|smoking fire cycle
the old scottish druid, a doctor in a suit and tie, smiled as he entered the hallway. a big flashing greeting of teeth and eyes burning with joy and mischief. his hand came up from his jacket pocket with a white cigarette held between refined, distinguished fingers. moments before he had been talking to us about homoeopathy and levitation and breath, and here he was about to 'smoke'. I looked at him with a cheeky curiosity. he grinned and stepped into the moment with the ease of a zen master. "ah, yes. but really, I don't smoke. it smokes me. all I do is agree to burn myself in sacrifice. i'm a good lamb." and his eyes sparkled like a prankster, looking to see if his seed had taken root in me. I laughed and grinned back knowingly, as if I'd heard him say this many times before. like a familiar echo. yet it was a well posed youthful ignorance, the way we have of making sure not to look too stupid. it was years before his smoke gave its meaning. -- dulwich, london, 1971
drawing in this deep
burning fire is re-enacting the dragon. the smoke contains microscopic
bits of flaming heat that flash through thousands of portals, rushing
into and scarifying the lungs. feeling that deep fire wound is a peak
moment of satisfaction, a definitive point in the cycle of fire breathing.
and then the exhalation like a triumph of passion, a heroic blowing
out of the charred bits of self in a fine dusty smoke, a dedication to
mystery of all cycles of appearance and disappearance. and to life
and death too, of course.
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