Through these hills I am walking
In search for my healing and
for guidance by God
Or anyone out there,
who please could just help me
Down these rivers I follow
The stream going upwards
Wading through sorrow
To wash my pain away
Oh, over these mountains
I carry this shipload, my burden
The burden of a thousand cultures
Destroyed by the misery of stones
Who else could please save me
And lead me to tomorrow
To reach down within me
And bless me with rain
These teardrops are falling
Through skin, bone and marrow
Make strings full of joyment
And laughter today
From my memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness‘
By KiKi TOAO
I don’t know how I made it through.
I really just don’t fucking know.
My spirits said I managed to bring a whole new dimension to the phrase unconditional love.
And for once I agree.
Shamanism, the alchemy and magickal power of words.
I have wondered so many times if I was a total egotistical megalomaniac for believing in myself and my visions.
The truth is, it was time for me to show the decency and modesty to acknowledge the power I possess.
And stand for it!
‘You gotta OWN it’, is what is said.
Well, same goes for Shamanism.
Maybe even in particular.
So, what I did was:
I woke myself the Hell up, and I went against all the odds.
I went against my own (and other people’s) skepticism.
And I surrendered, that’s how I made it through.
Trust me, I made every goddamn sacrifice there was to make, in order to take a stand and make that Chicano U-Turn.
And now my life has almost reached the point of singularity.
I stopped searching.
For I know It, to have found Me.
And now I’m just waiting to cross the Event Horizon.
From my memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness’
By KiKi TOAO
Painting the kitchen cabinets.
And apparently he’s also building a shed in the garden.
I just rolled myself the umteenth cigarette this early Saturday morning.
I am smoking way too fucking much, but I’m allowing myself to for now.
I’ll figure out a way to quit smoking again.
But I just don’t care right now.
‘I want you in good shape when I arrive’.
Sure you do.
When you arrive?
IF, you mean.
I am fucking sick and tired of them.
Sick and brutally tired.
The number of men who made promises with me are countless by now.
Or actually not that countless.
Perhaps you wouldn’t think so, but I’m actually a pretty good girl.
There have been only ten men in my life.
And I’ll tell you one thing: I am done.
Done in and done for.
If this is not going to work out, I think I will move out of the country nevertheless.
I will not get my dreams ruined, by any man.
It’s a promise I made to myself.
You can all go fuck yourselves, you here me?!
Let’s just make fucking plans for you to arrive to come pick me up.
Why the Hell not.
And yeh, sure, let’s make that the week before my birthday party on 24th of August.
What’s that, Tuesday 20 August?
We’d have a couple of days to ‘get acquainted’ with one another before I throw your gut down the arena and have you deal with my friends.
I have a feeling you don’t really trust me on the idea that you are more than a 1000% welcome in my circle of friends and family, that you’ve got this idea in your head they will be waiting for you with machetes ready to cut you up and drink your blood.
But I know at least one friend who would start crying wildly herself if she saw me with you, happily united after all.
And yes, baby, she’s a black woman.
You got that right.
And she’ll be there for sure.
Who is this I am talking to anyway?
It’s all been one freaking fucking delusion lately.
And now this delusion is speaking with me and saying he is building a shed in his garden.
Isn’t that just amazing?
He’s saying his bachelor sized house in Los Angeles is too small to host me and my creativity.
My studio at home now is about 16 square meters, just big enough for a table with sewing machine, altars and a crazy amount of clothing, fabrics, other materials and shoes.
And that’s only half of it.
The rest of it, plus my paintings, beautiful boxes installation and what not, are stored in the attic.
And I’m not even talking of my studio equipment yet.
But supposedly I will get space for that on base?
Right. Excellent idea!
I think it would be best to have me take my job in a shelter then, because what about my banging techno music? It would only be a matter of courtesy towards my neighbours to have me work in the underground on my music production and DJing, right where it belongs.
And you’re absolutely right in thinking it would make me feel more comfortable as well, because I’m freaking tired of being harassed and judged by neighbours.
