cosmic rapture: view from a shit-stained boulder

Lost with feet burnt black, the Seeker wondered the endless desert thirst-maddened and flyblown. Tongue grotesquely swollen he climbed the highest mountain. Eyes horribly bulging, he swam the deepest sea. Aeons spent he searching this and other worlds, seeking personal identity ...seeking the transcendent …seeking completion …seeking that which cannot be named, cannot be expressed.

Lost, the Seeker sought.

At the top of the highest mountain, at the bottom of the deepest sea, out of time in no time found he, observed he, encountered he an elderly Guru, of indeterminate gender, gnarled and nut-brown, perched cross-legged upon a shit-stained boulder, the smell of an oily rag emanating from zir ambiguous loins. Jubilation rose within the Seeker’s heart. Humbly on chafed knees approached he the nut-brown. Then eyes downcast spake he demurely saying:

“Oh wise one, wizened with wizdom thou art, may thy blessings outnumber the very stars themselves. This nameless and revolting one...” quoth the Seeker, indicating himself, “abases himself before thy glory, asking for naught but that thee hearken to this humble Seeker begging to know how one unworthy even to suck the smegma from thy holy lingam, how such a rank and foul impurity might sully the righteousness of thine presence, and re-emerge, answered and yet invalidated, in the hithertude of transgression?”

Thus enquireth the Seeker of the creased and marbled mastress, the garrulous Guru, the sun-baked samurai of truth, of whom I told you previously.

“Oh get a life!” responded the Guru querulously, “How can I answer you when your words throttle the very meaning of life itself? See what you made me do! All I can tell you is that consciousness is the deepest, darkest, most secure prison. The Self it is from whence no escape is possible, nor yet permissible, let alone conceivable.

“Soul stands back aloof while Body slowly crumbles and decays. Particle by particle, the magic winks out: one moment glittering and alive, the next dull and devoid of spark, unquickened as an extinct and rotting dodo. Mind is wreathed in miasma. Wreaths are mired in my asthma,” quoth the Guru.

“Sorry for asking,” spake the Seeker unto the gnarled one, then turning on his heels ran down the highest mountain screaming. Then he dived into the deepest sea sobbing. Then he wondered the endless desert moaning.

“The nut-brown Guru watched his departure with a twinkling eye. “You’ll be back,” ze said to no-one in particular and then died.

continued under the "barbarians" label...

refresh / home