Natural Born Mystic™. Ascension Discourse on Love Pt Xlll. The Misogyny & Fascism Series ll. Empathy At Last ll. Muriel’s Wedding. Amera Ziganii Rao

Lolita Feminism ll. A Self Portrait 

Natural Born Mystic™. Ascension Discourse on Love Pt Xlll. The Misogyny & Fascism Series ll. Empathy At Last ll. Muriel’s Wedding. Amera Ziganii Rao

Open Expression. The Story of The Time. The I Ching  

Open is the Joyous Dancer, the wu or spirit-medium who calls down, mates with and speaks for the shen or spirits. She is instrumental in opening the fields in spring, going up to the Mountain Shrine to meet the Tiger Spirit and bringing back the fates of beings who are rejoining the human community. She is the Young Ancestress who conceives by stepping in a footprint of Di, the High Lord, or becomes pregnant after swallowing the egg of the Dark Bird. In all things, she is the mediator, the one whose inspiring words bring joy. We see her in the luminous vapours rising from open waters, fertile marshes and sunlit lakes and in the words from people’s mouths that connect and inspire us. Her character is also read as joy, delight and pleasure (yue). 

She is words that connect people, and she presides over the marketplace where people come together and news passes from mouth to mouth. She inspires sexuality and satisfaction, expressed as the moment when the harvest is home and the winter secure. She is the stimulating and loosening one, persuasive speech, delight and freedom from constraint, the Joyous Dancer whose words make the spirit present here among us. 

As a spirit guide Open leads through joy and cheering words, magic and pleasure. She dances with the shen and feels the spirit in her body and gives it words. She is rising mists and open water. She gladdens all things that welcome her. She is a dancing goat and a sheep. In the body, Open acts through the lungs, skin and nervous system, regulating the rhythm of life, making energy descend and disperse. It connects the surface with the central nervous system, and is involved in sexual stimulation and the power of inner images. 

Open/Expression 58. I Ching. Stephen Karcher Translation 

Archangel Michael 

“I am with you, giving you the courage to make life changes that will help you work on your Divine life purpose.” 

“I have come to you because you asked God (Goddess) for safety and protection, and because you asked about your life purpose. Since you are a light-worker, I am overseeing the fruition of your Divine life purpose. You have been a lightworker for a long time, and you have felt different from others, isolated at times. Be assured that you have never been alone, and that you never will be alone.” 

“When you feel pushed to make a change at work or at home, that may be my influence, encouraging you to make your life’s purpose a high priority. I can rearrange your schedule and support you in other ways to make your path smooth and harmonious. Simply ask me, and it is done. I will also help you feel safe and comfortable during your life’s changes.” 

Online Source 

Your Body. The physical sensory aspect of your self. Enables you to experience your own separate life, ‘here and now’, on the material level of reality. 

Your Soul. The psychic, feeling aspect of your self. Enables you to experience the immaterial, unconscious level of reality. 

Your Mind. The conscious, thinking aspect of your self. Enables you to experience the rational, mental level of reality. 

Your Spirit. The animating enlivening aspect of your self. Enables you to generate the energy to make things happen on your other 3 levels of reality. 

Online Source 

There’s no green there. They killed their Mother and they’re going to do the same here. Jake Sully. James Cameron’s Avatar 

I was COUNTING on your being an insubordinate bastard. Ross to Harry Palmer. Sidney J. Furie’s The Ipcress File 

You have a once in a generation mind. Said to President Bartlett. Aaron Sorkin’s The West Wing 

Between the desire and the spasm, between the potency and the existence, between the essence and the descent, falls the shadow. TS Eliot 

Constance Collier on Marilyn Monroe 

(Constance Collier (22 January 1878 – 25 April 1955) was an English stage and film actress and acting coach.)

Oh, yes, there is something there. She is a beautiful child. I don’t think she’s an actress at all, not in any traditional sense. What she has – this presence, this luminosity, this flickering intelligence – could never surface on the stage. It’s so fragile and subtle, it can only be caught by the camera. It’s like a hummingbird in flight; only a camera can freeze the poetry of it. But anyone who thinks this girl is simply another Harlow or harlot or whatever, is mad. I hope, I really pray, that she survives long enough to free the strange, lovely talent that’s wandering through her like a jailed spirit. 

Constance Collier. 1955

The Wheel of Time. Carlos Castaneda 

Death is our eternal companion. It is always to our left, an arm’s length behind us. Death is the only wise adviser that a warrior has. Whenever he (she) feels everything is going wrong and he’s (she’s) about to be annihilated, he (she) can turn to his (her) death and ask if that is so. His (her) death will tell him (her) that he (she) is wrong, that nothing really matters outside its touch. His (her) death will tell him (her), “I haven’t touched you yet.” 

Journey to Ixtlan. The Wheel of Time. Carlos Castaneda 

When a warrior makes the decision to take action, he (she) should be prepared to die. If he (she) is prepared to die, there shouldn’t be any pitfalls, any unwelcome surprises, any unnecessary acts. Everything should gently fall into place, because he (she) is expecting nothing. 

Tales of Power. The Wheel of Time. Carlos Castaneda 

The first principle of the art of stalking is that warriors choose their battleground. A warrior never goes into battle without knowing what the surroundings are. 

The Eagle’s Gift. The Wheel of Time. Carlos Castaneda 

A warrior is never under siege. To be under siege implies that one has personal possessions that could be blockaded. A warrior has nothing in the world except his (her) impeccability, and impeccability cannot be threatened. 

The Eagle’s Gift. The Wheel of Time. Carlos Castaneda 

Rumi 

A thousand half-loves must be forsaken to take one whole heart home. Rumi

Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy, absentminded. Someone sober will worry about things going badly. Let the lover be. Rumi 

Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along. Rumi 

Don’t listen to anything I say. I must enter the centre of the fire. 

Fire is my child, but I must be consumed and become fire. 

Why is there crackling and smoke? Because the firewood and the flames are still talking about each other. 

“You are too dense. Go away!” “You are too wavering. I have solid form.” 

In the blackness those friends keep arguing Like a wanderer with no face. Like the most powerful bird in existence sitting on its perch, refusing to move. 

You bind me, and I tear away in rage top open out into air, a round brightness, a candlepoint, all reason, all love. 

This confusing joy, your doing, this hangover, your tender thorn. 

You turn to look, I turn. I’m not saying this right. 

I am a jailed crazy who ties up spirit-women. I am Solomon. 

What goes comes back. Come back. We never left each other. 

A disbeliever hides disbelief, but I will say his secret. 

More and more awake, getting up at night, spinning and falling in love with Shams. 

Rumi 

(One interpretation for Shams is the Arabic word for "sun")

"Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds." Albert Einstein 

The male is not less the soul, nor more . . . . he (she) too is in his (her) place, 

He (she) too is all qualities . . . . he (she) is action and power . . . . the flush of the known universe is in him (her)...Walt Whitman 

Wealth is the slave of a wise man (woman); the master of a fool. Seneca

Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope. ~ Maya Angelou 

You can find the beauty in anything if you look with the intent of finding. Lorane Gordon 

"To become what one is, one must not have the faintest idea what one is." 

Ecce Homo. Friedrich Nietzsche 

OK so tomorrow is National Noodle Day. A noodle is food, made famous by Marco Polo for those of you that don't know how to use Google. . William Shatner

Anais Pt lll. A Self Portrait 

Let's Read About Sex. The New York Times 

Writing about sex can be uniquely powerful — and perilous. A group of novelists, memoirists and poets tell us about working blue: what novels first inspired them, what nouns they strive to avoid and who they think writes sex best.

