Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Saint Mary

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Happy Mary Magdalene Feast Day! (July 22) Naturally there is a very powerful solar eclipse taking place today! This is a wonderful point on the calendar to send healing thoughts out to humanity and pray for God's will to filter through the minds of men and women alike.

This past year has brought many different lessons and blessings, as well as much needed introspection and self-appreciation. If you don't value yourself, who will? If you truly know yourself, you will know the holy woman! Now in honor of our Lady Mary, I am going to include a few of my favorite verses from the Magdalene gnostic gospel.

"I tell you, there is a superior intelligence that shall come to those who wait upon the Spirit of the Lord. It is like thunder and lightning, and it will illuminate you."

"Where there is peace, God's Spirit abides. Therefore, make peace and you will know great joy."

"Your destiny is with Christ in God."

"It is with passion that one must cleave, and all passions must be cleaving. Then you will experience perfection of cleaving which is divine rapture."

"Many are the apostles the Lord has sent, and they are rays of light flowing out of the spiritual sun. Many are the apostles the Bride shall send, and they are flames leaping out of her. If you receive one of the apostles, you receive one from the Pleroma of Light. Woe to them who reject the apostles of light for they have rejected their own soul!"

"Come, let us go in. The righteous are those who live inwardly in the presence of the Savior."

"If you desire to be free, set others free. Be forgiving and you will be forgiven."

"To fear death is to fear life and those that fear death are not alive. It is for this reason they fear death--they fear to know who and what they are!"

"If the truth is in you but you do not speak it, how can you be true? When will your perfection come?"

"The essence of the light is transparent, it is the holy virgin; when you become transparent, you will be united with her and attain the perfection of your freedom."

"Do not make a home for yourselves in the world, but be at home in the Spirit!"

"In the Holy Spirit, you will be empowered to discern, for she is discerning awareness."

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Dolls in a Tree

I climbed into a another dream, just a baby doll in a wooden house hung in a big tree. Tired of playing dress up, jumping hoops, signing dotted lines, I wanted no more than to sleep in the limbs of time.
I curled into bed, sheets of satin stained red, but when awoke I was no longer alone, alas I felt the arms of company. I heard the pretty blond man, his velvety voice spoke softly over the sound of sand, rolling out of the hour glass just above. "Did you sleep well my love?"

I looked up surprised, in this dream divinely devised, but how happy I was to pleasantly find, Layne was there smiling right back inside. He was so full of life, I wanted to nestle my whole body in the cradle of his cobalt eyes, curl up like a cat where the color cleared like a translucent sky, vast immaculateness behind life. His hair was no longer torn in disarray as it had been the dream before, so curly and lustrous now billowing down, vibrantly gold and sheik. I admired the way a few stray curls fell artfully upon the apples of his lovely baby cheeks. He was still chaotically pale, but he eluded a delicate calmness of a peaceful male that I had never felt before, certainly not coming from a person so scorned by life and addictions to needles and rails. He pressed his lips with intent to the top of my head and I closed my eyes just long enough to feel him inhale my scent, lavender mixed with a little sweet pea. My eyes opened up, ablaze with green glee, all of my giddiness fled out past my teeth as I laughed and reached up to stroke Layne's grief. Not much trace of it now, but oh how I wanted to stay there and love him, my dashing dream sweet! Let's forget the pins of deceit and just be dolls in a tree.

(c) Jessica Robbins

Friday, July 10, 2009

Dreams Give Way to Layne (part 2)

By Jessica Robbins

Sometimes I'm thankful when I cannot be found. If the others find me I shall likely remain lost in an avid desire to revive the young girl I used to be. Oh how I want to recover that child, that playful and florid girl, the girl who used to clear the underbrush from unmarked trails, chasing rabbits into fields of wild lilies. The girl that spent hours upon sun setting hours in the pool, swimming well into the night after the fluorescent lights had been switched on and lightning had struck her lane three times. Where has she swum off to and who is this tepidly dull and lifeless person living in me? It is only a shrill femininity that softens her abrasive qualities and provides a certain sultriness to whatever overall appeal she may retain for her own. On the same token this is the burden of flesh. It covers every square inch of me, protecting me from what, I cannot say, unpredictable external elements perhaps. Sometimes it doesn't offer protection so much as it offers more reasons for me to be misunderstood, rejected, lusted after, or ridiculed. My skin is only good covered in water, when it's constantly clean of my past, of my present, and of whatever dirt I may magnetically collect. Anywhere my skin roams beyond the reclusiveness of a dream, I am rendered under the prying eyes and quick mouths of the pillars of judgment that stand tall over each corner I try to claim as a space of peace, pillars that cast shadows of misgivings over every inch of my motives and the dark path i walk on to light bearing, this road to unfounded absence of ego. Why has that come to mean an absence of love? Is my life so loveless that I find more comfort traveling into a dream and gazing at Layne in the hope he will answer questions he avoided in life? Yes, I suppose I am so loveless.

