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“Courageously dive into the difference between ‘soul’ & ‘spirit’. Explore infinite manifestations of ‘small self’. Face your higher-rebellion. Consider the relation of time & language. Begin the journey of how ‘sound’ creates ‘light’. Dip your toe into how creation really operates. Learn about confusion, and how it’s used to separate small ‘you’ from the higher-self. ”
“Just what does the bathroom stall represent?”
“The proper way to ‘spell’ “intersecting” is ‘inter-sex-ting. All crosses create when they inter’sex’t’. Hmm... could it be that language is suggesting something you haven’t questioned?”
“Have you started to put together how sound creates light?”
EXPENDABLE CUCARACHA?
Alice was waiting for the ladies’ room when I passed. The men’s room was vacant, and this was obvious when I opened the door. In stampeded Alice, saying, “Excuse me, asshole!”
She charged the filthy stall, ignoring the overflowing toilet. I slogged in after, but seconds after I got to the urinal, I was interrupted.
“At one time I was like you Xavier, a dipshit admiring my ugly reflection, before plumbing gurgled filth, before your home floated on currents.”
The toilet flushed, she yelled, “Hey dummy! Unfamiliar experiences are easy to recognize if you’ve dropped toilet paper to find your way. Like Tonsil and fuckin’ Gretchen.”
Amidst the swirling, Alice continued, saying, “Get me? I’ll always scrawl obscenities on the stall. And you’re in here with me - you just don’t know it.Whether in bars or shit hole trailers; stalls are perfect places to spend your life.And they say ‘nothing lasts forever.’ Does it now?”
The stuttering lights jarred my brain. Then, without warning, I slipped. My feet lifted from the linoleum as my head slammed the floor. A chill climbed my spine as I pried myself up. I stood vegetative until there was a strange movement within the mirrors reflection. It was reflecting the mirror directly behind me… it looked to be a hundred reflections in a single mirror.
There, staring into one of the reflections, I saw my lips moving. The more I focused, the louder the words became, saying,"Cabrón!Before your perception created time, there has flowed a furious torrent. And each eddy… well it’s like a life, where in eons, or ions, a dream can last longer than you think. You listening son of a bitch?”
It sounded like Gustavo!
I’d no problem playing my little dream-game. With a twitching smile I asked, “Anything else?” My thoughts dripped over themselves when I heard a different voice, from a different reflection.
“The ignorant ignore, fixin’ to think the threat to their dumb-ass selves might disappear.”
Then, a female voice swooped in, arguing, “I assure you fucker, I’m not your opposite.”
With quivering inflections of what sounded like Ella, a fourth voice spoke. “D… d… don’t let this wordplay deceive you huh …huh… Xavier.”
A final voice chimed in on this babbling vision and drowned out the others… that filthy Chumba was in my dreams!
Pendejo! I surpass the feeble minded, shakily balancing themselves with a crooked cane. I’ve never tried to exist, I simply am—except when it’s not in my best interest. Xavier, you know me better than you admit. Expendable cucarachas, Gods who commit suicide for a more macho purpose… these are a means. Sandstorms of helplessness insure those cabróns remain our patsies.”
Were my dreams telling me to germinate some rotten seed?
A thimble of uneasiness welled up in my throat. What could have spawned these visions?
There was another voice, very far away, whispering, “Left my spirit all alone at the railway. I stepped aboard into the caravan that day. A carnival that binds eternity to time.”
The Chumba reflection continued, “Xavier, listen. Walking with a pimp-like swagger, I swore others would travel my path. Podían todos ir al infierno.”
“Knock it off with that ghetto Spanish,” I commanded. “And my name is pronounced'X'avier, not Javier.”
“I said they all could all just go to hell. Birth needs death as much as beans need rice. I divided the burrito and my soul appeared. My pissed off voice sounded like a Mariachis trumpet. That was the word on the street. Soy era la palabra y la palabra era soy! The sound of my words vibrated with an energy that glowed in every color of Mexican hanging lanterns. That radiance was the light of the worlds I created, so all who believed my creations were solid would become sombrero wearing silhouettes. Comprende cabrón? When they heard that horn’s sweet, fucked up sound, they believed they were no longer inside the burrito. Seeing themselves as a single lonely bean, they kind of understood burrito-ness, and were confident they’d never be eaten.”
I tried to snap myself out, but like a disobedient dog, my disturbing vision locked its knees and curled its lips.
