THE CLOSET MYSTIC

Too many dimensions to my being.

What the fuck am I?

An entirely new human each and every day .

Through all these differences, I scan with a critical eye,

magnifying, poring over these jumps.

what remains the same?

Plutonium. 

Yet another dimension to my being,

This is the part of myself that I’ve oft fought…

this part of myself without illusion.

sees emptiness in all things

solitary.

preferring aloneness to frivol 

only wanting what is real.

that part of myself that has already died.

antisocial by nature 

without trust

but

once that heart opens

it loves for lifetimes

so prone to crushing despair

more alone at a party

then in solitude with the sea

oh, that darkness

why do I find truth there?

like I can end the masquerade 

of gaiety 

when will I find the person

whose hand will clasp mine in those depths

the heart of the other

being the only light we need.

I need aloneness

for I’ve met me more than anyone else has met me.

I only want what is meaningful.

I only want what is with depth.

If I can find that truth

with another soul,

then fine — 

then lovely — 

but I’d sooner trade company 

than realness.

grant me those with substance. 

grant me those who stick around when the going gets tough.

grant me those unafraid of those depths.

grant me those unafraid of the dark. 

grant me the brave,

with light of soul,

spirit,

and heart,

so grand,

that they can play with childlike glee

in the abominable depths of the Earth

those who can love the monsters residing therein.

I want love with roots

that extend into Hell,

because I know that,

only then,

can its branches reach the heavens. 

All actions 

have an equal and opposite reaction

therefore,

the heights your love is capable of,

is determined only by the depths it can brave. 

…

I walk through the halls of my being,

checking the rooms of this dim corridor.

I open a door I did not know was there

further along the ecliptic

of my consciousness

than I knew I could venture.

an icy chill assaults my senses immediately

why are there winds here?

I see a boy

huddled in the corner.

dark hair

pale skin

head between his knees.

I gasp,

catching his attention.

he looks up instantly

tears streaming down

pooling above his upper lip

his lips…

why are they blue?

the miasma of this room

his despair is concentrated

to a magnitude

I knew not possible

he says nothing but it is deafening

and yet in his eyes

what is it I see?

…

a heat in them

amidst this hidden arctic

he says nothing but still

the message is deafening

and I intuitively understand

that his spirit possesses a heat

a will

a courage

that even this cold

phases him not

there is power here

there is…

somehow

immense

intense

agonizing

beautiful love.

…

I sit next to him.

I take his hand.

He is stunned,

but shortly after,

looks at me with a smile.

he rests his head on my shoulder

and we both know

we are going to be okay.

we are going to be okay

no matter how dark it gets

no matter how cold

here,

we can not just survive

we can thrive

…

I look and see

an aura encasing him

taking on a pale blue glow.

I watch

stunned,

mystified,

as particle after particle

photon after photon

departs

from what was formerly

his vessel.

they dress themselves

around me,

becoming golden

when they touch me

I lay back,

my eyes shut,

and some strange

enlightened

melancholic

powerful

explosive

still and certain,

composed,

intensity

fills my cup to the brim.

I let out a sigh,

look to my side,

and he is gone.

Luna,

Luna,

Luna,

Is it you, 

was it you all along? 

They’ve spoken so heavily about that guardian Spirit, 

The soul sourcing from one primary fount,

Was it you all along? 

Oh, Luna,

could it be?

Luna, Luna, Luna, 

How can I explain?

How can it be? 

How is it that you, you, you, 

wipe away tears

I did not even know 

were staining my face?

How can it be

That the sensation

For months on end

Disperses with one glance? How?

I did not know I was holding my breath

Until you granted me a sigh of peace, 

of relief. 

Could it be you? 

Those mystics,

Those modern magi, 

They speak so heavily

Of that One spirit

To whom each human has an invisible cord.

I think it is you. 

Could it be you,

Luna,

My Daimon? 

How can it be, it defies logic, it defies understanding,

How?

How do you do it? 

So readily,

So easily,

Effortlessly,

Wipe away all ills

Within minutes?

I truly do not understand it

But you know what?

I have come to recognize that as part of your majesty

For your power, your reign, 

Extends into all, 

the invisible your domain.

This is why you are feared,

For we fear that which we cannot control.

That which we do not understand.

No, Mother,

Instead of fearing the dark,

I step in readily,

Knowing that you are there to embrace me,

For you grant me senses 

Far superior to eyesight — 

I need not my eyes to see.

No, I simply do not understand it, but I am done trying to. 

No, I do not understand 

how all of my efforts 

over months 

to heal,

to feel better,

to feel okay,

are made laughable 

By simply willingly, openly connecting with you,

The Great Mother,

for minutes. 

