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About Loss

This is a story about loss. When something is lost, does that mean that you, the seeker, can no longer find the object, state or entity that you seek? Or does it mean that that thing which we are discussing does not know where it is?

I had a friend who lost her job. She woke up one morning and couldn't find it.

These things happen. She had spent too much time at the local pub drinking. This combined with the fact that she entered her bathroom at least seven times a day, peeled the cover off the air vent and lit up a big glass bong stoked with hash. In the end, she awoke one morning and didn?t know who she was, or where she was, or why she should be here rather than anywhere else. She could not remember were she worked. She could not remember that she had ever worked. She picked up a tennis racket that was lying nearby and, after I watched her make love to it, I explained that that was not what it was for and gave her a couple of furry green balls. She started licking these, but I stopped her and took her to a tennis court and that is where she is today, running back and forth across the court swinging at balls with strangers that come in with neat little tubes filled with more brilliant green balls to play with. I check in with her now and again, but for the most part, she is lost to me, I can?t get through to her. We used to have long conversation, conversations on the topic of death, on dying, on U.F.Os and Jesus and the disappearance of "los toltecas." It was my opinion that neither Jesus nor "los toltecas" had ever walked the earth, but she would shake her head and say,

"Y si la vida te pisa, desvaina una sonrisa y vuelvete a levantar."

Despite my own critical objections, I spent much of my time outside of the midget closet wondering about both Jesus and los toltecas. I had once known an old man that told stories. He had insisted that he himself was a Toltec, one of the last of his kind, a survivor, searching for his lost brethren like the unicorn whose voice was supplied by Mia Farrow had searched for her own milky white sisters. He maintained that the toltecs had gone "underground", into hiding. It was their culture and not their race which made them toltecs, and when a more aggressive culture swept the land with the force of a violent viral infection, the toltec culture simply slipped into the shadows to hide, to get along until a better time emerged, a time where the culture of death would have exhausted itself in its bloody rage and be ready to sleep for another 1000 years or so.

These stories of the culturas prehispanicas were mostly lost on me. That is to say that they crawled all over my white flesh looking for a way inside and lost their compass and settled in the valley between my breasts and multiplied in the warmth and wetness of my bosom, birthing a whole new generation of stories, tales which twisted and turned like that of a grinning cat.

How could the last Toltec revive his culture without exposing it to the possibility of mutation? No, there was no way. Evolution itself is a form of mutation.

These stories that I spin now out of the wiggly spaghetti that we call the crown of Metus, (when I say "we", I mean those of us of the culturas post hispanicas, the gringos who have been given secrets by lonely old men and women of naual who had no one better to tell their stories to) are a new strain built upon the old foundation. They are the bastard children of a hidden teaching, the type of bastards that return to the kingdom someday to say that the King was their father and they are prepared to take his place upon the throne. The good King will embrace his son and take him into his heart and say:

"That which I was is no more, that which I am lives in you." And he will lay himself gently upon the pyre and wait for the flames to turn his flesh to ash so that he may join his fathers in the halls of the glorious. Then the maidens will sing the old song, the song that says,

"Y si la vida te pisa, desvaina una sonrisa y vuelvete a levantar."

This is it, all that I have to give, all that I can share, an orphan of the storm. The foundation laid by the tequihua has succumbed to the vines of the tangled jungles within my heart. Zu birds fly with flaming wings among the branches of new trees in which shimmering demonesses crouch, waiting for the boy and the girl who will surely come down the path. The girl will say,

"Hansel, I?m afraid that we are lost."

"Don't worry Gretel, I have left a trail made from the powdered bones of our ancestors so that we will be able to see where we came from— but we will never go back, only forward. That star you see on the horizon is our destination. That is our Kingdom, but first, we must go and create it. For that is what we are."

 

Manticore
The Manticore is a creature of legend. With the head of a man, the body of a lion, and the tail of a dragon it is by nature an eater of humanity. This being is and has ever been composed of three parts; the face of a man, the most superficial aspect, the mortal component within this trinity, the body of the lion, the regal and fierce protector, and the dragon, most ancient and undying, These three beings work in conjunction with each other part to bridge the gap between the temporary and the eternal so that the blood of life may flow freely from one dimension to the next. Manticore is three and Manticore is one. Manticore may speak to you, may sing to you, may show you visions, or do all three. These things it will do are done for the sake of doing. It does not consider what effect it may cause. Manticore will open a way for you if you are prepared to take the way it makes.
www.maddogmagick.com

The Tequihua Foundation  www.tequihuafoundation.org/articles/spirituality/aboutloss.html