Chumba barked, “Pendejo! There’s no waking from the siesta as you dream ofcarnival rides.”
I was standing in the bathroom looking at my reflection. Yet, had the sensation I was really facedown.
Chumba continued, “We snickered like a couple of putos as we helped everyone sew one eye shut and the other one open.
I resisted his intrusion. “You’re just a dream, a piece of…”
“Ve a chuparle el peson ha un chango!”
Now that was good. I had to laugh… telling me to ‘Go suck on a monkey’s nipple!’
“Xavier! If you want to be El Chingónagain, a BaddAss like me, you must understand true rebellion is impossible to capture. Think about it…”
I didn’t want to think about anything. Instead, I felt like playing along, asking, “What? I’m not El Chingón?”
“No, Xavier. Even Mt. Iztacihuatal is easy to climb. But controlling higher Wills is very difficult. I’m speaking about a mural that paints itself over and over in ‘exciting’ shades of gray.”
Vaguely aware of the smell of the bathroom, I considered how a momentary decision just might decide all.
Chumba’s volume swelled. “Listen half-wit… although you’re a niño, we’re ancient, older than any oak and more numerous than the mesquite. Beneath our branches, thoughts birth persuasions that move worlds, play host to drooping bodies, and create fruit that falls like anvils upon awareness. So get it through your head! It’s our responsibility to slash and burn forests when they’re no longer useful, and the busy work of putting up smoke stacks that pollute reality. You don’t remember because you’re el zorrero ahora - none other than ‘the dumb ass.’ Yes, we’ve always done this for each other, in places far away, in pasts and futures. But right now, if you don’t get off your ass, you’ll soon be crying out to your scumbag compadre… that Jack guy.’”
I replied with annoyance, “For God’s sake, shut up. Hey, he’s only a bar-buddy.”
“Perhaps Xavier, but after you’ve realized you’re wrong, and you will, you’ll whine like a puta barata, a cheap whore. Bellied up to the bar you’ll bemoan to the drunkards, ‘How’s it I’m no longer able to pound a 40, crack a sucker over the head with a bottle, and walk out of the bar without handcuffs on?’ Now, because of your tolerance to cheap beer, this too is in danger.”
Outside the Tavern, intensifying rain had its way with the landscape. The sounds of the storm, along with Gil and Gamesh’s cawing, new morsels of recollection appeared.
Were they my memories?
Then, my recognition veered completely, remembering how Chumba and I convinced people to believe throwing rings around bottles was a meaningful act.
Ahh, paisano, you’re beginning to remember. Go on, what else?” Chumba prodded.
“Well, I remember screwing with the Tavern’s customers by requiring them to guess the weight of a drink by its smell, and the length of a hotdog by what it sounded like.”
Whether they were my memories or not, it was unclear, and I voiced it meekly, “Uhh… they were compelled to reach into the running garbage disposal. Smiling at the corners of their lips like clowns, mouths harvesting confusion, they inquired, ‘Is there really an outside of the carnival? How’s it a million planets don’t have their own three-headed, tentacled savior?’”
Chumba voiced his elation. “Chingón, out of all the times I’ve had to remind you of the real you, this has been the easiest. Presta atención! You must pay attention to create their world in our image!”
I’d been absorbed in the moment, separated from the fact that this wasn’t who I was. I'd forgotten I had choice. The sucking roar of a storm-drain grew louder. Pining for clarity, I demanded instruction. “How do I get those with an attraction to jumping off the Ferris wheel to take that step? How do I make sure the children never exit the funhouse?I’m just a journeyman.”
“Not a journeyman Xavier, a carny-man with many questions.”
“Like a three-year-old…” I suggested.
“No amigo, like a three-thousand-year-old! And Xavier, most are thirsty for acceptance. Let their fear keep them safe from reality and bound to intersexting crosses. You’re eager, but you need to become the Luchador you once were. Remember… just like the last season’s crickets, somehow they appear again. A season here and there, never lose, never win.”
A cucharacha... where there's one, there's many!
“How many sub-personalities and soul characters have you played?”
“In this fractal ‘carnival’, could it be Gil & Gamesh, Gustavo & Chumba are mutually arising dualities? Who are the soul entities in the mirrors’ reflections?”
“The ego, if untamed, constructs deep ‘systems of knowing’, and ‘wide landscapes of ignore-ance’ to perpetuate its tentative existence. Which systems have you began to question?”