I stood beside him, trying to place a scent, burning metal perhaps, that seemed to be protruding from his cellular body. His blond hair was matted to his head as though he'd been sweating for ten years. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just a pair of faded old jeans with a bunch of holes in them. I wasn't as distracted by his pale snowy body as I should have been, it didn't make any difference, even though he was remarkably lovely, in a "fear and loathing in las vegas" kind of way. His wounded eyes were what captured my attention the most, centered in blackness bleeding over the spirals of blue skewing out. Only a few icy seconds had past over the dankness of the den since I had asked him why he was holding himself hostage to his injuries, but he automatically avoided the question like we were playing dodge ball, a game in which he'd trained himself to draw attention to the ball and not the person it was pegging.
Instead he asked me something I'd never anticipated and certainly couldn't brace for.
"Here, is this what you want? Will this make you happy?" He said half grinning over his chewed up tongue as he gathered up both of his hands and unzipped his pants.

My face flushed and twisted in shock as the enormity of the moment barreled over my composure. Is that what men really think? We seek happiness only in dream trysts of the most perverse kind? I wanted to cry out, "No Layne I'd be happy if you tell me what's troubling you and you let me hug you!"
He looked as though he had gone without selfless human affection for ages, how long I dare not speculate, but the absently angry expression bubbling on his face was not the look of a man who'd been hugged on a regular basis by caring arms. It became impossible to muster a word, let alone soundly object as Layne inched towards me with his pants down. I couldn't deny him, i couldn't say no. The pleaser in me didn't want to, but the healer slash therapist in me wanted to press on his shoulders, sit him back down and talk some sense into him. I wasn't there to be of service to him in a carnal display of instant ejaculation, I just wanted to talk to him and make sure he was going to be ok. There was no force involved in what began to transpire, but it wasn't any bridge to wanting or happiness. We were two adults yet both recklessly childish. I still presume Layne was playing with me more out of boredom than legitimate interest in who I was or what i was doing there. Layne was oblivious to Gabriel, who I could still detect telepathically, standing down at the exit of the long dark hallway, even though he wasn't glowing in plain sight. If Layne knew angels were coming and going from where he'd barricaded himself in, he showed no indication of having consorted with them the way i think he should.
I fell to my knees and leaned my head inward as Layne pushed his hips towards my face. I closed my eyes and began, my lips quivering around him. I watched his taunt face gracefully lighten. I watched the way he bit his own lip and I pretended his lip was mine. The tension eased between our astral bodies I finally began to relax a little as Layne let out a murmur of euphoria and his tortured eyes slowly rolled back in his head. Then for no reason, his expression clenched up to the sound of gritting teeth, as his brows furrowed over turbulent pupils as if they would come crashing into me. He jerked his impressive manhood out with one hand, the other drew backwards in the air with the back of his hand aimed at my face like he wanted to bitch slap me down to the floor and I flinched back defensively with my arms over my head. Suddenly, something diverted his attention and he glanced up just behind me to a picture framed on the wall. Whatever he saw in the picture acted as some kind of instant sedative, his face softened and the sound of teeth grinding finally trailed off. Even though he became less threatening, I didn't dare remove my eyes from his stance, it would have been like looking away from the ocean during a hurricane. I stayed frozen on my knees as he slowly rested his arm back to his waist and casually buckled his pants in the same way a young boy would after peeing on a small fire. Then he plopped back on the couch and returned to watching the fuzzy tv again, flickering with segments of his lost life, like he was trying to mentally sort and label the places he went wrong. How could someone who made so many right songs ever be so trapped by so many cleptic wrongs? He didn't look at me again for the rest of the visit. Agonizing in shock I had to wonder. Would anyone ever find me here? No one found Layne in this place until it was too late.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Dreams give way to Layne (part 1)