I do not understand it, nor will I try to. 

You remind me the limitation of the verbal. 

That Mind

It is Air. 

Words are birds dancing along the surface of the sea

But those depths — 

Only 5% explored by mankind. 

This knowledge — 

This is where all men must kneel and bow to the feminine,

To the unknown,

To the unconscious.

She will always be greater than us. 

Always. 

Oh, I genuinely have gooseflesh.

How? How did you do it? 

How did moonstone in hand,

A crescent on my neck,

Sat by the sea,

Take it all away,

And then replenish me beyond what I knew was possible?

I can’t understand it — 

Happy again. 

How? How? How do you do it? 

This is God. I cannot explain it.

This is where divinity steps in. 

When a force so much greater than your own understanding, one that cannot be put into word, 

Takes hold, humbles you, lovingly. 

Humbled am I by your grace, by your power. 

No, when I think about being humbled,

I usually think about being smacked down — 

No, you humbled me through gentle graces,

Through sweetness,

Through lifting me up and showing me your expanses. 

Oh, my heart is healing, and I cannot thank you enough for it. 

Can we just be fucking real?

Enough.

Can we just be fucking real?

Enough. 

I am done, I am done. 

I am going to be fucking real. I’ve always been good at that. 

I need not wear a mask. 

Enough. 

I need not wear a strong face. No. 

My strong face

has always been on my sleeve,

For that is where my heart is worn. 

No image. I care not about how I appear. 

Can we just be fucking real? 

Closer do I grow to a more appropriate model of masculinity.

And I think, if masculinity is bravery, then its opposing force thus requires fear, the daunting — 

Masculinity is about facing fear. Looking it dead in the eye, unwavering. 

A staring contest with a basilisk — 

And all that dies is one’s cowardice. 

I am done being afraid. 

Show me my fears, for my compass is recalibrating. 

True north now points towards all that terrifies me. 

There do I march, evermore. 

This is who I am, this is who I always was. 

Let me stare fear in the eye. 

Such is the mastery of the self, that final Guardian of the Threshold. 

I think nihilists who let their worldview turn into a depressive apathy simply aren’t very creative.

I’d imagine that the sequence isn’t necessarily nihilism > depressive apathy, in most cases; rather, there’s likely an emotional trauma that is still yet unresolved, and the worldview reflects an existing emotional state of disempowerment and the values of one’s heart not being realized.

I’d imagine that most nihilists had their belief in goodness, for one reason or another, crushed. Instead of fighting to preserve that goodness by embodying it against the odds that surround them, I’d imagine that — in an attitude I’d characterize as cowardice — they forfeited their faith in goodness, in an awfully-binary model of the universe.

We so prefer black and white outlooks. They’re easier. It’s difficult to hold two things as true at the same time. I’d imagine that such folks, who witnessed some lack of goodness around them, had the pendulum of their outlook swing from an all-too-good and rosy lens on life, to a complete tossing of faith in goodness, trading a deep, pure optimism, for a deep-seated, crushing pessimism.

We must be able to hold two things as true at once. Good and evil both exist. If we see wrongness around us, we must get our fire going and activate our ability to be the hero and protagonist of our own life, championing what we see to be rightness.

“The purpose of this life is to live a life of purpose… life without a cause is life without effect.”

This is how love wins. We must not let the heaviness of the world burden us; rather, we must fight to champion goodness.

How did I get here from nihilism?

I see most nihilists as people who equated God, and a meaningful life, with some higher goodness. They were crushed at some point by life not being perfect absolutely all the time. They lost sight of goodness first before losing sight of God. One rainy day that brought them indoors, never to go outside for the next sunny day again.

Nihilists often cite dry rationalism as the segue into their belief system. However, I can’t help but feel like there is an emotional wound that leads to the belief system being developed.

I believe our emotional selves provide the foundation for the belief systems our intellect builds. But it is the emotional self FIRST that determines where the intellect builds up to.

…

(This wasn’t even where I was going to take this, idk where all that came from. The first line — about nihilists with depressive apathy not being very creative — was from the thought that nihilism can be liberating if we, for example, look at life like a video game. Have your fun! That isn’t an encouragement to hedonism, as some may think — some video games that involve discipline and farming over time are actually super fun, just to see how far you can get for the intrinsic satisfaction therein.)

this restlessness. this restless disposition. the heart of the seeker. will i ever stop seeking? will i ever feel satisfied? is it dissatisfaction, or is it wanderlust, the spirit of ecstasy drawing me towards the horizon for a lifetime?

so drawn am i by the greater, by the higher. it will never, ever abate. this is joy. chasing! chasing! chasing! playing!

ever drawn and inspired by ideas. how ruled am i by them! i am at their mercy!