Why is writing about sex so difficult?

GEOFF DYER: Sex scenes are difficult to write partly because the choice of verbs and nouns is so limited. You can mint new verbs — one of Martin Amis’s characters speaks of having “Mailered” a woman — but this tends to take us into the realm of comedy, and sex, if it’s going well, is not comic. Even when it’s going badly, i.e., not going at all, it tends to be embarrassing rather than funny. Because having sex with someone for the first time is a leap into another reality — one moment you’re having drinks, the next you’re doing stuff you have dreamed of since you were 13 — it seems to demand a shift into a new register. Except, it seems, if you’re writing about gay male sex. In Alan Hollinghurst’s novels you get these day-to-day scenes, described in meticulous, almost classical prose, and then, without any change of gear, we are in a demotic tangle of body parts.

Writing my first novel in the 1980s, at the height of the feminist terror, when men were obliged to accept that dungarees were a form of lingerie, anything approaching a heterosexual equivalent was unthinkable. There’s a kiss in that book of mine and then, in the style of old movies, we dissolve to black. This was handy but out of keeping with everything else in the book, which was quite explicit: if a character picked up a cup, you could see the coffee in it. So in subsequent novels I decided that if people went into the bedroom, I had to follow and dutifully record whatever went on there. The result? Well, the virtue of pornography is that it makes films like “The Double Life of Véronique” seem vulgarly dishonest by comparison. By these lights the best writing about sex often seems pornographic rather than artful.

Dyer’s most recent novel is “Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi.”

RACHEL KUSHNER: I don’t think of sex as any more difficult to write about than any other human behavior. Writers fail or soar at anything. Everyone thinks about sex, engages in it. It’s the secret we all share. Just acknowledging its constant presence in people’s thoughts is a good direction for a novelist. Of the books I like, it could be argued that sex is infused into every cadence, even if never explicitly. And “not explicit” doesn’t mean that the prudish kiss leads to the prissy dissolve, but that characters are motored by desire. The authors I admire most seem to render an erotic force field on every page. DeLillo melds nuclear war and Texas college football in “End Zone,” and it’s hot. Rage, too, is about sex (consider Euripides’ Medea). So is despair (“Miss Lonelyhearts”). Then there is plain old unvarnished lust, front and center in many of my favorite works: the poetry of the French troubadours and of Baudelaire, the novels of Genet, the weird louche America of William Gaddis’s “Recognitions.” It’s a nice image that the patchwork quilt at the Spouter Inn matches Queequeg’s patchwork-tattooed arms, but what distinguishes flesh from quilt is touch: a warm weight thrown over Ishmael. Some writer recently claimed somewhere that “Moby-Dick” has no sex in it. I find that idea strange. See what you want, Melville fan who is blind to buddy love. “Buddy” relates to “bunkie,” which means “bedmate,” and that is what Ishmael is to Queequeg, in their very first encounter.

Kushner’s is the author of the novels “The Flamethrowers” and “Telex From Cuba.”

TONI BENTLEY: It is not difficult to write about sex. It is impossible. Like its sister intimacies prayer and dance, sex is a live, three-dimensional (well, O.K., four- or five- if your cylinders are firing) happening, and black squiggles on a flat, dry page are, at best, a nostalgic distortion of a done deal — and usually skip the lube. Ouch! As I said, impossible. But being perverted, I mean perverse, I have always thought it would be a good idea to try. Besides, guaranteed failure has a thrilling upside: freedom.

Sex is hard in words. Stories seduce a different part of the brain — the one that, er, thinks — while the erotic brain slithers insidiously toward vile visuals, debauched behaviors, absurd positions and stadium settings, while the merest mention of monogamy or fidelity will render Casanova’s cane limp and Cleopatra’s Nile dry. The real triggers of lust are rarely the food of great literature, an experience of word-to-mind: sex is body-to-mind.

While the Marquis de Sade, Henry Miller, Pauline Réage (Anne Desclos), Pierre Louÿs, Jean de Berg (Catherine Robbe-Grillet), John Wilmot, Pietro Aretino, Erica Jong, Georges Bataille and ever reliable Anonymous remain the usual worthy salacious suspects, my gold star goes elsewhere, to those who really do it best: horny women. Think of those whose filthy, uncensored fantasies froth forth in Nancy Friday’s collections, like Vesuvius upended, silencing the sentimental soft-core of Anaïs Nin and E. L. James in a single eruption. Here, unconsidered desire slices swiftly to the core of lust, and with their — our — trailer-trash orgies of incest, bestiality, rape, pedophilia, domination and submission, whoredom and heterosexual lesbianism we eat our cake before baking it. And leave men reeling in trailer blowback.

Wrong is hot, and great writing, by definition, can just never be quite wrong enough.

Bentley’s erotic memoir, “The Surrender,” has been adapted for the stage and will have its American premiere in New York in January.

So, what makes a good sex scene?

SHEILA HETI: I am trying to think of writers who do sex or sexuality in an interesting way: Henry Miller, Pauline Réage, the Marquis de Sade, Jane Bowles, Vladimir Nabokov, Tamara Faith Berger, Edmund White. They’re all so different. I think a good sex scene can be written only by someone who has an interesting attitude toward sex — but not only toward sex, toward everything. An interesting sex scene is about the character in that situation, so it’s impossible to think of a compelling sex scene appearing in a book in which sex or sexuality doesn’t somehow operate throughout. You can’t write sex well if you don’t think sex is a significant part of life. Likewise, you couldn’t write breakfast well if you didn’t think breakfast was a significant part of life. I remember talking to the writer Henry Giardina (who identifies as transgender), who said of Henry Miller: “He writes about sex as if he was a lesbian. He’s a total lesbian. Because he makes it so much about her. He’s looking at a woman with the appreciation that a woman would have for another woman.” I liked that. I’d never thought about it that way before.

Heti is the author of five books, most recently the novel “How Should a Person Be?”

EDMUND WHITE: Most middlebrow or highbrow writers avoid sex scenes as somehow tacky or distracting or beyond their powers. I myself like to write them, whether heterosexual or male homosexual, because they strike me as among life’s peak experiences, along with dying and death, one’s first “Ring” cycle and a first gondola ride through Venice. It’s a shocking lacuna to skip them, and the results can be highly entertaining if the writer follows a few simple rules.

Don’t try to make sex scenes pornographic, since that will make them formulaic in actions and language, and unbelievable. Include all the incongruent, inconsequent thoughts and amateurish moves. Most sex is funny, if we accept Henri Bergson’s definition of humor: the failure of the body to perform up to the spirit’s standards, or the resistance of the material world to the will’s impulses.

Remember that sex is our most intense form of communication in a language no one can decipher or interpret. What does it all mean? Did a bit of rough lovemaking intend to convey hostility, or passion? Is the tenderness rehearsed, or sincere?

Don’t confine the sexiness to sex scenes. Tolstoy’s Anna has her wide hips and gliding step; Vronsky has his thick neck. We can never forget their bodies, nor what an exciting couple they must make. Colette is the great poet of the body and the erotic gesture, and she never screens out all the mixed signals lovers send each other. Sex is the brightest thread in the thick, strangely cut fabric of our lives; we can never know what it means, but we’re always sure we’re certain.

White is the author of some 25 books. His newest, due out in February, is “Inside a Pearl: My Years in Paris.”