By Jessica Robbins

There are certain occasions my emotions are indescribable, not that I feel nothing, but my feelings borderline between anger and peace and stamping a myspace mood on my forehead simply won't suffice or bring the emotion to descriptive justice. Then there are certain days where I know exactly how I feel and can sum all my my feelings up in one word: Layne. I was never overly intrigued with Staley as a child, probably more terrified of him than anything, but as a grown woman, I began to wonder about his life. Why would a man that seemingly had the world within his grasp virtually demolish everything he'd built from the ground up? Did he seek an ally in addiction or was it just an venomous vice that enabled him to flee life itself? Outwardly Layne's masculine beauty wasn't merely a box of the most decorated kind, it was always the treasure inside, the lightning that was Layne, that struck so many people and left burning impressions on each soul he influenced. In spite of inescapable self-destruction, his voice remains unsurpassed, his poetic personality immortalized within the landscape of what has proven to be timeless music. 20 years later and Man in the Box is still being played in regular rotation on alternative stations across the world, right next to recently released songs. In addition to his charismatic and commanding voice, his hair and demeanor also served as unconventionally unique trademarks that further set him apart from imitators. In healthier years, before the untidiness of heroin haunted him, his billowing blond hair was so long that it framed his statuesque face like a lion's mane. His face alone was comparable to a Roman warrior, Constantine perhaps, both spiritual missionaries in a sense, sent on very different missions. The eyes God gave Layne to see with were lividly luminous, like some kind of blue mercury, a vision more poisonous in the dark when what little light there was seemed to be concentrated in his hazardously piercing stare. I saw it a few times in a series of dreams, unconfirmable visions that grew more romantic, intimate, and sacred with each meeting. Sometimes it hurt to look at him, at his heroin scared soul, but consequently neither could I look away and deny how he made me feel or how I longed for him to feel about me.

It was a flawless, crisp night in October and I was out flying again with no real specific destination other than the relative destiny in a prayer to escape my confining flesh for a few hours. I floated into a large party of the sophisticated sort, wine bottles were open and humming chatter already underway. People of all shapes and sizes were strewn causally within a large conference room, neatly seated on large sofas or propped up against textured walls, walls that appeared more like three dimensional carpet surfaced than plain wallpaper. By the line of guests beginning to form to speak to me, I began to suspect the party was being thrown in my honor, honoring what I still don't know. A rusty haired woman wearing a long flowing green skit and a white tunic was in front of me asking questions as though I had conquered a city. Up to this point the only thing I had accomplished was weaving my way into someones creative process and even that wasn't being recognized out loud or under conscious conditions, so I consented to her line of inquiry and politely responded. Secretly I feared the corners of a dream were the only place I would have an opportunity to be asked such things. Going to sleep is a victorious art for me, but waking triumphantly to a life to match the dreams isn't a luxury I have ever tasted.

I stood there humbly in the midst of the party, somewhat overwhelmed by the amount of attention I was receiving from total strangers, when suddenly a silky angelic voice flowed all around me. "It's time." He said gently. "Are you ready to go see him now?"
The familiar voice was so serenely corded in beauty and grace that I was intimidated to turn and peek at the owner, even though my instincts told me it was Gabriel. Or Gabriel was the instinct. The other knowing thought that bellowed in my soul was that Gabriel was taking me to meet Layne. On the right side of my body, I could feel the angel's radiance emanating over me. It was overpowering, yet I still managed to glance over my shoulder and steal a glimpse of the legendary archangel; the same angel that came to rally Joan of Arc, the angel that dictated the Koran to Mohammad, and the very angel that came to Mary and told her she would give birth to Christ. What could such an important messenger possibly want with me? Why had he come to personally deliver me to see Staley? Was it to provide more evidence of life after death? And who would even believe me? I didn't ask these questions until long after as was awake. In the core of the dream Gabriel's aura appeared to have hundreds of radiant stars orbiting the length of his impressive height and magnificent purple laced wingspan. As motionless as he was, the tiny stars rapidly pulsated and danced within a some kind of invisible cylinder that wrapped around his celestial sphere, nice and snug. His eyes were made of tumbled amethyst, a shade of purple I had never seen reflecting from human irises before. In a peaceful trance, I stepped towards him and reached for his hand. As the distance closed between us, I could feel his scent all over my face. He smelled like heaven, an understated, yet comforting smell, the way it smells just before the rain falls over the ocean when the moisture reaches its highest point of back building. His fingers met my hand in the air and I could feel every element at the same time bottled in his touch. He felt crisp, cool, like the chill of being in an airplane 30,000 feet above the earth. The subtle frost infiltrated the surface of my skin but I didn't pull away, reaching further in was the natural reflex I followed, in the same manner a baby duck hatches and follows every trail its mother takes until it can fly away. Just past the surface of the swirling auric stars, Gabriel was pure fire, the kind of Godly fire that doesn't burn to the touch, just glows in heavenly love.

