Archaism. The Sacred.
Sometimes I need to make myself a little bit bigger than I actually am, in order to maintain my health, balance and self preservation on this satanic wormhole ride called Shamanism.
Techno is Medicine to me, and soon I will be releasing my solo productions.
A woman needs to do something in order to hold her head up and heart intact.
‘Walk tall, Kiki, walk tall!’, my spirits implore me.
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
