Talking Shit with God

Talking shit with god






 

Tonatiuh
 

It was a holy site. . . once. Now, even with the passages of time, jungle overgrowth, and erosion , the sanctity of the place wasn’t diminished. I stood before the large stone statue of Tonatiuh, Toltec god of sun and all of earth.  For my scholarly experience I was given the psychoactive Teonanácatl by a “journey master,” ancestor of Aztec heritage. He was there only to assure my safety in my journey. He was forbidden to speak or interact except to prevent me from hurting myself as I entered a spiritual state induced by the powers of the hallucinogenic mushroom that ancients called “God’s flesh.”   I drifted.  Lights danced around me though my eyes were closed.  I sensed an aura forming.  It made the damp cool chamber less intimidating. I addressed Tonatiuh, “What stories you must have.”   My comment was rhetorical.  I didn’t expect what happened next in the torch-lit chamber.

“Baby, way more sadness than memory.  Only groovy feelings left,” came forth in front of me.  From an old stone statue?   Could this be real?  An ancient Toltec beatnik?

“Did you actually speak, Tonatiuh,”  I asked aloud with no concern for embarrassment?

“It’s all cool, surfer; I have no mouth for gab, I only touch your mind, dreamweaver.” His words blowing upon me as if on winds were felt as real things that could touch my flesh. I was becoming focused within as my surroundings became irrelevant.

“Why is it, after all these centuries, do you talk to me?” I implored.

“Time is your restraint; just chill, daddy-o. I am heard because you are ready to hear me, and you know these mushrooms are good shit ” Tonatiuh echoed inside my head. I felt a warm breeze on my cheeks and my body felt as though it was becoming weightless.

I was enthralled and, now, eyes open, burst forth, “Please then, great one, give me some understanding.”

“Jack, there is no understand. There is only is. Belief in being.  To know more you must be beyond life; you dig?” he resonated within me.

Tonatiuh continued. “Tonight my sun illuminates you from inside. I shine on in, baby. You become enlightened and you expand beyond your physical. For a time, you are released from the corporal.  And that’s super-groovy.”

“O.K., then, what about life after death?“ I dared interject.

Quickly flowed the words, “Aww, man, answer yourself. Does the wind have life? Does love live?  Can stars be?   You were born with this answer. Corporal life withers and transcends. But there is being beyond. So go with the flow.  I am apparent here.  Does that comfort you in your quest? “

“But how am I comprehending you and what message do you bring?”   I thought I had formed words.

“Again, no understanding; don’t question; just feel. The shit is in you.”  This weird beatnik god handles me as if to an ignorant child,  an Indulgent and gentle god.

“Yes, ancient diety, I am feeling something. I just feel so confused, so questioning.”

“Jive on this,” came into me as I seemed to notice the statue no longer felt old or cold.  This was a manifestation, and it was so real. “You dig this poetry thing in your life. And it comes from places I have tripped. It distills your essence and it comes from good, man.  Practice it and you will embrace me and you will have a better space to be in. Yours can be so much more hip, you know. ”

“But, Tonatiuh, I am a Christian and it requires that I have one real God. How can I reconcile that with your being?”  I implored.

Again came a rush within my brain. “Dig it, man; first, I am not Tonatiuh. That is your attempt at understanding. You may tag me as you wish but I am beyond worship.  Better spend your allotted time in reflecting good, in purity.   It is. Call it Christian, Jewish, Buddhist, mystic, or what you wish, but beyond you is all and I am in the all, the eternal all.  I Am.  This representation and even these thoughts I give you  are not profound.  When you perform sacrifice, that is your scene, not the beyond.  There is no possession, no rebirth, nor is there forgiveness.  I say again, there just is.  And there is no thing you call blasphemy.  What you think or say does not change is.   I am beyond you. You are just caretakers in a small realm. Karma, man.”

I vexed, “I don’t know what to say;  this is just washing over me. I am experiencing things I never have before.”

“My within will leave you. My jive jazz ends. You will ponder. Your journey will return you, leaving you as if in a dream.  I will be but a question.”  The rumbling in my ears increased.

“Then, what can you leave me with?  What will I have to remember?” I desperately grasped.

“You’re a trip! O.K., remember me as the sound of laughter. Bongo beat.  A baby’s cry. A rasping wheeze in death. I am there. I am eternal hope. I am love. Hug it, man; can you dig? And, do not place me above any for I am part of you as you of me.  I do not represent. I just am. Finally, do not worry. It is thankless and does not change what is.  You got it?”  He was slipping away. I felt left behind. Alone.

I became aware of the torches and the gentle hands cradling me and wrapping me in coarse blankets. I fell to sleep.

I awoke to a warming rain and a pounding head (from the mushrooms?), remembering but snippets of the last night.  But I felt something within me, as if a flower had bloomed there. That feeling lasted only as long as the flight from Mexico City to Chicago; but the memory, ah yes, the memory that stayed. I do not understand what and why, but it is and I dig it, daddy.

The Author
 

-Jerry Wendt 2014