From the Horse's Mouth

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Posted in babalon, goddess, scarlet woman, shakti by theskinhorse on July 29, 2011

Here’s what we have learned thus far:

Avatars of Babalon will mark men; that’s just how that works. Sex: a binding ritual, a shared condition or the attachment to the Goddess. Love: a contractual agreement, forever that elusive fantasy or a broken heart. Chaos and Transformation: the turning of worlds, battle wounds or a change of assets. If one is not marked by any of these, then he shall be with Fire.

She is not one to be forgotten or cast off. The Scarlet Woman’s sensory hooks are tenacious.

 

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View from the Ocean

Posted in Dreams, goddess, Visions by theskinhorse on July 3, 2011

Delivered to one of my more natural psychological states (buoyantly floating under the indigo expanse), I found myself again in the graces of the Goddesses. My vision of the world around me rolled with the gentle waves that cradled the nondescript vessel that held my body. Countless sparkling guides wove myths into my hair as I witnessed their life paths as stardust strewn across Nuit’s naked canvas. I was far from alone in my reflective solitude.

My diamond-rope hair jingled as I sat erect. Salty floral notes stuck to my face from Nuit’s warm sighs. The bubble in which I traveled was clear though still enchanted. The distant shore, on the other hand, was dressed in a tenacious haze. I heard the music faintly on the breeze, more of a distortion to my ears than pleasant vibes. Two circular objects overlapped in the Western sky: a ghostly Ferris Wheel and the “Nightly Sun.” Free-swinging carts moved mechanically, stopping and starting independently of the riders’ Wills. The bottom half of the Wheel seemed to disappear into the haze around it. In front of this apparition hung “the Sun” of the Night. Rarely seen, it is a circular image, an optical illusion, comprised of two disjointed, curved lines of precise, searing blue that cut through the sky like unapologetic lasers. There is no center or substance between these lines; it is an image created solely from the outline. These two images, of the Ferris Wheel spectre and the blue-beamed illusory Night Sun, co-localized within the haze of which I was no part, close to the shore to which I was not venturing. I watched the machine Wheel move slowly through the Sun’s absent core for several moments before turning back to my preferred view of the sky: a beautiful wash of indigo and violet dusted with shimmering Dakinis.

Calls

Posted in 1, babalon, goddess, scarlet woman, shakti by theskinhorse on November 29, 2010

Cattleman Whores

Reattach Men Slow

Ancestral Wet Ohm

Settle A Charm Now

Sacrament The Owl

A Castle, Then Worm

Who Melts A Trance

Castrate Men Howl

Watchman, Else Rot

Canal Meets Worth

A Worm, Then Castle

Mothers Wet Canal

Two Carnal Themes

Mew A Harlot Scent

Wham A Recent Slot

A Camel When Trots

Transact Whole Me

Her Canal Most Wet

Won Carat Helmets

Cow Letter Shaman

A Rematch Lest Own

Worth A Male Scent

A Mental Hot Screw

Lets A Wretch Moan

Whet A Smart Clone

Saw A Trench Motel

The New Rascal Tom

Attach, Else Mr Now

He Met Worst Canal

Carnal, She Met Two

A Hot Welt; Men Scar

Cast Her A New Molt

 

 

 

 

Time Travelers: the Gray Man and the Black-haired Woman (of thousand more faces)

Posted in Dreams, Visions by theskinhorse on October 25, 2010

First, your soundtrack:

My brothers and I arrived at the park about two hours before sunset. The vehicle that delivered us was a strange mix of a hippie van and a school bus. It felt like we were returning from a field trip or sporting event, yet we were dressed in suits and professional duds. We were all itching to get in some exercise at the park before sunset, maybe run a couple trails and do the circuit work-outs. All of us changed as quickly as possible at different ends of the van/bus. Some little fleshy dragons that could be mistaken for insects if one didn’t look closely enough kept flying in the window near me. They were cute and distracting, but they quickly became annoying as they insisted on buzzing around my head or landing on me. Some of them would bite or spit fire so I shooed them out the window several times. Once they were all out, I closed and locked the back window. Peering out, I saw our driver for the first time.