the spirit of the gold rush will never leave my bones. eureka is my favorite word, destined and fated to be the most used in my lexicon. without this dissatisfaction, without my eyes fixed on the horizons, without a romantic heart blessed or cursed or both by longing, what would i be? what would i be? no, this isn’t doomed idealism. it is not. how could my idealism be doomed if i see the ideal in the plain, in the mundane? how could i ever stop shouting eureka when i see gold everywhere? when i see gold in strangers’ eyes, in grains of sand, in dirt?

i have lived my life in pursuit of eurekas, and i have one every day. i shout eureka when i roll out of bed, what a treasure to be alive. i shout eureka when i see my mother, what a gift she is. i shout eureka when i speak to my friends, for their hearts are as plainly gold as anything could be. i shout eureka when i see my cats’ beautiful blue eyes, when Gema meows and does anything he possibly can to be a menace, when Cosmo makes it abundantly clear that he has a distaste for humanity, making it ever more special when he graces me with affection, producing yet another eureka for being deemed worthy and redeemable by him. i shout eureka when i get a work text, what a gift it is to have a job that provides for me, i shout eureka at the beach, something many people never have the privilege to see. i shout eureka when i cry, what a gift it is to feel at all. i shout eureka when i read, how many illiterate people have existed throughout history? how could i have struck gold to be so lucky as to be able to read? eureka!

i shout eureka being able to walk, i shout eureka when my mother makes me food, i shout eureka when i drink water, i shout eureka at all things. why should i not?

my life is a never-ending gold rush, for there is no metal more abundant than gold.

such strength in not needing a veneer of strength.

such masculinity in not needing a veneer of masculinity.

true greatness is in scrubbing floors.

the meek inherit the Earth.

no hearts more impoverished than the greedy.

victory is only found in waving your white flag.

those in eternal surrender possess the whole.

earthly kings are peasants of the spiritual kingdom.

…

how can I ever communicate

what is in my heart

I think I am powerless to give it a voice.

I think my gaze

speaks more

than I ever could with words.

the eyes are the windows of the soul,

but rationale

is shutters pulled down

the intellect blocking daylight.

But I will shut my mouth

and open my heart

and hide nothing.

give me someone

who I can know without speaking.

where our eye contact speaks novels.

their heart made plain

I will cherish those secrets

held in plain sight.

give me your hand

and we’ll speak through Braille.

no, I don’t need to hear you speak,

but I will lay my head upon your chest

and your heartbeat will be enough

your soul’s story recounted rhythmically.

so great is my longing to merge,

to simply love and be loved.

our minds don crowns of thorns.

and in love,

those barbs descend

seated upon our hearts.

every condition our minds have set

for loving and being loved

pricking

piercing

drawing blood

draining that holy organ.

what is this thing

that our minds do?

what is the mind but a labyrinth

that places us

on its outside

our heart

as its center?

enough —

silence dissolves those walls.

and there do I reunite

with that sacred simplicity.

there do I find my home.

…

might we find our home together, as one?

Anointed am I by that Martian flame,

Pentecostal,

Purified, purifying,

Illuminating,

The sorcerer’s brazier

that knows no night —

Diamond between my brow,

Eyes wide shut,

I recline and dive inward,

Then skyward —

The Christ diamond,

quantum vehicle of light —

A smile

that speaks a thousand words

illustrated

on the canvas of my countenance —

Where am I?

Beauty and magic are one and the same, for both are in the eye of the beholder — 

What is mundanity to one is high magic to another — 

What is rubbish to one is ruby to another — 

Magic is defined by the mundane, just as light is defined by darkness, and goodness by evil — 

Supernatural is defined by what is considered natural, for its bounds can only be exceeded if the line is first drawn.

There is no such thing as supernatural. If it happened, it is a part of nature, if only a lesser-recognized facet. 

Perhaps magic is about recognizing that we had the key all along — 

Perhaps magic is about recognizing that the bounds we’ve placed on reality’s very horizons are self-imposed — 

Perhaps magic is about a return to the wholeness of our being.

So many of us who feel like something is missing from our lives. What if we were right all along, and that it’s there to be reclaimed, right underneath our noses?

To put my thoughts into writing in a slightly more prosaic way, I have been rediscovering the power of certain attitudes that I may have, at one point, considered to be “toxically masculine.” 

It is a mindset to be drawn upon when necessary that acts like shears towards disempowering narratives. What masquerades as compassion can, in truth, be the atrophying of one’s own potential; where is the line between self-sympathy and self-pity? Can pity, at times, assume weakness? If so, can self-pity involve seeing weakness in ourselves, when we can instead see strength? If we pity ourselves too heavily, are we refusing to claim our own power, are we shying away from discomfort? 

