Back In Love With Mystery

By Secret Lion

This is the test you weren’t prepared for. This is the love of your life leaving you.  This is your life following close on love’s heels, ducking out the back door. This is the end of the world.

Oh, come now, don’t make that face. The world is constantly ending, and we live in a universe made of of limitless Saviors, most of them shyer and more elusive than quarks. Take my hand, and we’ll go exploring.

This is a Singular place, all Revelations and Unveilings.

Squinting through the light-that-is-not-light, we see Anti-Christy and The End Time Boys are finishing up a necro-bluegrass cover of Blondie’s “Rapture” before moving on to the popular Apo-Calypso tune, “An Entropy in San Tropez”.  Anti-Christy coos, and Harry the Four-Faced Angel plays the horn section. Eagle on trumpet, Lion on trombone, Ox on the tuba, Man playing the saxophone. You’d think the four wings would get in the way, but they move so fast, feathery gossamer blurs, there’s no time to block the music.

Meanwhile up there in a stage carved out of the side of the mountain, a million dancers do the Kali-Yuga Shimmy.  Kali dancing faster and faster as time runs out.  But look closely, and you’ll notice that it’s actually a lot of Kalis, dancing in unison so as to give the appearance of a dance that accelerates as time marches on.  Squeeze one of the skulls on the necklace of Kali #2,012 — go ahead.  It makes a wheezy squeak, like a chew toy.  Why waste real skulls, here at the end of the world?

Follow her backstage – she’s a younger Kali, outside her friends call her Kali Baby.  Lights flicker around the backstage mirror as she applies black lipstick.  She fixes her hair, makes it look a little wilder.  It’s easy when you got four arms.

Around the corner from us is the Rainbow Tribe. Waiting to Walk Across the crystal sea, everything is the warmest, sharpest, gray, looking like woodcuts made out of fog. Swaying in time to polyrhythmic pandemonium, they drift, eddying in little spirals like tiny dust devils, winding towards an enormous white light. As they pass through the white light, ears crushed under the sound-that-is-not-sound, they can see the gloomy faces of stone and brass wrought from antiquity pass in front of them; one last wheeling of the calendar. The universe dilates and–

Now everything shifts into fine-grained inky blackness so quickly that one can’t imagine there was ever anything else. Now all one hears is the rushing and roaring of the primordial waters, all one can feel is the gentle breath of spirit, caressing through everything. The noise is deafening; yet all of existence is hushed in anticipation. The divine interpenetrates every fiber and leaves a lush, gorgeous longing in its wake.

When we die, we unexpectedly find ourselves back in love with mystery.

Advertisement