He was a small, thin, pale man, dressed in grays and blacks. A baseball cap covered his bald head, and the chains hanging from his wallet jangled as he walked. He looked at me through the smoke escaping his mouth with other-worldly, luminescent, steel-gray eyes. Storm clouds rolled in him and imps sought to escape his skin. Before becoming too transfixed, my brothers called for me to finish getting ready. I nodded and put on my sneakers. As I was tying them, the driver walked over to the front of the van/bus, a fresh cigarette hanging from his mouth. He began to bullshit with my brothers. As he talked with them, the sky changed rapidly. The sun quickly dropped closer to the horizon. The driver made eye contact with me before walking outside again. The numbers on the clock had jumped 30 minutes in their three-minute conversation.

My brothers shook their heads, as if they had water in their ears that they were trying to dislodge. I made my way to the front of the bus. A Brief History of Time, constellation maps and the Beastie Boys’ album Intergalactic were sprawled out on the floor of the van/bus by his seat. I rose my head to see the driver outside smiling as he crushed his cigarette under his foot. As quick as he was to light another, he seemed to jump out of my view.

The weirdness was apparent to me, but I filed the feelings away for now, deciding not to act. I still didn’t know what this encounter meant really.

“Are we doing this or what?” I called to my brothers. “It’s getting late fast.”

They stopped fiddling with their ears, and we all emptied out of the bus to run among the trees and ponds, toward the setting sun.

Cut

I’m in a house. But who am I in this house? Am I the cyberpunk woman with white hair and blue lips, dressed in a black and purple gown? Am I the little girl standing in the upstairs hall in a party dress, with my black hair done up in ribbons and barrettes? Or am I the hired help, somewhere in between these two females, that is supposed to be getting everything in order for the wedding? I think I’m the hired help: the 20/30-something woman in the crisp, white, button-down; the simple, black pencil skirt; and brown hair pulled so tight in a ponytail that my eyes always look like they’re slightly watering.

What am I doing? …besides not being productive and holding things up currently. My boss, a domineering matriarch with permanent frown lines and etched, sinister eyebrows, barks orders at me from the bottom of the staircase. What am I doing up here? Isn’t everyone dressed already?

Oh… OK, now I know what to do.

The little girl is not ready. She has no tights and no shoes, and she is starting to pick the rhinestone barrettes out of her hair. I take her hands.

“You mustn’t play with them right now.”

“But they hurt.”

“Oh,” I make a frowny face as I kneel down to talk to her. “I know it hurts. Barrettes suck. But you only need to wear them for a little while. After the ceremony, you can take them out. OK?”

She rubs her eyes and nods. “If it makes you fell any better, my ponytail hurts like a bitch.” She looks at me.  “Uh… don’t tell the other adults I said that. OK?” She nods. “Great. Now, we need to get you in tights and shoes.” We go into her room.

As this is going on, the cyberpunk bride is arranging her “veil:” a silver headdress that extends over her head like horns and below her chin like tusks. Blinking lights frame her face. For some reason, she stays on the stairs while others prep her and workers try to squeeze by her to move from the top levels to the bottom ones. She seems cold and distant, almost dead underneath her impatient and dissatisfied exterior. She looks at her pointy, black nails or the glass, spherical chandeliers above her. A young man, who I soon identify as the groom, comes into view at the bottom of the stairs. His attire matches hers: black and purple with silver accents. His hair is wind-whipped; the black and white colors make it look like an electrified skunk has latched onto his head. He is shouting to the bride about something. I’m not sure what the argument is about, but he is certainly less than pleasant to her and she is certainly less than happy about or attentive to what is going on.

As his voice escalates, the girl, now sitting on the bed in her white tights and patent leather shoes, begins to cry. I don’t ask, but she answers.