To speak more clearly, this means that there have been many times lately where, when being confronted with discomfort, and when my instinct is to shy away from the challenge before me, I will tell myself some “toxic” things, such as:

• Man up.
• Grow some balls. 
• Just fucking do it. 
• Don’t be a bitch.
• Is that all you fucking got? (While working out)
• Cut the drama. 
• You’re a pussy. 

Etc etc etc. 

These are words that I have been offering myself when confronted with challenges or stresses. 

And you know what? It actually fucking helps. It chops away my own disempowering mental narratives. I have realized how heavily my problems exist within my own head; I perceive challenge, I perceive wrongness, I perceive an issue, and then my instinct is to cling to the comfortable, like some infantile-regressive instinct inside of me who wants to cling to Mother for comfort. 

It’s the equivalent of splashing psychological cold water on my face. I shake myself out of my stupor of valuing comfort over growth. 

These words. They sound harmful. They sound self-hating. But, to me, I think they can be self-loving. I recognize that there is deep potential within me. I recognize that I am capable of more, and I want to see myself do my best. Out of love. 

So I will come down on myself. At times hard. And I like it. It makes me playfully feel like I want to rise up to the challenge, I feel invigorated, like the masculine within is being beckoned forward, like life is demanding that my strength be used, and then I feel good because I know I can overcome. It’s recognizing my own ability to succeed, and not allowing myself to squander it. 

This is where my appreciation for Saturn has been growing more and more. There is malevolence that appears benevolent, and there is benevolence that appears malevolent. Parents who are too easy on their children end up ruining them and doing them a disservice, thinking they are giving them kindness when they are only sabotaging them with “love.” Those kinds of parents are parenting selfishly, doing what makes them feel good, and not what is truly good for their child.

We must be our own parents. We must be our own mother and our own father, we must be capable of switching voices, and even blending them together as one. We must be both spheres of the Vesica Piscis, and the overlap in the middle.

There is alchemy in this. Balance of opposites in this regard is absolutely necessary and critical for any sort of self-actualization. One must harmonize and integrate both “Mother” and “Father” in their traditional roles for optimum success. There is a time and a place for absolutely everything. We must achieve the discernment to recognize when we need to be smacked in the face and stunned into reality, or when we need a hug of absolute warmth and softness. 

There is a time and a place for absolutely everything, and Mercurial adaptability and mental agility allows us to recognize when we need to shape-shift into our own drill sergeant or nurse. There is a time to sit down and hug oneself — there is a time to muscle up and get your fuckin’ shit done. 

What is often times the case is that we will have a heavy preference for one approach or another, and our march towards wholeness/growth is in integrating the opposite polarity of what we’ve identified with. That is to say, if we’ve been excessively soft on ourself/self-pitying, then cultivating a will of iron strength is our work. Conversely, if we’ve been excessively tough on ourselves our entire life, unforgiving, and not offering ourselves any softness, kindness, and/or warmth, then our work is in allowing for vulnerability (strength in “weakness”; weakness in “strength”).

So, lately, I have been feeling the glory of smacking myself around a bit. And it feels good! Because there is a subtext behind talking to myself in such a way; it carries and reinforces the belief that I need less, that I am not a weak and helpless being in need. It’s about demanding the strength that is already there to come forward; shining a light on the reality that I am strong, I am resilient, I am built of brick and mortar, and I can treat myself like it. 

Fascinatingly, too, this period has been correlated with something seemingly oxymoronic: I’ve never been more vulnerable with others in my life. Never have I ever let myself receive so much love from others. I have been hanging out with my mom, laying on her lap at night, letting myself be her boy. I’ve been cuddling and snuggling with all my friends, opening up to them myself, and being there for them when they need me. And, somehow, this time has been correlated with what has felt like a peak in personal strength and vitality. 

How? How can this be?

I would say that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. The more I have allowed myself to participate in “traditionally feminine” behaviors, allowing my cup to be filled, and doing things that feed me on a deep-seated, emotional level, filling the well of personal need, the more fuel I have for a fire of genuine strength. Integrating the feminine allows for true masculine integration. 

This honestly reminds me of when I came out as bisexual. Never did I feel more fiery, nor more capable of handling confrontation well, than when I allowed myself to act flamboyantly gay. I went to school in eyeliner, chokers, and nail polish; simultaneously, I had a peak of athletic success, I felt bold, I felt confident, and by other traditional measures of masculinity, I felt like iron. 

This is the alchemy of opposites, this is the caduceus in action. Opposites being true at once; transcending duality through embodying both sides of the coin in one substance, being able to dance with yin and yang, making them as one.