When in need of daylight, I’ll just come out of my dungeon – and it’s too fucking hot out there anyway, in the middle of the desert.
Would be amazing if I could smoke in there, by the way.
I still think it’s an amazingly wild idea to just fucking move in with a U.S. fucking Marine in fucking Barstow in The United Fucking States, in the middle of the fucking freaking desert, of all fucking places!
WHOA YEH That’s MY idea of an adventure, alright!
I can totally imagine myself having my own office on base, and finally have the opportunity to unleash my untouched gift for mathematics in a controlled, supervised but most of all: applicable fashion.
Ah yes! That would be about time, man, phew…
It would be a total dream come true.
I have been dreaming once of a place, located on the corner of a street; lots of glass walls everywhere and surrounded by windows – a residential spot, and there wouldn’t be much of privacy because when you’d walk down the stairs, you’d end up in the hallway with doors to other people’s quarters.
That yours baby?
That was the whole plan, wasn’t it: me moving in with you at your quarters on base?
I clearly remember receiving all that funny information about your kitchen there; supposedly I had to bring some doorknobs and especially think about my need for proper lighting, because your kitchen would definitely be too dark to my taste.
You see me do it?
Move in with a U.S. Marine?
Just like that?
Well, I fucking do.
I remember one of my friends getting angry with me on the phone when he’d heard out about my plans:
‘OF COURSE, Kiki! Of course you’re just gonna move in with some fucking G.I. Joe whom you haven’t even met yet!
GOOD FUCKING IDEA!’.
The dick’s the kind of guy who goes sailing half way Europe and defies the fucking Gulf of Biscay on his own, but I guess he just didn’t see me doing something similar.
Well, that’s just too fucking bad for him.
You should know I have been waiting for six years for this man to arrive in my life.
One of the first things I said to him was:
‘I’ve seen you coming’.
Because: it was fucking predicted.
And I happen to be the kind of woman who blindly trusts on Spirit guidance.
But you know, let’s just say things have been ‘rather difficult’ lately.
And I am definitely understating that.
If I told you what we have already been through, you wouldn’t believe it.
You have my word for it.
And we just imagined ourselves to sit back to back on the floor, both exhausted to the bone.
And we would laugh of relief, and say:
‘Shiiiiiiiiiit, dude. What the Fuck was THAT?!’.
The vision makes me smile, against my better judgment.
Apart from the lack of space in the house, the dog is also a consideration.
Imagine what a three feet tall German shepherd would do to my dear, poor, lovely shoes.
He would love to pull the lacy bits of my precious costumes and maybe even choke on some bead for my jewelry creation.
I can imagine him go crazy ravenous on my fetish boots.
NO WAY, Lance!
You’s a bad boy.
So yeah. Makes total sense to build a shed.
Thank you baby?
Nah. Forget it.
I’ll do the thanking later.
If at all.
Yeah, I’ve got a whole collection of old style porcelain doorknobs, the kind you wanna die for, so beautiful.
A couple of nice hand grips also.
Apparently your kitchen is in typical bachelor’s condition, baby?
And what it takes is a woman to arrive in your life to have you fix it, because you’re all:
‘Well, it opens and closes, doesn’t it?’ about it?
Sure baby, makes total sense to me.
And guess what?
I fucking packed the grips and knobs already.
And yeah, they’re still all in place and fucking ready to be transported on a fucking plane, indeed, goddammit!
Those suitcases I bought last summer?
All still here.
Wouldn’t even DARE to bring them back to the store.
Yeah, I fucking unpacked them alright.
What do you think?
I need my fancy clothes on a regular basis.
I even bought YOU a freaking suitcase, you know?
Yeah, one of those stupid posh motherfuckers for a suit to go right in for travel, neatly tucked away on a coat hanger, and come out ready to wear.
But you know what?
Don’t worry yourself over it.
It was my pleasure.
Maybe I’ll make that a birthday present for ya.
If yo lucky.
I nearly killed myself for being so forthright, you know?
You should have seen the fucking place in here, it was a goddamn warzone on itself.