“He always so mean to her. I hate him.”

I am guessing that the bride is probably her sister or half-sister. The bride is too young to be this girl’s mother, and the relationship seems too intense for it to be niece-aunt or cousins. As I am doing my assuming, the girl becomes very still, as if she is listening to me.

She changes. As she dries her eyes, I see that they have grown older and changed color. The muscles in her face tighten and she assumes a new persona. Her voice is that of a grown woman… or rather, female cyborg.

“I am Out of Time,” she says to me, plainly. We both pause. She flickers back into the little girl. “I don’t want to be here, like this.” She begins to cry again.

I try to handle the situation. So I start the only place I really can.

“OK. OK.” I lay my hands in the air. She flickers back to the lady cyborg; her mannerisms and demeanor show me who she is moment to moment. I ask her: “What Time are you in?”

“Many. I live several lives simultaneously.”

“Which lives?”

“Some I don’t know. Sometimes I cannot control where I go; I just pop in. I don’t know how many lives I am living exactly, right ‘now,’ but I do know that she’s me and she’s trapped.” She flickers and cries. Instantly, another young girl that looks almost exactly like her, except with blonde hair, appears behind her.

“Who’s trapped? Who’s ‘she?'”

Two, three, four more girls, all very similar, but slightly different, pop into existence.

Flicker. The voice is now a blend between the adult cyborg and the little girl. “The bride. Out there. She’s me. I’m her. She just doesn’t remember. He made her forget.” The crying of the girl with black hair begins to reverberate all around in the room. The other young girls look around with dry eyes. Many look focused on a task, or at least, are driven by strong feelings. They begin to talk in unison about numbers and counting and manifestation. I cannot make sense of it all.

I hear glass break outside. The chandeliers, they fell from the ceiling. Broken glass is strewn all over the upstairs hallways and down the staircase. The bride is nowhere to be found.

The young girls rise together and exit their bedroom. These mirror images begin to oscillate between one and many incarnations. When the girls come together as one, the image is of a young adult woman with black hair and violet eyes. She wears an oversized men’s button-down shirt. Her legs are bare and milky white. She wears no shoes and rolls her feet slowly from heel to toe.

Parents, relatives, the bridal party and guests all tell her to stay put, not to move. “There’s broken glass everywhere; you’ll slice up your feet.”

“I am aware,” she says as she walks forward without flinching or avoiding the glass. “You seem not to appreciate how much I do not want this. I will show you that I’d rather walk through broken glass (this broken Reality) than be a part of it.”

And she walks slowly and purposefully, never wincing or crying. In the windows and mirrors she passes by, all can see images of a thousand incarnations that she is, including the little girls and the cyberpunk bride, including tribal warriors and circus performers, including war machines and hummingbirds. The hallways are long, but she continues. Though glass embeds itself in her skin, she does not bleed on the forest-green carpet.

Cut.

The Crab Goddess and Moon Rock

Posted in Dreams, Visions by theskinhorse on October 19, 2010

From some time ago:

 

Skin: it started with nothing much, me and some female relatives of mine were flying above storm clouds after being on a rollercoaster. I had a balloon with me and it was very important that I kept the balloon with me. it was green or blue

 

11–>2: mhm

 

Skin: so apparently I had been to another planet for a visit. (I couldn’t remember where) but my mom seemed jealous that I got to go and she didn’t (but I was supposed to go alone)

and it turned out that the Moon wanted her to go there

but we could come too…

so my mom, me and the rest of my fam and some others (X and perhaps you or friends from here, details are fuzzy) went

 

11–>2: !!