CHIMAMANDA NGOZI ADICHIE: Because most cultures link sexuality — especially women’s sexuality — with shame, I am drawn to sex scenes that are frank and demonstrate a willingness to be foolish, a lack of too much irony, a sense of humor, which may not be overt on the page but comes across in the telling. Whether a reader mocks the scene or is moved by it can often be less about the scene and more about the reader, and so it doesn’t help to try to pre-empt readers’ reactions. What works, I think, is to approach the scene with the awareness of sex as beautifully human, and with a lack of interest in airbrushing this beauty. Clumsiness and fluids interest me. Vague waves of passion do not. And plain language never fails. I am wary of excessive or obscuring metaphor, partly because it suggests a kind of shame, and partly because I am unable to enter the world of the scene imaginatively. I much prefer breasts to heaving mounds. Most of all, a good sex scene should allow some sentiment and let in a bit of magic. There’s much in the world today that is irony-drenched and cynical; I like sex scenes that choose instead to be honest and open.

Adichie’s most recent novel is “Americanah.”

NICHOLSON BAKER: When I was in fourth grade, somebody brought a porno paperback to class and I read a few pages. A woman squatted, as I remember — why, I don’t know. But my heart started thumping. I thought that “squat” was just about the most exciting notion I’d ever encountered.

A good sex scene needs thwartedness, surprise, innocence and hair.

Baker’s latest novel, “Traveling Sprinkler,” is reviewed this week.

JACKIE COLLINS: I like to think I write erotic sex as opposed to rude sex. Some writers spell out every detail as if they sideline as a gynecologist. That’s not for me. I want to turn my readers on — not off. I try to take them so far, then allow their own sexual fantasies to take over. Believe me, it works.

So many people tell me that they started reading my books (filched from their moms) under the covers with a flashlight, and that I taught them everything they know about sex. I tell them, “I hope your boyfriend/girlfriend isn’t disappointed.” And I always receive a resounding “No way!”

Collins is the author of 30 books. Her next novel, “Confessions of a Wild Child,” will be published in February.

BRENDA SHAUGHNESSY: When it comes to who does it best, Marguerite Duras’s “Lover” and Virginia Woolf’s “Mrs. Dalloway” come immediately to mind, two books I devoured in college, hoping to learn about sex, sexual identity and writing. In the breathtaking passages tracing Clarissa Dalloway’s love for Sally Seton, Woolf describes the pain of the closet, the danger of exposure, the lure of the unattainable and the loveliest metaphor for orgasm I’ve yet read. Nevertheless, this fantastical exposé is typically Woolfian: high-strung, buttoned-up, class-proper. Where Duras (even in translation) feels languid and wanton, hot and bothered, Woolf seems so Victorian, fanning herself and huffing, “Oh my, oh my!” These examples seem just another virgin/whore arrangement, an imperative that women write about sex as if we are all either libertines or prudes, either spread out all over the bed (page) like Duras, or scolding ourselves like Woolf (“Oh I mustn’t!”) while swooning, scribbling, “She was wearing pink gauze — was that possible?”

The best sex writing must use more of us than that. Like magic, I happened upon a new poem by Natalie Diaz. It’s called “These Hands, if Not Gods,” and it’s a game changer. When I read it I felt liberated, empowered: those feminist adjectives that don’t quite scan onto “The Lover” or “Mrs. Dalloway.” I felt a longing to be inside my own body reaching out to my beloved, a longing to make my words speak the truth of that. I’ve outgrown Duras and Woolf, in terms of literary eros. Now when I read sex, I want not just what I used to want. Give me connection, truth-telling and what is. I want glory and attendant articulation of it. I want something new to discover in these old urges. Natalie Diaz gives it all. She’s writing sex right.

Shaughnessy is the author of three books of poetry, most recently, “Our Andromeda.” She teaches at Rutgers-Newark.

What was your first illicit reading experience?

JACQUELINE WOODSON: When James Baldwin’s “If Beale Street Could Talk” found me, I was a 12-year-old Brooklyn girl caught between the oncoming world of teenage desire and a religious family promising a fiery end to . . . well, to everything. The closest I’d come to anything even remotely sexual in literature was Judy Blume’s Margaret talking about her nonexistent breasts and kissing a boy named Philip Leroy. I imagined Philip Leroy black, which made it a bit more illicit, but mostly I had to settle for the fact that words like “period” were mentioned often throughout the novel. My world of books was as vanilla as the people in them.

From the opening pages of Baldwin’s novel, when a teenage Tish reveals to her imprisoned boyfriend, Fonny, that she’s pregnant, the book opened a world at once foreign and familiar. I was encountering everything I had been warned against: premarital sex, pregnancy, incarceration. Everything about “Beale Street” was forbidden — from the language used to describe body parts to the brutal Sunday sex of Fonny’s parents. I read it secretly — mainly because my sixth-grade teacher said it was for adults and wouldn’t allow it in the classroom. But mostly it was a novel with people who looked like me, spoke in a dialect I understood and struggled against the same everyday acts of injustice my own community struggled against. Baldwin taught me so much about how to grow up in a beautiful, sometimes dangerous, always complicated world — and how to live to tell the story.

Woodson is the American fiction nominee for the 2014 Hans Christian Andersen Award. Her most recent book is “This Is the Rope: A Story From the Great Migration.”

D. A. POWELL: Knowledge of the forbidden came to me not in a flash but piecemeal from various sources, largely because — like so many kids — I wasn’t sure how sex was different from, say, urination or bowel movements, since it all was happening in the same general area of the body, the area that, if left uncovered, made us officially “naked.” I learned little bits of sexual behavior through short scenes in popular novels. And even then, I wasn’t always sure what was going on. Why, in Peter Benchley’s novel “Jaws,” was Ellen Brody talking with Hooper about removing her panties before leaving the restaurant? And why, in E. L. Doctorow’s “Ragtime,” was Mother’s Younger Brother hiding in the closet and stroking his penis while Emma Goldman undressed Evelyn Nesbit? What was “jism”? It took me a while to figure all this stuff out. It wasn’t until I picked up my mother’s copy of “Fear of Flying,” by Erica Jong, that these separate parts came together, giving me as clear an image of sex as a hormonal little middle schooler could handle. It was . . . edifying. I don’t know if I was aroused so much as I was illuminated. Enlightened. And, in a way, relieved by the frankness of it. By the time I got to Colleen McCullough’s “Thorn Birds,” which I read in one long languorous summer afternoon, I was able to fully enjoy the heroine Meggie Cleary’s obsession with Father Ralph. Mother’s Younger Brother had nothing on me.

Powell received the National Book Critics Circle Award in poetry for his most recent collection, “Useless Landscape: Or, A Guide for Boys.” He currently teaches at the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop.

SAM LIPSYTE: There’s a story I like to tell, about when my father took me to a used-book store near our home in New Jersey. I must have been 12 or 13.

“Go pick out a book,” my father said. “Anything you want.”

I scurried off to make my selection. God knows what I was reading then, it was all a jumble. I was drawn to books by big literary names as long as they had somewhat lurid covers. But that day I struck gold: the novelization of the movie “Caligula,” by William Howard, based on Gore Vidal’s screenplay. Seemed pretty literary to me, and when I opened it up I immediately hit upon a string of quite accessible and extremely lascivious sentences. A few pages on and it was orgy time. I flipped back and forth through the book, togas falling everywhere. And if it wasn’t wild Roman sex, it was insane Roman violence. Chocolate in my peanut butter, from my adolescent vantage. I ran up to the register. The clerk saw the book.

“Sir,” she said. “I don’t think you want your son to have that book.”

