SwitchDomHoodNess

So. Yesterday I was in conversation with some dude who calls himself a Dom, and I basically freaked the shit out of him.

First of all he didn’t like the fact I am a Switch at all.
He said: ‘A Switch is okay to me, but I will never switch.’

So that makes me wonder why he’s talking to me in the first place, right?

In general my experience is that for some reason these Doms seem to find it necessary to question my Switchdom/hood/ness (how I am I supposed to define this anyway?).

My wildly educated guess is they see some kind of challenge in me, let’s put it like that.

Next thing you know is I’m telling him about this previous lover of mine who took a hike in total fear (he was almost about to scream) from the graveyard we were visiting.
It must have been my witchywatchy shamanic superpower he felt somewhat chased by, and the guy couldn’t help himself but to keep running away, leaving no less than 400 meters between us.

Please note it was broad daylight.

Next thing you know is I gave this guy I was talking to yesterday some insight in what could possibly happen if we were to meet up for real, and I felt the necessity to confront him with above anecdote. 

Plus the idea that, if we would reach ‘those certain higher atmospheres’ during ‘ceremony’, he shouldn’t be surprised when spirit power kicks in with me ultimately, making him see his grandmother’s face shine through me for example, and that, before he knows it, I could start conjuring up personal information about her and point out paintings previously owned by her hanging on his wall afterwards under her guidance.

Now, I am not sure if these paintings are actually present in his house (these things happen also very often), but I also mentioned the idea he would probably become aware of my spirit guides gathering around us, keeping an eye on the situation, making sure I am safe.

And he said he considered himself to be open-minded, but this was going really too far to his taste, and he called off the idea of going on a date.

My guess is he realised he would be screwed anyhow if he would go too far, even in the case of leaving me for dead, tied down in chains.

From ‘BLACK LEATHER DEATH SQUAD’
By KiKi TOAO
Whoa yeh.

—-

By the way: did you know the pre-releases of my upcoming album ‘HOMECOMiNG’ are out now on Shamaniac Records?

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