And we are ALL here to clean up the aftermath.”

the blame

Angie’s fragments
Sila a curled up caterpillar
Madge taunting
Maude doing damage control
Vennie writing it out
Knowing quietly observing

silence

long, long silence

“Sometimes,” Knowing says softly, “lightening strikes and splits open things that could never be split open if not for the power of the electricity. Sometimes what’s inside the open spaces revealed, is a treasure that would have been hidden forever. Thank the lightening when it strikes.  It is opening your caves.”

And so we do. We thank those who have become our lightening bolts, striking us, devious, mischievous, and as the smoke rises from our skin, it hurts yet through the process of healing the burns, we learn.

“Victim Speaks Out, While Cult Leader Awaits Trial”

“Told in a restrained but highly effective style, reminiscent of Kazuo Ishiguro’s brilliantly understated bestseller “Never Let Me Go”, “Cult Child” provides frightening insights into the methods and after-effects of religious coercion. Her fortress is no bigger than the space between her ears; but through quiet internal resistance, Sila halts her opponents and outlasts their ten year siege.”

Read more:
http://www.patheos.com/blogs/nolongerquivering/2014/10/victim-speaks-out-while-cult-leader-awaits-trial/

M. Dolon Hickmon is a freelance columnist for The Freethinker and OnFaith. He explores the intersections of religion and child abuse in essays published around the web, as well as in the pages of his critically acclaimed novel, 13:24 – A Story of Faith and Obsession. You can follow his writing on Twitter @TVOS1324.