It was God Damn MOTHER-FUCKiNG brutal M.A.Y.H.E.M.!
For the second time!
But hey, you know what, I consider it to have been a rehearsal packing.
I am that awfully practical about it.
But I trust you can imagine me to be somewhat cynical about the whole thing.
Just a tiny little bit, baby.
Just a liiiiiittle bit.
One I recently bought is a beautiful pine cone shaped wooden doorknob.
Really gorgeous, and I think it would indeed fit perfectly on the door of my newly built studio:
The Shed, My New Shelter.
From my memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness‘
By KiKi TOAO
I have been having a strong notion of already getting to know this man, his daily attitude and behaviour, temperament, sense of humor, uplifting presence, knowledge and caretaking mentality, plus the sacrifices he is, in his turn, already making:
Painting the kitchen cabinets.
His insecure indecisiveness about whether to choose gold to cover the typical American pinewood doors with.
This man knows an artist who is very, VERY particular about home decoration will be living with him very soon.
Admittedly very cute, but terribly annoying.
I was laying with my head flat faced in a pillow while Rombout was sitting on top of me, and I thought:
‘Yeh. You know what?!
SURE baby, paint the fuckers gold.
For God’s sake. JEEZ!’
What to do with the decorative elements.
‘What? Do it yourself!’
Nooooooo, he wanted me to do it.
I received a mental projection of Japanese style painted branches and leafs, with colored accents in black, red and white.
I agreed it would for sure look amazing on the golden doors, and yes, I admitted I am the one who knows what she’s doing.
But you know, I was kind of in the middle of something; Rombout was now twisting my right arm in a somewhat uncomfortable position, and my shoulder cracked.
The negotiation was going so fast, I at first hardly recognised it for what it was and especially, whom with.
I was being overwhelmed with this image of very ugly kitchen cabinet doors, however, and I recognised them from the pictures I had seen on his Instagram account.
And I thought:
Usually he’d inquire first what I’m doing, who I’m with, etcetera, or he’d just drop in unannounced, out of body, la-dee-dah-dee, just like that as if it’s the natural order of things, and then just start meddling with everything as if he fucking owns the place.
But now I was just seeing those damn hideous pinewood doors with my third eye, and the issue seemed kind of very urgent:
A man in distress about what colors to pick!
It all went so fast I failed to be assertive and tell him:
‘Baby, you are disturbing just a tiny little bit because I am receiving a Shiatsu massage right here, about, – how far would it be? -, 10.000 kilometers away from you?
Could it just please wait until a somewhat more convenient moment?’.
But you know, he’d probably have said:
Because that’s what he’s like, so that wouldn’t have made any difference at all.
I gave in and said:
‘Sure. FINE! I’ll do it!’.
For crying out loud. Really.
I started laughing.
Rombout inquired what was so funny, now folding and stretching my legs, and I said I would tell him later.
I was in such a relaxed state, I figured the dialogue was not just something coming from my wishful imagination.
And I am used to these mental projections coming in so strong from or enhanced by Spirit communication, so I thought it must had been real.
Reinvigorated by Rombout’s massage I was afterwards lying on the couch, letting what I had experienced sink in.
I giggled joyfully amused and felt humorously irritated, and I considered taking repercussions.
A shaman woman’s gotta do what a shaman woman’s gotta do!
I told Rombout about my experience, and his first response to that was concern, to which he added this wasn’t good for me at all.
But when I told him about my naughty little plan he immediately started laughing out loud and said:
‘Good idea. Go on then.’
For quite a long time I had been simply frightened of even thinking about visiting his Instagram profile again, but now I felt more than a hundred percent confident, and challenged to the max.
I thought about it for an extra thirty seconds, then took a deep breath, and went for it.
I had to unblock him first, then I sent the following message:
‘Could you please do me a favor and make up your own goddamn mind about the color of your kitchen cabinets?
I was just receiving a good relaxing massage’.
After, I blocked him again, and tested with Rombout’s phone if people still receive your messages if you block them.
