“This is how we feed the altar.”
Her thin white hands extended the dubious bottle toward me.
Thin,sharp,tasting of gasoline and the Amazon,I spit and it fell gracelessly,
puddling upon the jawbone.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
She walked circles about me, stopping in front of me. She placed my hands at prayer.
Her breath traced a line from the heel of my hands to my fingertips; she raised them
above my head. I heard and felt her circle me again. I felt her hands upon the crown
of my head.
A burst of breath was directed downward through her cupped hands into my skull.
Moving methodically, cupped hands to my spine; she sounded the length of me.
I resonated with her breath.Silently, she drew symbols upon my opened palms,
symbols of power. A tinksa sounded, temple bell to my awakening, my rebirth.
I opened my eyes. The air hung heavily with power.
Smoke woven candlelight encircled us. Creativity, birth, growth, all were her gifts
to me from the maelstrom of earthly excreta came a new being more powerful
than ever before. One who understood, Creativity does not exist in a sterile environment. Birth is a very messy business.