 

Skin: we stayed in a hotel since they only had shelter catered to visitors there. We stayed in separate rooms, so I was in a room with X and my bros were in another and my parents together in another, etc. they were all relatively close by

the rooms were all orange and looked like very angular decorations

even the beds and sheets were orange

my dad was muttering about how he didn’t believe it was the moon since he found no “real” moon rock

he was going around breaking things looking for it

he cut open the mattress to look for remnants of moon rock.

oddly enough, after tearing the mattress apart, he found a very thin sheet of moon rock inside each

When I was in my room, alone with X, I saw a doll.

she was bigger than a Barbie, but proportioned like one, with ridiculous boobs, etc. Her skin was yellow and she was dressed pretty whorish

there was a story that went with her (like in an illustrated book). The details seemed strange, but basically it pointed to her being a whore or not to be respected etc

I had been playing with the doll, giving her a voice and walking her around

I guess I had disrespected her some way

she came more alive and grew larger, so she was about the height of my leg. she looked cartoon-like. she was in a green or blue dress

I made amends with her, apologizing for disrespecting her and not heeding the small truths in the story

she only talked to me

she told me the full story

apparently she was bound to the moon, against her will

she had loved or been with a powerful man and something happened (?) so that he became creul and vengeful

he didn’t like her true form, which was part crab…

(she had small crab legs attached to the back of her but no claws)

he had bound her to the moon and removed her claws painfully

she never used them to hurt anyone, but she did threaten some with them in the past

he had changed the story into the one in the book

and it seems that her time there was very sad and she was alone, a prisoner on a planet with no one but visitors, under a creul patriarchy

and that was pretty much the end

she seemed to have a way with cats. they stuck close by to her

 

11–>2: Lunar supernal feminine figure, idolized in a doll that comes to life, portraying physical ties to the first creatures of the sea to crawl onto land, villified as a whore and held prisoner in a lonely alien shell

was she “hot” or “cold” if you gave her energy a temperature

 

Skin: hot as the doll, cold as the crab-goddess

 

11–>2: I ask because Shakti, as a popularly seen form of BABALON imho, is typically hot and seen as needing to be controlled

 

Skin: indeed, I could see her in the past as being hot

and that form being solidified/trapped in the doll

 

11–>2: i think this dream is important and you should record it

 

Met

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on October 14, 2010

We rode on the wind

to Sunset,

returned our bodies to the sands.

Soft strokes

and

Ajna opened:

Kisses and The Pleiades:

all Seven Sisters gathered,

(they reside in the same house as I)

and I felt their silver strings

(my [subtle] body played as an instrument)

(push) pull me

to a nexus:

Where dualities meet

and manifest

(one black, one white: together in one space)

at the Wyrd.

explode and fade

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on July 6, 2010

Silver sparks flash against black

from that rhinestone belt slack around Nuit’s hips.

Dances enchant, warp sensation, dissipate flesh, resurrect spirits.

I prefer to be the dancer as opposed to the spectator.

But here I am,

Here are we all,

only able to look up to the Unknown,

necks strained, throats exposed, eyes rolled back…

waiting for the transitory awe, joy and electricity

in those short bursts of fire in the sky.

And as quickly as they come,

the color fades into smoke skeletons

hanging in the air far longer than the duration of their life.

We watch the air molecules carry those ghosts,

anticipating the next dazzling, fiery release.

Humans and explosives: simpatico

By the end of the affair, Nuit is smoking.

We return our eyes to our terrain,

and our feet take us Home.

The Story, the Universe and Us

Posted in Mind Goo, Visions by theskinhorse on August 24, 2009

Already the morning is a flurry of strange activity. I’m broken into pieces every second and reassembled before I can even realize the countless but finite possibilities of each movement. And what about the subatomic particles that get away… where do they go? There are surely no ‘extras.’

In my absence, a T-Rex has assumed its position at my desk. His name is Posie, inspired by his home planet, Neptune. He requires somewhat gentle handling since he is filled with Air – even with this overwhelming elemental component, Piscean influence cradles him still.

