“Free the line”

Paul Klee

I think I read the world’s first porno. A certain shaykh converts a pagan girl who ends up grovelling at his feet. This is her big moment of commune with God. Of course the book went in the bin, but it inspired this, and made me realise that, having read many spiritual classics over the years – NOT ONE speaks for me. Even the so-called goddess books are way too patriarchal, homophobic, and silly.

Much has been written about history (and hopefully will continue to be) if I make a comment about it it is merely the anarchist statement, I never agreed to any of it.

I suppose a new life is the new metaphysics, shaped by people, places (and if you’re of my ilk, Spirit).

Old people, and all I saw when I was little was vortexes, these mini hurricanes around which reality could shift like the weather, with simply a smile or a frown. I was drawn into this fabric, this dark grey realm, and it infected me.

There’s a long list of LGBT statements I could put on like a badge, but I’ll skip them, this piece is rather about metaphysics.

It centres around Woman.

If I could say, my ultimate picture of God it is female. If I talk about life, Nature, being, breathing, it all thrusts itself toward the female.

Her celestial face is on the horizon, and her hands plough the earth, and with her light, the palm tree outside my windows, blade-fingered is just so, that it touches the heart, trying to find how it all fits or works – the lot, the cosmopolitan flats, the round, round eyes, and my dreaming of her – somewhere, one of the survivors in this a malfunctioning simulation, a sunbeam at the end (the earth breaks free and suddenly the face of the statue of liberty)

Time: to blend. I don’t believe in a beginning or end, or even a cycle. Times a riddle akin to wind, this way, that way: which way again? And whence? And, why? At the same time you can deny reality you can deny your own existence. Wind in your hair blows leaves of a scale, a snake bites it’s own tail. “A chasing after wind” well, sit there, o Solomon, and then you will be one of the winds secrets.

Free sophia, the line, the child. As kids, out the back of our flat in Alexander St in St Kilda, was a weeping willow. Under her guidance we grew, played and fought. She wrapped us all up and wished us well, with her long green tresses. My metaphysical universe thus germinated. The alleys of blue stone. My gran and her accent. The closeness to the beach. And the little girls. The expectations about dressing for school. How to be ladylike. Two older brothers. And fun.

At school, A- who I intended to marry, and then she left. And religious education. Looking at a pamphlet, killing jesus, killing me, killing hundreds of thousands but mostly women. A closed pamphlet, a familiar desert, but only men could go there, that was my distinct impression. The murderers murdering, a soul to be murdered by a book.

So, in place of me, my sovereign place, they wanted to transplant their male face, to switch place. To take my power, in the name of male superiority, and logic.

Pull this psychoanalytic manoeuvre, this switch, and the goal, binding my soul to man, would be accomplished. Then it’s a life of heterosexuality, conformity, lies, and submission to the male. A sleight of hand.

I never sold my soul, tho. I didn’t accept this, and I REBELLED utterly and completely.

It reiterates, this pattern.

The one who calls himself god, Man, thinks he has taken gods place. But it’s a charade, and always has been. So convinced of his divinity and superiority, he believes he is all powerful. They even claim I like them. Not to mention the biggest lie in history, poor sapphos end. Bootstraps, some of them are physically stronger, yes, the rest you grant them, bootstraps.

Paraphrases seem appropriate here. In every society men control women’s sexuality. And no matter how far we think we’ve come power remains in the hands of elite males.

Pyramid? I’m more of the Foucault type: microbenefits: incremental but insidious: 5 milliseconds faster for $5 cheaper in a 5 year contract, making you feel better than the refugee who still archaically breastfeeding her child overboard.

In other words the fact that anyone would feel they have a right to say what my sexuality is, implies they believe they have the same right over women in general.

The LGBT movement was not successful in lesbian sexuality being free from control. For thos reason whatever freedoms appear, could at any moment be rescinded.

Thinking all this, feeling blue, feeling this way, walking into hospital in love with one woman and coming out enamoured of anothers beauty, she who slips like a bird, child of the sun, she alights thought to thought, bridge to dancing bridge, where dreams merge.

All I could say to her, but, well, I can’t, so I’ll keep talking about myself haha.

So these feelings I have, how do you tell people you know everything about them?

Saying that, I also meet an intellectual challenge: where does metaphysics – balance between masculine and feminine enter into this picture I have painted of a living goddess?

I really believe this is a stumbling block, THE spiritual contention, every spiritual lesbian must face. And I will demolish it as a thinly veiled homophobia.

Masculine and feminine are like saying you can’t worship god/dess there as that brick is square and that one round.

To divert into a return: a friend said to me of late to draw on the wisdom traditions. Yet, as I said, none speak for me. Feminism misses the mark. And spiritualists are thinly veiled bigots, usually. How can my feminine soul seek only the feminine, if the God within can only be male? Yet if there is no male, I believe there still can be God/dess.

There is nothing written about how I feel.

Woman for woman and woman alone. Woman above, woman below.

Throwing off a mountain of trash, of a lie, masquerading as philosophy, used to subjugate the highest summit which at the same moment is the oceans softest, most precious, secret pearl, which is the oceans heart, the bottom of which, unknown or forgotten, because plato did not say it – the Holy Grail, Atlantis, call what you will the abode of lesbian love, I call her G-

Cal Kalve