Last night, I came across a poem I wrote back in 95… the title grabbed me with its reference to the wind (Tempest + Gale = wind).

I was in a Pluto square at the time and in a big rage at God (or whatever masquerades as God in most organized religion), pumped up, feeling like death couldn’t hurt me.

“Come and get me! Yeah I said YOU, chickeenn…’ the poem said.

Then, I got scared, put the thing away and never did anything with it. I know, I know.

Personally, I feel sure that if I die, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay right here, enjoy my body as it melts into the earth, still aware but slowly expanding to become one with her.

It’s happened to me before. Every past life regression I’ve done (three, with three different hypnotherapists) has taken me back to that same experience. I’ve *never* ‘gone to the light’, whatever that means. It feels alien to me.

It’s probably because I’m fey. The Church used to claim that the fey folk have no souls, which just means they don’t separate from their bodies and go off to some other place, they stay and change form until they reconvene in another time and place.

I know, for me, it took a very long time to return, but I didn’t find it hellish. Quite the contrary.

Many years ago on a psychedelic journey I felt consumed by a longing, so powerful I’d call it lust, to melt back into that vast embrace, to just let go and sink down. Remembering the power of that desire still gives me chills. I think maybe I’m a piece of this Earth, that my essence belongs with her, and when (if? all bets are off) I die, that’s where I’m going.

I suspect Jesus did the same thing, at least the part of him that I relate to. Tempest too, and maybe that’s why we’ve all felt such a powerful rocking resonance with her death. Hell, maybe we all do that, and the whole afterlife is a bill of goods we’ve been sold.

I don’t feel she’s gone anywhere, but she’s in shock and rage. She didn’t get to choose, her life was stolen, and that is so profoundly wrong it appalls, harrows, shorns.

And that’s what made me think of this poem, the bit at the end. Somehow it comforts me to imagine that death can be (can be, not ‘is’) a simple form change.

The violence is what I can’t wrap myself around. The murder. In my fear’s reaction, I find myself wondering if she was just too big, too much, too alive for whatever opposing forces there are that keep us down. Of all the people on the island, why her? It has to mean something… and so I go, around and around in my heart, seeking solace and solutions.

She was calling us out… her song ‘Calling All the People‘ is one of the most powerful calls to revolution I’ve ever heard.

I do feel called out by her death… I feel called to stop dithering… to get my fears moving so I can do what I’m naturally am inclined to do, the creative, courageous stuff I stop myself doing because I’m still so afraid of my own fear.

Yes, I’m terrified of Them ‘out there’, the invisible, unknown stalkers who target us from a distance and snuff out the best, brightest and most vividly alive among us. It happens. This is the lesson of Tempest. Be afraid, yet do it anyway.

We don’t have to choose between fear and love. We can choose, instead, to love our fear, embrace it, quiver and quake and shiver and shake and wake the hell up to our own power (which is what we’re really afraid of, come on, isn’t it?).

This poem scares me a lot. Still, somehow it seems like maybe time…. [shiver].

Be warned… if you are sensitive about God and easily offended, don’t read.

I’d Rather Worship the Wind

You call yourself God but you just feel hard to me.
you call yourself God but you don’t even know me.
you claimed you created everything you saw.
and every trend you turned into a law

You allowed nothing in from the collective organism
you heard not a word but what you taught us to say.
You forced us to kneel so you’d hear when we prayed.
You are not a nice god, and you are not kind
and what you call your Light has burned out your heart
and left you blind.

You are dead – God is dead – but the Universe is alive
He is dead – God is dead – and the world will survive.
We’ve got a message for you on the Internet
too bad you don’t have an e-mail address.
you always were a techno-phobe
but you hired the best and every theory you had
you put directly to the test.

While you’ve been breaking your toys
and tearing them in pieces we’ve been multiplying -
we’re all mixed up, so we’re all related
If you don’t like it here, then leave.
Earth is the only place we can breathe.

Gaia is on our side and Jesus is too
Or did you think He would die for you again
Now that he knows what you did with his death?
Christ is right here – I can feel his breath.

So listen, God, whatever you call yourself:
Space is infinite in directions you’ve never measured.
We’ve got work to do, we’ve got rocks to move now
stones piled over bones of all your ancient enemies.
All the old gods and the powers that you hoard
sitting on a throne of bones, calling yourself the Lord.

Maybe you didn’t know and it isn’t your fault
It isn’t too late; bring the thing to a halt!
Just drop your arms, stop the cockfight
cash in your chips, resign your membership
to the Ku Klux Klan and the Old Boys Club
dismantle your bombs, clean up your waste
get a job, meditate.

Or perhaps You still have the power to fire up
some simple supporter without too strong a grip
with access to an Uzi who might choose to use it
maybe these words will cost my life.

Well, really, what can you do?
If you bend me, I’ll bend
If you break me, I’ll break
If you drown me, I’ll drown
then I’ll become the lake.

What can you do? Your days
of power are through.
I’d rather worship the wind.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 24th, 2009 at 12:53 pm and is filed under Gaia words, my creative journey, photos, poems and lyrics. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.