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And
it happened here at Bodnath where every conceivable kind of
psychic boundary was created with every known and possible shade
of darkness, and you know, it was just this enormous mind flush,
and Dilgo was obsessed with these stellar crabs, and I thought,
could this be a message from sunken Atlantis? And I could smell
rich Japanese incense and Dilgo was shaking his piggy bank.
So was Atlantis flipping its wings in the cold wind now? Dilgo
said, "It's just you and I now
." and this was
the OFFERING of offerings because if enough synchronicities
just converged then you finally got your miracle.
And
I was now finally back at the gates of Swyambunath, and it was
just like Constantinople in those old days, the psychic stress
and the constant flipping circulating within these shifting
winds, and this was all just this big global showcase with these
silent prying eyes seeing the diminishing returns of our industrial
age, seeing how these Christians and Angra Manyu were just tripping
out on these Persian conspiracies and not just in Mugabian Zimbabwe,
but in ancient Memphis too. And I could see these Buddhist pyramids,
I could see all history, I could hear Sylvia Plath, and the
insane music of those MTV priests was now blaring away, and
these pigeons whispered to me some ancient Tibetan chants, and
I could hear the Rabbi's sweet voice and the shouts of those
Shiites, and also all of the billions of baby boomers and those
X-generation kids, now spaced out and locked in; and there was
a sound-track for everything in this post-Cold War world now
caught in the middle of a vicious struggle between this scary
cultural fragmentation and this impending global unity.
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And
this earthly film had these stunningly weird flash-backs, and
it could sometimes flash-forward, and it could spin out all
kinds of twilight episodes filled with their atmospheric turbulence.
It was just like an intense e.e. cummings poem, filled with
these immense cyclones; and strange tribal histories with their
contracting space-time, all which could then be seen in these
mean streets of Kathmandu, here in the swirling Third Vortex
and in this thirsty sacrificial pit with its dust and black
fire; where I could see the gangster priests killing these chickens;
and there were also now rose petals strewn on the sacrificial
floor.
You
see, Swyambu was just this little universe, and it had this
strange magic, it was filled with all these leisurely beings
and with all these fucked up karmas; and it was just this mercurial
border zone where all psychic powers just got absorbed, and
it was this keen and intelligent place that attracted magicians
and witches; and all kinds of monks and nuns, and it was just
a superb place indeed for all these strong mind practices; and
for all these yabyums and big mama consorts; and for all kinds
of demons and spirits just tripped out and bugged down.
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And
you know, Swyambu was this huge recycling zone for the mind
wind coming now from just every conceivable kind of realm, and
Mahakala said if you operate on this stupa, well then you now
operate on the entire Universe, and it was great to see Chimyi
again, and she was fully grown up now; and you see, we were
just friends simply enjoying our new voyages into this global
Third Eye; and even as the mind-flip was furiously surging with
these demons and with all these flipped out animals; and inside
all these cruel and subtle spaces, and also circulating near
these cruel stingy kids, and the hungry ghosts, and the nasty
demons who were just looking for any kind of stillness here
in Swyambu. Where the veil freaks were now being challenged
by the emerging global mind with all its potential light.
And
this was my offering to the fluttering dakinis and to Cambodia
and to this sinister clash of shady veils and to the victims
of all the blown-up holocausts; and the silent camps somewhere
on the surface of the moon; and to all those flapping nukes
and the disappearing Kabbalists; and also those drunk Christians
and all those crusty smoky Tibetans; and for every gulag shining
under the sun; and also those feverish Hiroshimas and all the
cancerous Auschwitzes; and every bloody Bosnia; and to all the
boys trying to sell you a shoe-shine on the filthy streets of
Kathmandu.
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So
listen now, it's these psychic twinkles from Mohenjodaro, and
those chods for the tantric sweethearts; and these greasy koras
done in the freezing morning; and you know, it's just spiritual
oxygen, and it's this releasing drink from East Germany, and
this feverish thing called the World Wide Web, and Bhutan is
getting nearer now with it's fucking bureaucracy; and it's just
really getting on my nerves after all these dumb faxes and these
idiotic phone calls, it's just a real drag. You know, there
was just no way to e-mail anybody in Bhutan; and the Buddhas
were just everywhere in the ancient squares and inside the smoggy
air; and they were even waiting for their breakfasts at the
Pumpernickel Hotel. It was this journey through clashing psychic
fields which simply hinted of this urgent need for the quick
surrender of some personal boundaries.
And
I saw this half-dried blood squeezed into the streets and the
dingy fires, and the whistling smoke; and those babes in heat
stirring the pots at wicked Dakshinkali. And yeah, really this
was the hopeless Himalyan vortex with Vajrayogini and Shakyamuni
just living here in this big psychic reactor; and it was just
fact and simply no more.
And
finally, Namgyal called, and he told me that the new visa was
ready, but the flight to Bhutan was cancelled for one more night
as I took this badly needed bath at the airport hotel. While
these stiffs continued to burn slowly at the cold ghats near
Pashupatinath.
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LEXICON
Read
this part in other languages:
German
--French
-- Russian
--
Portuguese
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contents of this site © Finberg Books 2000-2004 by Michael Arthur
Finberg
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