And so, there you go, I just broke the mold by solving an average daily domestic issue, partially telepathically through the spiritual ether, partially through our so beloved convenience of social media texting.
A harmless leap of faith this time. Phew.
Main reason for blocking him is that, even if he would respond to my text, I don’t want to be communicating online with him anymore;
I am so done with it.
I want him on my doorstep, for real, and nothing else.
My self respect and borders as a woman are overruling my longing for acknowledgement of and proof for my ideas about what’s going on, for that matter.
And just now, the morning after, I was contemplating my optimism, faith and loyalty, and I have to admit I am awfully amazed with myself, with how I am expressing such strong motivations by my seemingly premature, however clearcut, decision making and open communication.
Because here’s a woman who has made up her mind, – a year ago already! -, and nothing, absolutely nothing, has changed in that.
For my willingness to live by the principles of unconditional love and trust in Spirit guidance, for believing in love at first sight and taking responsibility and action out of sheer enthusiasm, I have asked myself so many times during these past twelve months:
‘Am I weird for being this way?’.
To which I received a straight up, blunt answer this morning:
‘What makes YOU so goddamn unique?’.
And I imagine this kind of rejoinder to be coming straight from him.
And while I was just smoking my tobacco roll up I thought:
‘He is so right’.
And I am positive we would both agree on the idea that this is exactly what we would both describe as ‘God in ourselves’, that’s giving us the power, courage and strength to go about our lives in such a manner.
From my memoirs ‘Tobacco – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness‘
By Kiki Toao
I experience to be lying in front of me, as a future calling, is
something I don’t even believe myself.
This calling, it has
grabbed a hold of me, captivated me in suspension and anticipation of
what is about to happen in, hopefully, the near future.
am tired, very tired.
Tired of waiting.
Tired of fake
Tired of lies and deceit.
Or at least, this is what
it has seemed to be so far: one big trap of betrayal and deceit.
have been given a very big fucking reason to mistrust everything and
everyone I have experienced and communicated with spiritually so
My mind is desperately struggling to separate the wheat from the chaff, to distinguish truth and reality from make belief and wishful thinking.
have given up going against it.
“I surrender! I SURRENDER, ALRiGHT?!”, is one of my most important prayers at the moment.
I am doing the best I can to accept this possible future happenstance as a real possibility (and opportunity) and take every single bit of responsibility for it.
am very fortunate and ultimately blessed with a few, but very
trustworthy, loving friends and family members.
People who have faith and confidence in me, no matter what I decide to do.
People who have faith and confidence in my capabilities and distinctiveness.
People who admire me for my courage and my realization and acceptance of the necessity of taking risks, and taught me to do the very same: have faith and confidence in myself.
Boy-oh-boy, I need lots of that.
It is my dutiful task as a shaman to take responsibility for what is being presented to me; something I know to be going beyond my willpower, beyond our oh-so-beloved Western concept of freedom of choice.
For years have I been working on these visions, visions being imposed on me during shamanic initiation years ago. Visions I thought at the time to be purely random, chaotic, sprouting from my imagination and, most of all, not making any sense.
imagine yourself in a situation where you, as a skeptical, rational
reasoning human being, are observing such visions to become reality
one by one, almost as if you are watching some Powerpoint
presentation during a meeting in the office, ticking off every bullet
point from your checklist.
All of them, apart from two.
“Hmmm”, you’re wondering mindfully, “is this just me, or…?”
What conclusions to draw from this presentation?
No one knows for sure.
Tick tock, says the clock.
And I’m just wondering, and wondering and contemplating and…
You know what?
Welcome to Shamanism.
Over & Out,
From: ‘Tobacco – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness’
By Kiki Toao
Mature before Love was even invented,
The Beast was
High on speed
A wounded heart
Amidst the soil of a broken home
Shattered glass everywhere
On television a woman shouted:
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
My broken heart
In the midst, however
Of this Holy Night and Wishful Moon
We expressed our deepest desires
And you said
You wanted to Learn
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
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.
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
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?
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.