“Why not?” my father said.

“Well. . . . " she said, and tried to explain.

“The hell with that,” my father said. “That’s censorship. You can’t go around telling me what my son can and can’t read.”

It was at that moment that I understood what a strange and wonderful father I had. Later, of course, when he realized what had occurred along with the triumph of free speech, he demanded the smutty book back, but I convinced him I’d lost the thing. It stayed under my bed for a long time, like a secret friend who never fails to shock and dazzle, until he does.

Lipsyte’s most recent book is the story collection “The Fun Parts.”

ALISSA NUTTING: One of my baby sitters was a no-nonsense woman who wore steel-toe boots with shorts and kept an unloaded handgun under her pillow in case her ex made an impromptu midnight visit. In her night-stand drawer was a romance novel and a case of bullets — how’s that for fantasy versus reality?

Sometimes I’d sneak in to peek at the gun, which I felt an almost maternal draw toward; hidden beneath a pillow, it seemed like a very vulnerable, gestating thing.

The dog-eared paperback was even more interesting. Its cover featured a man and a woman in old-fashioned clothing and embracing at sunset. The man was looking at the woman with a confident smile; the woman was looking at the man with what seemed to be shock and terrified acceptance. It was as though he had just informed her that she’d been poisoned and had only seconds to live, but it was all for the best.

The story was equally confusing. The man kept putting his hands between the woman’s legs and saying things like, “So this is what starlight feels like!” And she was just embarrassed that she was so sweaty all over from ironing. Adults seemed to be an entirely different culture, and I kept consulting the book to better understand their strange customs.

Nutting is the author of the novel “Tampa.”

YIYUN LI: In the spring of 1992, in an army camp in China where the freshmen of my university were serving a one-year training, a fellow trainee got hold of a pirated copy of “Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” This girl, whom I’ll call N, had lost her virginity during the winter break. N was the kind of girl who would share the news, even though it was still a puritan time, when most girls our age hadn’t touched a boy’s hand.

N approached me with Lawrence’s masterpiece — banned, she informed me — and asked me to read it and mark the sex scenes.

If you were a 19-year-old, Lawrence should have been the last person you turned to for sex education. If you bracketed every sexual encounter in the book, as I duly did, you’d think sex was the most ludicrous, grotesque and pointless activity.

“Why do you want to read these scenes?” I asked. “They make me laugh.”

Ever so wistfully, N said that the first and only night she spent with her boyfriend had been so memorable that it had become impossible to remember. “The more you try to recall every single detail, the less you can,” she said.

Years later, I read Chekhov’s story “The Kiss,” in which a soldier, kissed passionately by a young woman who has mistaken him for her lover, related the encounter to his colleagues: “In the course of that moment he had told everything, and it surprised him dreadfully to find how short a time it took him to tell it. He had imagined that he could have been telling the story of the kiss till next morning.”

Only Lawrence could’ve done that, I thought, feeling sad for the soldier, and for the girl who had once searched for her lost memories in “Lady Chatterley’s Lover.”

Li’s new novel, “Kinder Than Solitude,” will be published next year.

ALISON BECHDEL. The New York Times 

Hitler’s Killer Women Revealed in New History. Wendy Lower

A new book pulls back the veil on the widespread involvement of women in the Third Reich’s most murderous and brutal activities. An exclusive excerpt from Wendy Lower’s Hitler’s Furies.

The history of female killers—Hitler’s furies—during the Third Reich has been suppressed, overlooked, and under-researched. Given the ideological indoctrination of the young cohort of men and women who came of age in the Third Reich, their mass mobilization in the eastern campaign, and the culture of genocidal violence embedded in Nazi conquest and colonization, I deduced—as a historian, not a prosecutor—that there were plenty of women who killed Jews and other “enemies” of the Reich, more than had been documented during the war or prosecuted afterward. Though the documented cases of direct killing are not numerous, they must be taken very seriously and not dismissed as anomalies. Hitler’s Furies were not marginal sociopaths. They believed that their violent deeds were justified acts of revenge meted out to enemies of the Reich; such deeds were, in their minds, expressions of loyalty.

As self-proclaimed superior rulers, German women in the Nazi East wielded unprecedented power over those designated “subhuman”; they were given a license to abuse and even kill those who were perceived, as one secretary near Minsk said after the war, as the scum of society. These women had proximity to power in the massive state-run machinery of destruction. They also had proximity to the crime scenes; there was no great distance between the settings of small towns, where women went about their daily routines, and the horrors of ghettos, camps, and mass executions. There was no divide between the home front and the battlefront. Women could decide on the spot to join the orgy of violence.

Hitler’s Furies were zealous administrators, robbers, tormentors, and murderers in the bloodlands. They melded into hundreds of thousands—at least half a million—women who went east. They worked in field hospitals of the army and Waffen-SS, on train platforms serving refreshments to soldiers and refugees, in hundreds of soldiers’ homes socializing with German troops in Ukraine, Belarus, Poland, and the Baltics. The German army trained over five hundred thousand young women in support positions—as radio operators, file-card keepers, flight recorders, and wiretappers—and two hundred thousand of these served in the East. Secretaries organized, tracked, and distributed the massive supplies necessary to keep the war machine running. Myriad organizations sponsored by the Nazi Party (such as the National Socialist Welfare Association) and Himmler’s Race and Resettlement Office deployed German women and girls as social workers, racial examiners, resettlement advisors, educators, and teaching aides. In one region of annexed Poland that was a laboratory for “Germanization,” Nazi leaders deployed thousands of teachers. Hundreds more were sent to other colonial enclaves of the Reich. As agents of Nazi empire-building, these women were assigned the constructive work of the German “civilizing” process. Yet the destructive and constructive practices of Nazi conquest and occupation were inseparable.

Johanna Altvater was twenty-two years old when she arrived in the Ukrainian-Polish border town of Volodymyr-Volynsky. A county seat, with thirty thousand inhabitants, the town was surrounded by wheat fields and forests delineated by the marshy banks of two rivers, the Bug and the Luga, where Germans liked to go boating and picnicking. The town was also an important military-industrial juncture with soldiers’ barracks, a radio station, an airport, fuel depots, a brick factory, a textile mill, and a clothing factory. For the Jews in town, these installations were critical to their survival as laborers. A few months before Altvater’s September 1941 arrival, members of an SS and police special commando unit had already initiated the first anti-Jewish measures in Volodymyr-Volynsky. With the help of the local German military commander, they formed a Jewish council, then publicly humiliated its members and buried them alive. The Jewish council chief committed suicide with his family. On September 30, Yom Kippur, a larger massacre occurred. Altvater’s boss, a “gimlet-eyed runt” named Wilhelm Westerheide, arrived to take over as regional commissar. It was immediately clear to the Jews who had survived the first wave of massacres that life would not improve under Commissar Westerheide. He started “target shooting” of individual Jews who were loading fuel barrels at the railway station.

In the summer of 1942 and fall of 1943, waves of German-led mass shooting actions reduced the Jewish population in the entire region from about twenty thousand to four or five hundred. There, Westerheide and the other district governors in Nazi-occupied Ukraine had learned that their bosses expected them to carry out the Final Solution “one hundred percent.” Though the order was of course not issued directly to “Fräulein Hanna,” Johanna Altvater decided to do her part. She often accompanied her boss on routine trips to the ghetto; she was seen hitching their horses to the gate at the ghetto entrance. On September 16, 1942, Altvater entered the ghetto and approached two Jewish children, a six year-old and a toddler who lived near the ghetto wall. She beckoned to them, gesturing as if she were going to give them a treat. The toddler came over to her. She lifted the child into her arms and held it so tightly that the child screamed and wriggled. Altvater grabbed the child by the legs, held it upside down, and slammed its head against the ghetto wall as if she were banging the dust out of a small carpet. She threw the lifeless child at the feet of its father, who later testified, “Such sadism from a woman I have never seen, I will never forget this.” There were no other German officials present, the father recalled. Altvater murdered this child on her own.

