MY DEATH OF TOMORROW

Through sickness and sorrow
My death of tomorrow
I will be
Eternally yours

Through life’s rest and slumber
I feel you and wonder
How this could be so

My world of tomorrow
Will be no more under
Forgiveness and so

How this could be thunder
You wanderous wonder
I so love you so

I so love you so

From my memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness
By Kiki Toao

Mature before Love

Mature before Love was even invented,
The Beast was
High on speed 
and Ecstasy 
Befell Her

A wounded heart
Arising
Amidst the soil of a broken home
Shattered glass everywhere

On television a woman shouted:
“Murder! Death!
Fucking KUT Nazis!
Always spoiling good entertainment!”

I believe she was Dutch, or something,
and she looked awfully similar to me

So, so many

Particles and pieces
Broken glass to be mended
Shards from 
My broken heart

Oh
In the midst, however
Of this Holy Night and Wishful Moon
We expressed our deepest desires

And you said
You wanted to Learn
To Know 
What You Want

And The Beast spoke, lowering Her voice:

“Isn’t it anyone’s deepest desire
to express a lung full Spell
under the Shine of Darkness
of a Wishful Moon?”

From my memoirs ‘Tobacco – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness
By KiKi TOAO

THE BEAST OF CREATiON

When the Beast of Creation wags its mastodonthic tail, what am I but a seed hair in the wind? And while it walks past, we’d do best by honoring it while we have the opportunity, because these moments are rare and we should cherish them while they last. We are sharing them here and now, in the midst of our living room in broad, screaming daylight.

For a couple of hours, everything screams C.E.R.E.M.O.N.Y.
How little it has to do with waving feathers and droning prayers.

I’m sitting here, gasping for air while my face is being pulled off.
I’m clawing at the air, watching the tips of my fingers being turned into pure frequency and becoming one with the leafs on the tree.

The Beast of Creation is walking past.
I look up at its terrifying beauty, blinded by its lightning presence, wishing it was dark but the light keeps crashing in. Every step the Beast’s paws take slams every moment into one massive archaic vision, every single one of them being the kind temples have been built for. Graphic, honey rated patterns, splashing into colourful Beings of all Times. Beings, – older, much much older -, than any living creature on this planet, are showing themselves to me in all their intrinsicness.

Archaic. Archaic. ARCHAIC.
The word keeps repeating itself into one gigantic, magnificent, excruciatingly vivid notion of What It Is.

One last slam of the Beast’s tail shakes me back to consciousness.
I’m sitting here, in this safe haven we created for ourselves, down on my knees.
It is not a posture of submission. I’m simply wondering how I could ever have thought I knew anything, anything at all, while the tears are running from my face. I am in pure awe, while I’m observing my knowledge being crumbled, torn apart as if it were a piece of knitting, and being rearranged.

I’m watching it happen, and the only thing I’m able to think of and say out loud is how I know it will change everything, if only I allow it to happen; just open my eyes and take it all in as a wordless teaching.
It changes the posture of my body, into a totally different attitude.
My hand loosely in front of my chest, I’m looking down in search of an expression for an emotion no word has been invented for, or it may have been forgotten and is longing to be reborn: The Sacred.
What I had so far been feeling writhing underneath, is now violently passing through me, obliterating all that I thought I knew.

Carnage.
Nourishment.
Initiation.

If only I were capable of capturing this very experience into one brief moment of sharing it with you, enabling you to see it, to feel it, experience it, here, all at once, right here and now, and condense it into this one, tiny seed hair in my hand, my task would be complete.

If only I could.

We would then set it forth on its path, together, by blowing it away and watch it being caught by the wind. While watching it move up high into the sky, we would know, from here, the cycle would start all over again.
From here, we would be forever longing for the opportunity to rise again; to relive this very moment, of experiencing it, together.

From my memoirs ‘Tobacco – Curse and Blessing of a Shamaness
By Kiki Toao

ME, SHAMANiC MACHiNE

Raw and unvalidated data from my diary:

The shamanic process.
Where does it leave me in the equation?
A continuous shift of perspective, like discovering a machine’s purpose by pushing its buttons. But I am the one whose buttons are being pushed.

