Thursday, February 13, 2014

Day 32: Vishuddha... Paryshana water fast of enlightenment day 5


“..The artist now submitted completely; his head lolled on his breast as if it had landed there by chance; his body was hollowed out; his legs in a spasm of self preservation clung close to each other at the knees, yet scraped on the ground, as if it were not really solid ground, as if they were only trying to find solid ground; as if the whole weight of his body, a featherweight after all, relapsed…”
                                                                --Franz Kafka, Hunger Artist
Day five I feel clean. It’s like a quantum custodial staff kicked a sudsy janitorial bucket and mopped the interior terminal of my forearms. I’m not tingling. I’m not pooping anything that resembles soup kitchen dregs. I’m still dizzy, the recalcitrant marrow has abandoned the caps of my knees supplanting them with globular gobs of licorice. The room is tilting. It’s as if I’m crucified to the flimsy petal of a pinwheel leftover from childhood, still, the concourse and avenues of my arteries feel clean—as if sprayed with streaks of windex before being doused with a bucket of bleach. I don’t feel like I’m ambling around the overturned ice-cube tray that is West Peoria in the meanest winter we have had in three years. I feel clean, and the catharsis is this: with the exception of a gaveling pulse and a Pandora chastity box fraught with thudding literary dreams there is nothing inside of me at all.
We don’t realize the machinery of our bodies is  operating, anatomical molecules adorned in hardhats marshaling the assurance of our bodily organs, the drapey fungus of the liver, filtering out unwarranted debris, the bulbous kidney beakers distilling nutrients, the serpentine Hot wheels kiddie race track of my large and small intestines ushering white-trash cooler NASCAR events below the serrated lid of my umbilicus, all happening, 24-7 as if operated by scaffolded Doozers a la Fraggle Rock, my body, an infinite orgy of activity I ferry around with me at all times, oblivious to the to the blue-collar operating every egg-timing quantum pinch of both my waking and sleeping existence, finally after 36.5 years (shit) getting a long overdue smoke break.
How can the anatomical cigar-chomping boss one consciousness be so fucking pernicious to the employees operating the machinery inside of him…
 Still tilting. Still seeing blooming Fraggles and winking dots everywhere I look…  
Mediation: the fifth chakra is located the level of the larynx and is called Vishuddha. It means purified, or purging out the animalistic system, so, in the immortal maxim of Ramakrishna, “When the Kundalini reaches this plane the devotee longs to talk and to hear only of God.”
The lotus has sixteen petals, each bearing the engraftment of one of sixteen Sanskrit vowels. The lotus petals are of the same pending lavender thunder-cloud hue of Chakra 3, manipura, as Joseph Campbell orchestrates in his exquisite lecture, “ The energy formally projected out into conquering others is project in into conquering self.”
Meditation has been arduous since my attention span is zippo I can feel my stomach beginning to roar only a muted ripple avails itself.
This being valentine’s day eve, I meditated on chakra five on the most beautiful poem I know. There’s a lot of love poems I recite in my poetry readings (ie, the 4th stanza of Whitman’s I SING THE BODY ELECTRIC, Shakespeare’s sonnet 116, Sharon Old’s Topography) but if I had to choose one lotus-chakra opening poem to recite to the human beings whose limbs and lips correlate with every metaphysical pulse  of my being, it would be this one by Rumi b’low:

This Valentine’s Day  may the hunger for spiritual growth, universal kindness and streams of joy unbutton the charka of love inside of us all.

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