During the liquidation of the ghetto, the German commander of the nearby POW camp saw Fräulein Hanna, in her riding pants, prodding Jewish men, women, and children into a truck. She circulated through the ghetto cracking her whip, trying to bring order to the chaos “like a cattle herder,” as this German observer put it. Altvater entered the building that served as a makeshift hospital. She burst into the children’s ward and walked from bed to bed, eyeing each child. She stopped, picked one up, took it to the balcony, and threw the child to the pavement below. She pushed the older children to the balcony of the ward—which was on the third floor—and shoved them over the rail. Not all of the children died on impact, but those who survived were seriously injured.

After rounding up Jewish children in the ghetto infirmary, for example, Johanna Altvater killed some herself on the spot; others she forced onto a vehicle that took them to a mass murder site where they were shot by male police units. Statistically, if we took the percentage of homicides committed by women in peaceful society and applied it to the genocidal East, where women made up roughly ten percent of the population of Germans, then the estimate of female killers there would be about three thousand. But if we assume, as is likely, that women in genocidal societies—women who are empowered by the state, with “enemy” groups as their targets—are responsible for a greater percentage of murders than women in peacetime societies, then three thousand begins to look unrealistically small.

When it comes to killers like the secretaries, wives, and lovers of SS men in this chapter, we will never have a precise number. But the evidence here does give us new insights about the Holocaust specifically and genocide more broadly. We have always known, of course, that women have the capacity to be violent, and even to kill, but we knew little about the circumstances and ideas that transform women into genocidaires, the varied roles they occupy inside and outside the system, and the forms of behavior they adopt. Now it is possible to imagine that the patterns of violent and murderous behaviors uncovered here occurred across wartime Ukraine, Poland, Belarus, Lithuania, and other parts of Nazi-dominated Europe. German women who went east embodied what the expanding Nazi empire was becoming: ever more violent. Ordinary young women with typical prewar biographies, not just a small group of Nazi fanatics, went east and became involved in the crimes of the Holocaust, including killing.

Fortunately, with the military defeat of Germany, the heyday of the perpetrators would come to an end; the Nazi machinery of destruction would stop. The lives of these German women did not end, however. They returned home to the rubble of the Reich and tried to bury their criminal pasts.

Excerpt from HITLER’S FURIES by Wendy Lower to be published on October 8th, 2013

And God Created Woman Pt ll (lV Pt lll). A Self Portrait 

Sow a thought, reap an action; sow an action, reap a habit; sow a habit, reap a character; sow a character, reap a destiny. Stephen Covey 

Vision is the art of seeing things invisible. ~ Jonathan Swift 

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. Franklin D. Roosevelt 

You will never reach your destination if you stop and throw stones at every dog that barks. ~ Winston Churchill 

Hates crackle and brandish against me: unsettling the image of brilliance. My face I know not. Sylvia Plath 

One way of looking at speech is to say it is a constant stratagem to cover nakedness. Harold Pinter 

We are linked by blood, and blood is memory without language. ~ Joyce Carol Oates 

Have a mouth as sharp as a dagger but a heart as soft as tofu. (Chinese Proverb) 

See yourself as a steward of your possessions. Treat them with respect and repair rather than replace them whenever practical. Almine 

What is true happiness? It's not attained through self-gratification but through fidelity to a worthy purpose. Helen Keller 

Don't let negative pictures play on the movie screen of your mind. You own the remote control. All you have to do is change the channel. God's Daughters 

Cheating isn't always kissing, touching, or flirting. If you gotta delete text messages so your partner won't seem em, you're already there. Real Talk 

"Success is the maximum utilization of the ability that you have." Zig Ziglar 

We are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. J.K. Rowling

Research on Girls and Woman. Arlene F Hogan

Research on girls and women tells us that when we are successful, more often than not, we attribute our success to 'luck' while men attribute their success to talent, hard work, persistence, etc. In other words, men tend to OWN their successes, to see themselves as responsible for the outcome while women identify 'external forces' as having been responsible for their achievements.

Archer girls learn early on that, to a large extent, they make their own luck. They are taught to take responsibility, to assume ownership for their actions, whether good or bad, and to live with the consequences of their behaviour, rather than to play the blame-game, casting themselves as helpless victims of fate.

Arlene F Hogan. Head of Archer School for Girls, Los Angeles

Women and Their Talent. Mary Rocomora

Women in our culture are raised to be caregivers, and as such, their identity and self worth are defined primarily by that role. For most women, it is a major psychological achievement to shift their primary identification and sense of worth to the development of their talent.

Mary Rocomora

Taking The Piss. Amera Ziganii Rao

When someone takes the piss out of you on a daily basis and you are too young or vulnerable to protect yourself, the damage is forever. And affects you in everything you do. Then that same person tells you that you have no right to be vulnerable, so the damage becomes a terrible and crippling liability. Forever.

The only thing to do then is to stop the denial and the illusionary sentimentality. Only then can you set yourself free. Free to feel vulnerable and find the courage WITH the vulnerability, to achieve everything and anything that you want and so deserve.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2008

Common Misconceptions About the Gifted. Mary Rocamora

The term 'gifted' is often misunderstood. I have heard people respond to that label by saying, 'Well, everyone is gifted in some way." as if to mitigate the implication that 'gifted' is synonymous with 'elitist'.

I have also encountered the false assumption that giftedness is circumscribed by what society values from generation to generation, most notably in the arts and sciences.

In the world of researchers, educators, and knowledgeable psychologists, the term 'gifted' refers to individuals who, in addition to high intelligence, share personality traits such as perfectionism, introversion, intensity, sensitivity, idealism, and overexcitability.

As Abraham Maslow noted, giftedness can manifest in a myriad of ways, although we don't typically reward our gifted auto mechanics and gifted homemakers.

Another misconception is that ability automatically leads to high achievement, that compelling talent will overcome all obstacles. As children, many of us heard inspiring stories about eminent men and women who did just that. However, the reality is that there are both circumstantial and psychological factors that can adversely affect the actualization of the gifted.

Poverty, ethnicity, opportunity, lack of understanding about the nature of giftedness in the family, and being female are circumstances that can impede talent development. Self-limiting beliefs, persistent fears, and oversocialization (where the need to be socially acceptable suppresses divergent impulses and spontaneity) are some of the psychological issues.

Gifted women are thought to be able to meet conventional expectations of partners, family and society while pursuing challenging careers, and are often subtly pressured to do so. Studies have shown that during early adolescence, gifted girls are TORN between the desire to fit in with their peers and prioritizing academic excellence; boys are assumed to be grooming for careers.

Statistically, gifted girls drop one IQ point per year, and many are unable to sustain their academic priorities and their adult dreams through this critical adolescent period. While there has been a dramatic increase in the number of careers available to women, there are too few role models for women that demonstrate alternative lifestyles that are 'feminine' and accomplished.

It is also presumed that the gifted to do not need any special type of emotional support. In fact, just the opposite is true. The experience of being gifted, with its heightened intensity and sensitivity, in itself needs ongoing support and understanding. Many gifted adults lead carefully examined lives and need support and guidance for their inner searching.

