23 February 2010
Repeating Circles

I find I am repeating circles again. Before time was like a spiral, stepping in and out of the timeline like a song, looking back fondly. But no, I’ve been here before, and it was not from stepping sideways. Ripples, bubbles in the timeline. Kisses on the stars and goat eyes staring back. Gold and reds painting a sky before me.

Its hard to breathe in the sky between skies, the time between times. I find myself foregoing breath, taking to the water instead. Gills open up, and I stare out beyond the killing room, beyond the patterns, and breathing in this beautiful thing called the dark.

You are whispers in the open sky
You are hope writ upon clay tablets
You are unbaked, unpreserved
You can rot and mold and die

I see him before me. Heavy hooves shake the plane, gold slitted eyes stare back. He smirks, and strides ahead through the mud.

There the offering. There the blood and pain. There my hope set aside and orders fall from another time, another circle, onto my tongue. I am an operator of a heavy machine. Somewhere the echo of an author who claims not to be a vessel… better to work, than to be minted.

I bend my back before him. He looks at the feast before him. Bugs. Bugs beneath his hoof.

Flies swarm and I can taste his cum in the air, her firm breasts standing erect against the ravages of time and denial.

I can flip between them, these two goat-legged ones. One stands over a cube, lady of the north, children of a thousand hungry mouths. Her tits are weaned dry, wrinkled and in pain. She glows green. He on the other hand is erect, timeless and timely. He is both genders, he lives in human heartbeats and breaths. He is here, now, on this earth. She waits in the cave, for those who seek her wisdom.

Pause. I feel a claw on my shoulder and know with a smile the rage of the open sand planes. The laughter rakes through me, and I know I still have work here. I rot and yet this meat still has work. So much work. Perfect work, beautiful Work, no matter where I might flee from it.

Somewhere Mama’s message echoes back. Gender transition? Doesn’t matter, get on with it, get it out of the way, get back to the Work. I open up my eyes and it is writ there upon my pelt. Job change? Doesn’t matter, get on with it, get it out of the way, get back to the Work. Wherever I go the Work will be there, for me to do. I pull at the collar, go back to being comfortably owned after my tantrum.

I am the perfect beast for this labor.

In my imperfections I am beautifully carved for needs done, now, by those who use me. Mama leases me out, jobs need done, and I am not a Delorian as was proposed earlier today. I am not a rare show-car. I am a high powered work machine, even if my oil needs changed more often than most. I will bear the work, for it is what needs done.

It seems cartoonish. All the concerns. The gold paint on white. The tears and hallway screams. Its just another adjustment. Life is full of one more adjustments. And with each one, I fill another role. I twist and contort, I grow to match the wrinkles and gray I was meant for. I age into me, mature into the work, pick up another file and go. Energetic social worker, awe inspiring wonder maker, medicine man for a strange and curious tribe.

Between human and lover I find this thing called me, and he is a beauty. He can do this work.

Even in repeating circles, I pick up the thing left behind from last time, try again. Run the level one more time, this time with precision to notice what was not noticed before. Do it better. Do it again. Better does not mean the highest score. It is a prayer to do the Work as the work needs done. And sometimes it needs done in pain and fetid suffering. Sometimes we learn and acquire and grow and become able to understand by stepping sideways. Step sideways, peer back in.

A whole world becomes a flat surface, two dimensions become aware of three. I dream of four, of six, of a coiling serpent that laps up the heart of love and becomes manifest within me.