*beep* What do you think about this concept?
*beep* How do you feel about this proposal?
*beep* What would you say if your purpose looked a little something like this?
*beep*

Constant contextualizing and negotiating, evaluating and scrutinizing.
What leaves me (at times literally) breathless is: the process doesn’t necessarily have regard for my personal integrity, my moral/ethical values, sometimes not even for my well-being and daily life.

I, – me, myself, and I – am the one who is the safeguard of my intentions, the gatekeeper of the channel I seem to be.
To do good seems to be shamanic common sense, it seems so obvious within the mainstream concept of spirituality.
However, I am always being confronted with the opposite.

Archaic principles are pushing themselves through me, and it’s hard to describe them in comprehensible, human language, but I can feel them writhing underneath the surface, like some ancient technological mechanism, forcing me to seek refuge in metaphorical expressions.
Writing poetry therefore is a natural response to the process.

It is by discovering and eventually describing my role as facilitator in the process, I am establishing my relationship with The Sacred.
But (hang on, wait a minute): what is The Sacred?
All I know (or rather: feel) is: what has been defined as sacred by our world’s religions, are diluted, meager, compromised representations of what it is, resulting in a set of rules saying: What It’s Supposed To Be.

Well, it isn’t supposed to be anything, it just IS.

And then, the following, everlasting, returning questions are:
Is that so?
Is it really?
Guiding me back to my initial contemplation:
Where does it leave me? Who am I? What am I doing?

The wavering trepidation in there, the searching, the authenticating;
welcome to my shamanic loophole, ladies and gentlemen.
And every time I’m wondering: what is my conclusion, is there a point to be made?
To only find there ultimately are no points, no conclusions to be made.
There only is: The Expression.

I’m starting to understand why mathematicians and physicists are seeking to capture everything into one single, elegant formula.

I am not equipped with such skills – art is my language.

From my memoirs ‘Tobacco – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness’
Love, Kiki Toao

THE SHAMANiC PLAYGROUND DiSASTER

At times I look at my life and I can’t help but to feel like a bystander observing a spectacle of a playground that’s been run over by some bulldozer.

And I’m watching all the kids crying, their parents waving their angry fists in indignance while one of them is shouting:

“What the HELL was that?!”

Then some skinny male authority figure with a pockmarked face responds by saying:

“Oh, don’t freak out! It’s only Shamanism.
Nothing to worry about.
Move along people, nothing to see here”.

From my memoirs ‘Tobacco – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness’
– By Kiki Toao

THE LAST THERAPiST

The last therapist I had the not-so-pleasure of talking to looked at me warily, while shifting her jaws manically from left to right (clearly on her own meds – excuse me, but it takes one to know one) and said (rolling her eyes from me to the ceiling, back and bouncing off the walls):

“Miss, what you are suffering from are merely practical problems.
We can not help you”.

Her skinny, super shiny blond apprentice nodded at me in pitiful agreement.
In a blink of a second I shifted from wanting to smack her in the face to embracing the bright, warm light offering to gain control of my mind which was envisioning how the camera in my soap opera would cut to a shot of the box of tissues falling off the pinewood table, accompanied by splattering noises and a dash of red here and there.
I squinted briefly, in final realization of what was exactly wrong here in this motion picture, and put a polite smile on my face to confront these people sitting there in front of me with. I stood up, stuck out my hand and said:
“Thank you m’am, miss”, and walked out the door calmly.
Walking through the corridors I let the years of sadness, frustration and confusion slip off my body and mind to leave it there, once and for all, on the linoleum floor of this building harbouring so-called mental health care.
Standing outside, looking up at the building, its windows shimmering in the February sun, I recalled the words of the shaman I had visited earlier that week:
“You can become a shaman”.
So I became one, that day.

–From my memoirs: ‘Tobacco – Curse and Blessing of a Shamaness’
By Kiki Toao