The gifted benefit greatly from counselling that helps them understand their process, cope with self-doubt, recognise and break free from psychological limitations, and realise their vision.

Mary Rocomora

Me. Amera Ziganii Rao

The brains of a man and the emotional capacity of a woman.

The body of a beautiful goddess and the sexuality of a passionate god.

The spirit of a unicorn and the heart of a lion.

I have value.

I am unique.

I am me.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2007

The Female Beast. Amera Ziganii Rao

The female beast is as beautiful as the gentle angel. An angry female warrior is sexy. A successful woman is sexy. An intelligent and intellectual force in a woman is sexy. A powerful woman is sexy. A high achiever female is sexy. A serious minded Amazonian woman is sexy. A woman obsessed with her vocation is sexy. The boardroom beast female is sexy.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2007

One Thing in This World Which You Must Never Forget To Do. Rumi

There is one thing in this world, which you must never forget to do. Human beings come into this world to do particular work. That work is their purpose, and each is specific to the person. If you forget everything else and not this, there's nothing to worry about. If you remember everything else and forget your true work, then you will have done nothing in your life.

Rumi

The Meaning of Life lll. Ego To Soul. Amera Ziganii Rao

Self acceptance is Soul. Ego is your impression of who you are. What you were told you are. What you were told you should be. Ego is therefore vanity and self hatred all at the same time, because ego is the false self. We hold onto self importance and we crave letting it go at the same time. Soul is the self acceptance of what are our real gifts and what are our real mediocrities. And accepting the truth of both. Soul is the freedom we crave. Soul is the freedom that is always available. The world is built on ego, on falseness. The truth is in you. And waiting.

Consciousness. We are a very stupid species. We are also a very intelligent one. It is not enough for us to be told what is right and what is wrong. That is why neither religion nor fascism can ever last for long. We don’t like being told to do, however much we might differ in our determination to be free. Some of us were born to ‘kill’ for it. Others are slower. At the same time, we are all on the same journey. To find out the truth and to find peace. As a people with mind to go with heart, we have to find out for ourselves and understand the why. That is consciousness. The detailed analysis and examination of feelings, emotion and thought, to find out what the truth is and what makes us feel peace. That journey is First Existence to Second Existence.

It is not just religion that ‘is the opium for the masses’. The masses is First Existence. The mob. What I was born to as well. Opium is also the illusion of happiness that holds its grip on us with a vice-like strength of sentimentality, resistance and pain. Freeing the mind is not an easy thing to do. Morpheus tells Neo in The Matrix that he must apologise as they had decided long ago, not to work on someone’s mind after a certain age. The resistance was too strong and the pain too deep. It’s why we can in theory agree to anything, any thought, any idea, any piece of enlightenment. But why we will resist to the end to truly take it on board.

Emotion is a uniquely human thing. Feelings are intuition and thought is the mind. Emotion is the trigger to the feelings and to the mind. The ego part of us that is ego in wounding and superego in non wounding. Ego in First Existence and Superego in Second Existence. Ego per se never leaves us. It is us and part of us forever and the human part. But ego, per se, changes, if we change. And Ego, per se, finally becomes a great and quite entertaining friend as well as a pain in the neck. Superego is our companion from then on and the part of us that ‘feels’ and lives.

But that is when we are finally in control of that part of us, as opposed to it being in control of us. We are present on Earth at long last and not hysterical or catatonically terrified or out of control in temper, agony or even ecstasy. We actually ARE those emotions at last, as opposed to being swept along with the force of that part of us that seems to be separate from us and who appears when it wants to and embarrasses us, gets us into trouble and always seems to be holding us back from something.

We learn to parent it. We learn to guide it and control it and work with it and be its boss. That is Second Existence. We learn to master fear, pain, rage, criticism, judgment and so on. We also learn to master out of control joy. The kind that sweeps us away into a cocaine sort of hysteria where we can’t settle at anything or enjoy anything, because it feels too mad. What some people, very inaccurately call passion.

That is not passion. Passion is the mastery of that part of us. Reason is the mastery of the brain. Passion and reason are Second Existence forms of being. Anything else is both hysteria if you like, and the cerebral. First Existence. Passion is also the most sacred, primal part of us. For those of us who feel, passion is the central strength and the most important joy. The whole point of being. The sexuality, sensuality and emotion, soul and everything else of being. Happiness. Reason is the compassion to go with it. The wisdom. The peace. Those are the Second Existence truths of passion and reason. Like the word 'love', society has a thousand inaccurate meanings for them. The exploration has just begun.

So, back to the illusion of happiness. The illusion we truly will ‘kill’ for. In First Existence. Spiritual masters have always talked of feeling happy, in the moment, right here, right now, blah, blah, blah. With due respect, these terms have to be broken down and analysed and re termed for them to make sense. I feel that, especially as a confirmed nihilist. There is no such thing as happiness and there should not even be, as far as I am concerned and what I have learned.

Life is a school room, not a playground. Play is when we die. Which is odd, because that is exactly what religion preaches. Which always feeds my feelings about religion. That they are of the ego. They are most certainly of man’s ego, but actually, just ego per se. An emotional, thick and turgid view of true esoteric devastating truths, if you like. The soap opera of literature. Spirituality being the literature, religion being the soap opera, obviously. The short hand version. The simple version. The cartoon version. 

Religion is full of truth but on a very minute, rather stupid scale, to say the least. Play is when you die, does not mean, do what you are told and be terrified of God and wait for death. Play when you die, means face the truth that life is the ‘abode of miseries’ and that it is a hard slog of the mind and heart and that we are here to evolve. Then we get to play and then we have to come here all over again and make a similar, painful, ridiculous journey and then play again. Life on Earth is like a rollercoaster through hell, because it is actually hell. It doesn’t mean we have a stupid set of rules and it doesn’t mean we give up either. That sort of thing.

As I say, we are here to work. Not till the fields and sweat kind of work. But inner work. To move from First Existence to Second Existence™. We are here to move from ego to soul. Nothing else. We are here to return to the Source. In each lifetime, on tangents here and there, but always going forward, back to the Source. Alive. We are here to work and we are here to evolve and we are here to snatch moments of temporary joy when we can. During a life of UN - happiness.

That is the meaning of life and once we are broken into truth with a ‘stake through the heart’ level of devastation, really, it’s not too bad. Because the stake through the heart really is that bad. What do you think suicide is? Those who couldn’t make it, peace be with them. And having been through it, I really am not surprised. Constantine singled out Mr lovely Jesus Christ, wise being that he was, as the only one who got crucified. I have no idea, first whether that truly happened as the Bible was put together hundreds of years later. Secondly, the journey I have been through and that mystics and those who are on the mystic path go through, sound remarkably similar. And there is not just one crucifixion. Believe me. It goes on and on and on and on. Ascendancy, evolution, moving through the wounded and stupid ego to soul is perennial crucifixion. 

And when we look back on the tale of Jesus Christ, well it looks remarkably similar. It may well have been an esoteric description of his purification and evolution. However it could also have been what has happened to me most recently. Assassination from the outside once we have evolved because we are fearless and will not stand for fascism anymore. Take your pick. But the point is that Jesus Christ did not die ‘for our sins’. He died to show the cruelty of men. Like anyone who dies to show the cruelty of man and woman.