He guided me from the crowd and directly to the outside of a white door. We were standing on a stoop overlooking a well-lit city, underneath a tiny slice of moonlight. It felt like we weren't very far from the party, but in dreaming, distance is irrelevant really. A friendly guide opened the door and briefly greeted us. Gabriel lifted his arms out and motioned me to walk inside. He would not be accompanying me past the threshold. The guide was stationary, standing in the entry way talking to Gabriel in a serious tone, a tone of concern more than urgency. As I walked further and further down the long corridor their voices slowly faded behind me.

Pictures and objects hanging on the walls began to come into focus. A few traditional paintings of Jesus were staring back at me as well as crosses and various abstract pieces, most of which contained spiritual themes or some sort of religious imagery. An apparition of a young man began to flash very quickly in three different rooms surrounding me. Intuitively I knew it was the same person, a person with a very scattered soul. I could feel the fragments of the man all around me, rushing in a restless circle. In the kitchen I witnesses the man with his legs curled up in a ball, rocking and crying on a wooden table, his blond hair flowing out of his long fingers, gripping his head and smothering his face. The sound of his moaning and weeping was the most agonizing sound I have ever heard, it was as though acid was eating through his organs. I was frozen, more in confusion than fear, I didn't know what to do. It felt almost voyeuristic and intrusive that I would be allowed to see him in that condition at all. That happens more often in my dreams than I should admit; seeing people doing or saying hurtful things they shouldn't.

I took a few more paces forward, completely absorbed in the moment of where or whenever in time I was. To my left was a room that appeared to be a cozy den. An older model TV sitting on the floor,it was one of the heavy dinosaur TV's from the Early '80 s that didn't require an entertainment unit or a base. Cautiously I moved my gaze from the TV to the man sitting an an old couch. It was Layne, I recognized his very distinctive tattoos instantly before I even saw his face. He was transfixed on the screen, moments of his life were replaying flash by flash, scene by scene. He was watching himself singing at a show, he glared at the monitor in an absent daze as if he wasn't there, but was actually inside the box. He was in a place known as the "scanner," a safe house most souls go after they die to review their lives. The dwelling was recreated to look identical to Layne's condo. Not wanting to alarm him, I slowly walked behind the old couch to the other side of the room, stood just past Layne's right shoulder and put my hands neatly at my side. He didn't flinch, not even to smell the air as I moved through the room. My lips were heavy and felt stitched together in uncertainty of what the hell I was even doing there. Putting aside my fear, I assured myself he couldn't hurt me and softly called out to him, "Layne, Layne..." He snapped his head around and his eyes widened in dilation when he saw me. I took a short breath and asked the question everyone wanted to know, "Layne why are you doing this to yourself?"
(To be cont)

Friday, July 3, 2009

Destiny is a warrior fighting on my behalf
when the simpletons laugh, as they so often do
i will not contest the scrutiny
many more will be crucified in ways unseen
complaining changes hues
talking violets can be so rude
nails strapped on made into shoes
sharply worn devotion
will fight a good fight too
scary self lost only to the selflessness in you

rapid eye movement sleepy truce
compensated for slow sanctuary
i pulled the ace and ate the deuce
the roses blushed and drank their dew
is all that blooming necessary
with no religion left to prove
in a house of angels
floating past a mortuary
souls are marching two by two
second guess the last kiss
as I so often do
strength in numbers, alliance is this
at least it is when I'm with you

when these things i cannot control
control me instead
i stand accused
in the middle of my mind
i fill peaceful silence in my head
as i hear the talking dead
I turn the future up instead

destiny is a warrior fighting on my behalf
the first is here and the last is still last
elation is a river that will always run past
destiny is a warrior fighting on my behalf

By Jessica Robbins (C)2009

(I heard one of the angels say "I love the way she is integrated.")