I honor the rich brown goddess that delivers caffeine in morning sacrament. Chatting at her temple, I realize the fondness with which her monks and priestesses receive me. They have missed me in my short time of questing from land to land to hold bonds together and create memories through city streets. These monks and priestesses, these patrons, these walls and circulating oxygen know me; they have watched me develop under their graces, through simple shared moments, and with their protection. The warmth with which they greet me blushes my cheeks and upturns my lips.

Sometimes we are staples, fixtures, touchstones for others in simple and common or odd and idiosyncratic ways, perhaps in ways we would never suspect or will never know.

Without making a soft transition, my charge this day is to pass along some words form The Story.

It will write itself. You needn’t worry your pretty head about all the loose ends and loopholes; The Story weaves through more levels than We could ever conceive to ensure its survival and our survival. For if We are of the Universe and the Universe is of The Story, and We are contained within The Story as The Story is contained within the Universe, and We are the vehicle with which The Story is told, then the survival of The Story depends on Us and the Universe, We depend on the Universe and The Story, and the Universe depends on The Story and Us.

Every piece is in place as a part of checks and balances, and as an exercise in free will. Our stages and rooms may be set either by the Universe or The Story,  sometimes the characters can be plants or a constant of The Story, but what We do in each set, how We move within and through, and who We are in the Universe and in The Story, We have the power to choose or dictate. Certain laws will be enforced and maintained as is necessary for the survival of All.

Perhaps you are as You are perfectly. Perhaps even in all your actions and choices, you are playing your character better than anyone else could; perhaps it had to be You. Predestination did not make it so; the Universe could not have predicted that the character within The Story is/was/will always be You. Neither could The Story predict. We make The Story personal, and We personalize the Universe.

Our charge, as Us, is to remember that We are of the Universe, to know The Story and to pass The Story on so that it is constantly embedded and woven into the Universe. The Universe and The Story will likewise take care of Us.

Mitochondrial memories

Posted in 1 by theskinhorse on August 12, 2009

It is that time of year when the sun passes over her birth date, and another year goes by with only memories left of her (or so one would suspect). She always said that we are immortal in the hearts and minds of our loved ones.

It’s been years since I’ve met her in dreams, attending her own funeral, invisible to the eyes of others. She grieved for their grief; it was their loss after all, not hers. She was some place else, some place warmer and more peaceful. I was greeted with a bright smile from her upon recognition of her spirit. “They all think I am dead,” she would say to me, and it was understood that she wasn’t really. Sometimes I would feel myself transported to that black limousine where I sat in some soft dress and small shoes, peering out the window at the gloom. I felt a bit of the black seep into my eyes; I probably was aware of what was happening even if I was unable to articulate my feelings. I knew she wasn’t coming back.

I wish I had more memories or at least access to more of them. Few things stand out in my mind: her house, her food, her gifts, the feel of being in her presence.

I’ll set a place for her at dinner, and drink tea or wine from her china.

The Taurus moon is waning; I will seek quiet in the arms of night.

I never forget that I come from a line of lionesses.

*

Posted in stream of consciousness by theskinhorse on August 1, 2009

open source: blank Page,

the tails are writing themselves dragging across the floor boards. There are no footsteps, just the sliding grit against polished wood. It comes hunched over, bearing books of worlds trapped within the lenses of glass, bound wishes and dreams awaiting the next audience. Legends drag behind the figure, accessories to the tails, unwrapped and echoing in Hallways.

Black and blue psyche bruises fabricated art in ebbs and flows of generations reaching across an oceanic Time to pull themselves out of riptides or into the Mere.

Tendrilled voices seeping through kinks as tailed-percussion pulses in the background: where colored noises meet. Well beneath the surface, storms and floods go unrealized. The sounds of the DEEP envelop like the womb; we are held.

Pre-birth, un-alive, undead… in holding, in waiting, in transit, inaccessible.

There is violence in the living. A gasp for air and the sounds of drum-beat footsteps. It approaches tall with no bearings.

This is where we journey on far and wide to return to an Open Source, a blank page.