But as I say, once you get used to the permanent crucifixions, it’s not too bad. What comes after is great, truly great. Wisdom, peace, courage and intelligence. Just for starters. It’s okay to realise and accept that life on Earth is work, pain and growing and healing and becoming. It’s the storytellers from hell, from religion who will tell you that life is black and white and you just have to follow rules and no one is going to do that without baulking. That is why religion is fading fast. And the alternative is great but there is no wisdom. We are either a stupid religious people or an even more stupid spirituality – less people. There is something else. Spirituality. Esoteric knowledge. The lost knowledge. The truth. But as Jean Paul Sartre says, who I believe was classified as a spirituality less Existentialist, whose teachings sound remarkably spiritual to me, said, we have to take responsibility for who we are. That is why we love religion. Because in that, we don’t have to do fuck all, other than follow the rules. Beeeeeep. Not the way.

It’s crap and you know it. It is the easy way. Religion is for lazy bastards who think that three ‘hail Marys’ or going to the mosque is going to save your soul. Right? No. 

You have to put slightly more work in than that. And I am not talking about fasting for thirty days. I am talking about thinking and feeling and communing with Spirit. I am talking about taking responsibility for the dark heart of the ego. And getting rid of it. I am talking about therapy, counselling, getting the rage out of oneself and into the dustbin. That is saving your soul. And a fuck of a lot more. I am talking about what is so dismissed as ‘new age’. I am talking about self spirituality. I am talking about God.

And what is more, it is a fuck of a lot more fascinating. Once the truth is faced that life is a pile of shit and really hard emotional work forever, it’s fascinating, devastating and if we are lucky, it’s very sexual – yes I said sexual – sexual, dark, passionate and highly intelligent and highly successful and highly confident and – yes, happy. Sort of. It will do. But it will more than do. Actually I am beginning to like it. Second Existence™. No illusions. But peace, joy and self esteem and self knowledge and contentment. Oh yes. And of course, the ability to be who you truly are, no matter what anyone says, no matter what anyone does to you and no matter what they try to do to you. That is worth it. Do you get that with religion? Really?

Certainly what I have been blessed and burdened to learn is a fuck of a lot better than the brutal agony of idealism and desperately trying to cling onto the sentimental hope of First Existence. I remember it well.

To know God is to be Second Existence™. Soul. To know God is to be devastated and woken up from a terrifying but oh, so comforting dream of pseudo hope. We choose. Always. I made the right choice in the end. That is the peace. And if you need any help in choosing, yes, it’s not much of a choice on one level. Either pain with illusion or pain with reality. It is true. But it is much more fascinating and as I say, what else is worth more than being able to be who you truly are and doing what the fuck you want and to actually enjoy it and not feel shame, guilt, duty and all the other ridiculous ideas forced on us when we are relatively HAPPY children. Knowing God is the way to get rid of all that crap. Because THAT is MAN made. Man, being the operative word, but that’s a whole ‘nother piece.

Unplugging from the Matrix. To know God. To know everything you are capable of and never stopping. Very painful but very satisfying too. And above all, the manufacture and growth of courage. Who the fuck doesn’t want that?

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2012

Sex Pt ll (l). A Self Portrait 

The world's people all share the earnest aspiration to have peace, stability, justice and cooperation. ~ Tran-Duc Luong 

There is yet another world to be discovered - and more than one. Embark, philosophers. Friedrich Nietzsche 

You must either modify your dreams or magnify your skills. Jim Rohn 

"The past is history, the future is a mystery, today is a gift, that's why it's called the present." ~Eleanor Roosevelt 

Love is the essential reality and our purpose on earth. ~ Marianne Williamson 

“Do the thing you fear most and the death of fear is certain.” ~ Mark Twain 

The world is but a canvas to the imagination. Henry David Thoreau 

If I was dating myself, I would surprise myself with Starbucks every morning and it would be adorable. Grumpy Cat 

Kindness begins with you. How are you treating yourself? Lorane Gordon

Smoke Gets in Your Eyes. Mathew Weiner's Madmen. Season One

Don: By love you mean big lightning bolts to the heart, where you can't eat and you can't work, and you just run off and get married and make babies. The reason you haven't felt it is because it doesn't exist. What you call love was invented by guys like me...to sell nylons.

Don: You're born alone and you die alone and this world just drops a bunch of rules on top of you to make you forget those facts. But I never forget. I'm living like there's no tomorrow, because there isn't one.

Don: Advertising is based on one thing, happiness. And you know what happiness is? Happiness is the smell of a new car. It's freedom from fear. It's a billboard on the side of the road that screams reassurance that whatever you are doing is okay. You are okay.

Joan: He may act like he wants a secretary, but most of the time they're looking for something between a mother and a waitress. And the rest of the time, well... Go home, take a paper bag and cut some eye holes out of it. Put it over your head, look in the mirror and try and evaluate your strengths and weaknesses. And try and be honest.

Don: We should get married.

Midge Daniels: You think I'd make a good ex-wife?

Madmen. Mathew Weiner 

The Passion of Sex. Amera Ziganii Rao 

The greatest polite society repression is that of sexual, sensual and passion repression. Nothing else is as important to focus on as that. High life, high art and high love cannot exist without high sex. Passion. The sex has to go with the spirituality otherwise there is nothing. The politics of what is spirituality, and what is not, has to be totally in line, with the sex, with the primal and with the spirituality, or there is most certainly, nothing. High sex is sexuality is BEING sexual, sensual and passionate. Everywhere in every moment. Liberation is sexualisation. 

We have no ability to tame passion, because we are not taught. We are taught to repress passion. Sigmund Freud called it the sex instinct that governed everything. The Sacred Whore High Priestess Hierophant™ says the same thing. 

We are hunter lazy, we are without solitary confinement stamina, we are completely out of touch and if not, damn rusty, about anything to do with what is really GOD. 

The greatest polite society repression is that of sexual, sensual and passion repression. High life, high art and high love cannot exist without sex. What we do not know is that to be sensual, sexual or passion, is sedition. The most offensive sedition on earth. The Matrix doesn't do sacred sexuality. The Matrix is just cold, hollow, half hearted, rape. 

A dead passion for a dead society. Courage is not taught in schools for a reason. The feudal system to a religious and religious rituals world. Courage cannot exist without the sex instinct. Courage. Not fascism. Courage is passion. Courage is compassion. Courage is GOD. 

Courage is mastering 'the evil demons' of fear. They are evil alright. They are the world at large. 

It takes courage to have sex. It takes courage to stand up for sex. It takes courage to stand up for me. Eve is the downfall of the male race, according to the books of the three religions. 

If we are not even trained to stand up for the sacredness of the primal, we lose our 'action and integrity muscles'. We hide and remain afraid and become more afraid and then hide more. Our courage muscles in that area, weaken, while others remain strong or grow more powerful, as we put the work in. 

The sex instinct is the most damaged on this planet, for a very good, 'conspiracy' reason. It is the most powerful thing we own. 

Make it power and not rapist or rape victim - I speak symbolically - and you become the most hunted kind of human in existence. One who owns their own TRUE SACRED SEXUALITY. 

Passion. The most sacred thing we can be. If it is clean. Humanity makes it clean. Humanity is again, pure sedition. Humanity for the vulnerable is laughable. Humanity for women is not allowed. 

It takes a great deal of courage to live. I am used to it. I've had years of practice. You, will catch up. 

Your anima is me. The sacred sex instinct. The higher mind. The creative waterfall. The pure, suicidal, revolutionary, integrity of a mastermind soul. The wild card. 

That's what we are counting on. And what is written all over your soul. To unplug from The Matrix is to go up against 'your own'. It's easy when you realise that they are not your own, in any way, shape or form. 

