By Kwyn Bader
I haven’t wanted to post anything until I could find the true spot within me. The place that is the truth untethered to the surface, that cannot seek redemption by action, that connects to the eternal in the midst of climate change and remembers that “victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.”
I don’t know what it wants to say. But here goes nothing…
An orange man with all the power in the world will not define me. I have lived too long and grown too deep for that experience. This world, even with its hands groping all over me cannot violate what’s most precious in me.
At the worst of times I see love, I feel love, I am love, I prove love. It is not mediated or modulated by hatred. It can’t be bought or sold, won over or defeated, lessened or depleted. I’ve suffered the best of times, celebrated the worst of times, entered the back door when you expected me at the front, made you laugh when you wanted to kill me, convinced you I was pretending while showing myself real right in front of you.
I woke up crying yesterday because for a few short hours you made me believe you could take everything away from me. Could wipe out the legacy of my forefathers. Steal my birthright. My way of life. That because I’m created by and am a creation of the expression you want to annihilate, because I’m the living embodiment of the togetherness you won’t tolerate, because I’m the embodied potential wearing some of the medals on which you can only find photos to masturbate, because I participate in the evolution you want to obviate and want to be cared for in health you can’t tolerate … and because I know you want to take my three favorite colors back to the time before which you let someone of my lineage legitimately incarnate … I was lost to you for a moment and lost hope. My mind lied with you … “he can take my life!”
But before I could stomach it fully … or voice it properly … something bigger started talking to me, picked me up and nudged me into the city like a baby on his first steps grappling with a new wisdom that things are weird but I can make myself go … a wisdom not consistent with any empirical logic, not stabilized by any worldly evidence, not enlightened by any precedence, not needing any work or sacrifice to make itself known … only felt as a strange grace that I knew was a death that had life without being grounded.
I’m not wise or holy enough to know but maybe it’s something felt by grander beings on a cross or under a Bodhi tree. A redefinition of an old prayer beginning a new relevance … “Fear no evil because you are with me.” I didn’t know the “you” was in me! Is it telling me? No, it’s yelling at me! “Don’t believe the hype, it’s a sequel!”
Remember Potter on his way to Voldemort and the opening “at the close” … the break with the illusion … the last gasp of childhood protection before we look evil in the eye, recognize that we share its DNA and then use its energy to purify us of it in a true way of magic. Surrendering the fear of annihilation sets us free to love more, to be true, to fight back without the pretension that we need to be delicate and polite or anything other than true hearted … it’s the story we all know is true but we need it told again and again because it scares us.
My enemy isn’t that different from me. I know his feelings. Fear, wanting to control what’s outside me, needing to feel superior to something, doing everything I can to keep from having to look the truth in the eye and realize it’s not made by what my mind wants it to be. It’s got its own plans that sometime don’t seem to include me. Whenever it doesn’t go my way I might make me want to throw a temper tantrum that lasts for hundreds of years.
Something wants to kill me. It doesn’t know I’m forever. Body might go. Love won’t. Worse ones that orange have tried. Love’s still here.
But for now, I’m here. I can do good faster than you can make it wrong. Share more heart. Remake the game. Change the start time and the location before you know what we’re playing. “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. The hands can’t hit what the eyes can’t see.” Meet the hypocrisy with “hip”-ocrisy. Do what those without the machine as their tool for power have always done … invent language, make art that looks like one thing and means another, dance, slip punches, get my Phil Jackson shaman view on and see the other team’s energy and aggression can be redirected towards its defeat.
I don’t like the problems I see. I’m not that crazy about the solutions I hear either. You’ve stripped me of the illusion of comfort. And the illusion that you care. I’m free now and you’ve woken me. I’m dangerous when I know you’re coming for me. You want to be the worst thing that ever happened to me? What will happen if I make you the best – not by applauding you but by seeing you so clearly that I see you as another unfortunate version of the obstacle that leads to my apotheosis? What if I make you the thing that makes me have to transcend into the higher version of me? The one I’ve been sleeping on because I didn’t think the world needed or it mattered.
Now there’s nothing to hold back for. I’m not there quite yet, but I’m so close. It might require everything. It might require nothing. But I will get to know it. And when I live there … then … “You might win some but you just lost one.” There’s no time to lose. And big players make big shots when there’s no time on the clock. Time to get Jedi with it. I know you want all those guns so you can point them at my head. I’m not under the mis-apprehension that you won’t pull the trigger. But you can’t even see me true enough to shoot straight. When I do become someone you can see, you’ll drop the AKs. Until then, I love you. When you find you, you’ll see that.
For now, it’s you against me.
Me against illusion.
Apparently, my heart samples.
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