Hierophant is to give that interpretative analysis. Of what is already in you. 

The greatest polite society repression is that of sexual, sensual and passion repression. Nothing else is as important to focus on as that. High life, high art and high love cannot exist without high sex. Passion. The sex has to go with the spirituality otherwise there is nothing. The politics of what is spirituality, and what is not, has to be totally in line, with the sex, with the primal and with the spirituality, or there is most certainly, nothing. High sex is sexuality is BEING sexual, sensual and passionate. Everywhere in every moment. Liberation is sexualisation. 

AMERA ZIGANII RAO ALCHEMY & LIBERATION & HUMANITY™

Time for the titillation to stop. Sexual power is a serious business.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2013

Tropic of Cancer. Henry Miller. An Excerpt

The result was that I developed a bit of a neurosis. As soon as I hit the air I became extravagant. It wouldn’t matter what the subject of conversation happened to be, as we started back to Montparnasse in the early morning, I’d soon turn the fire hose on it, squelch it, in order to trot out my perverted dreams. I liked best talking about those things which none of us knew anything about. I had cultivated a mild sort of insanity, echolalia, I think it’s called. All the tag ends of a night’s proofing danced on the tip of my tongue. 

DALMATIA – I had held copy on an ad for that beautiful jewelled resort. All right, DALMATIA. You take a train and in the morning your pores are perspiring and the grapes are bursting their skins. I could reel it off about Dalmatia from the grand boulevard to Cardinal Mazarin’s palace, further, if I chose to. I don’t even know where it is on the map, and I don’t want to know ever, but at three in the morning with all that lead in your veins and your clothes saturated with sweat and patchouli and the clink of bracelets passing through the wringer and those beer yarns that I was braced for, little things like geography, costume, speech, architecture don’t mean a goddamn thing.

Dalmatia belongs to a certain hour of the night when those high gongs are snuffed out and the court of the Louvre seems so wonderfully ridiculous that you feel like weeping for no reason at all, just because it’s so beautifully silent, so empty, so totally unlike the front page and the guys upstairs rolling the dice. With that little piece of Dalmatia resting on my throbbing nerves like a cold knife blade I could experience the most wonderful sensations of voyage. And the funny thing is again that I could travel all around the globe but America would never enter my mind; it was even further lost than a lost continent, because with the lost continents I felt some mysterious attachment, whereas with America I felt nothing at all. Now and then, it’s true, I did think of Mona, not as of a person in a definite aura of time and space, but separately, detached, as though she had blown up into a great cloudlike form that blotted out the past. I couldn’t allow myself to think about her very long; if I had I would have jumped off the bridge. It’s strange. I had become so reconciled to this life without her, and yet if I thought about her only for a minute it was enough to pierce the bone and marrow of my contentment and shove me past again into the agonizing gutter of my wretched past. 

For seven years I went about, day and night, with only one thing on my mind – HER. Were there a Christian so faithful to his God as I was to her we would all be Jesus Christs today. Day and night I thought of her, even when I was deceiving her. And now sometimes, in the very midst of things, sometimes when I feel that I am absolutely free of it all, suddenly, in rounding a corner perhaps, there will bob up a little square, a few trees and a bench, a deserted spot where we stood and had it out, where we drove each other crazy with bitter, jealous scenes. 

Always some deserted spot, like the Place de l’Estrapade, for example, or those dingy, mournful streets off the Mosque or along that open tomb of an Avenue de Breteuil which at ten o’clock in the evening is so silent, so dead, taht it makes one think of murder or suicide, anything that might create a vestige of human drama. When I realize that she is gone, perhaps gone forever, a great void opens up and I feel that I am falling, falling, falling into deep, black, space. And this is worse than tears, deeper than regret or pain or sorrow; it is the abyss into which Satan was plunged. There is no climbing back, no ray of light, no sound of human voice or human touch of hand. 

How many thousand times, in walking through the streets at night, have I wondered if the day would ever come again when she would be at my side: all those yearning looks I bestowed on the buildings and statues, they must be saturated with my anguish. I could not help but reflect also that when we had walked side by side through these mournful, dingy streets now so saturated with my dream and longing, she had observed nothing, felt nothing: they were like any other streets to her, a little more sordid perhaps, and that is all. She wouldn’t remember that at a certain corner I had stopped to pick up her hairpin, or that, when I bent down to tie her laces, I remarked the spot on which her foot had rested and that it would remain there forever, even after the cathedrals had been demolished and the whole Latin civilisation wiped out forever and ever.

Walking down the Rue Lhomond one night in a fit of unusual anguish and desolation, certain things were revealed to me with poignant clarity. Whether it was that I had so often walked this street in bitterness or despair or whether it was the remembrance of a phrase which she had dropped one night as we stood at the Place Lucien-Herr I do not know, “Why don’t you show me that Paris”, she said,“that you have written about?” One thing I know, that at the recollection of these words I suddenly realized the impossibility of ever revealing to her that Paris which I had gotten to know, the Paris whose ARRONDISSEMENTS are undefined, a Paris that has never existed except by virtue of my loneliness, my hunger for her. Such a huge Paris! It would take a lifetime to explore it again. This Paris, to which I alone had the key, hardly lends itself to a tour, even with the best of intentions; it is a Paris that has to be lived, that has to be experienced each day in a thousand different forms of torture, a Paris that grows inside you like a cancer, and grows and grows until you are eaten away by it. 

Stumbling down the Rue Mouffetard, with these reflections stirring in my brain, I recalled another strange item out of the past, out of that guidebook whose leaves she had asked me to turn but which, because the covers are so heavy, I then found it impossible to pry open. For no reason at all – because at the moment my thoughts were occupied with Salavin in whose sacred precincts I was now meandering – for no reason at all, I say, there came to mind the recollection of a day when, inspired by the plaque which I passed day in and day out, I impulsively entered the Pension Orfila and asked to see the room Strindberg had occupied. Up to that time nothing very terrible had befallen me, though I had already lost all my worldly possessions and had known what it was to walk the streets in hunger and in fear of the police. 

Up to then I had not found a single friend in Paris, a circumstance which was not so much depressing as bewildering, for wherever I had roamed in this world the easiest thing for me to discover has been a friend. But in reality, nothing very terrible had happened to me yet. One can live without friends, as one can live without love, or even without money, that supposed SINE QUA NON. One can live in Paris – I discovered that! – on just grief and anguish. A bitter nourishment – perhaps the best there is for certain people. At any rate, I had not yet come to the end of my rope. I was only flirting with disaster. I had time and sentiment enough to peep into other people’s lives, to daily with the dead stuff of romance, which morbid it may be, when it is wrapped between the covers of a book, seems deliciously remote and anonymous. As I was leaving the place I was conscious of an ironic smile hovering over my lips, as though I were saying to myself “Not yet, the Pension Orfila!” 

Since then, of course, I have learned what every madman in Paris discovers sooner or later; that there are no ready-made infernos for the tormented. 

It seems to me I understand a little better now why she took such delight in reading Strindberg. I can see her looking up from her book after reading a DELICIOUS passage, and, with tears of laughter in her eyes, saying to me:“You’re just as mad as he was....you WANT to be punished!” What a delight that must be to the sadist when she discovers her own proper masochist! When she bites herself, as it were, to test the sharpness of her teeth. In those days, when I first knew her, she was saturated with Strindberg. That wild carnival of maggots which he reveled in, that eternal duel of the sexes, that spiderish ferocity which had endeared him to the sodden oafs of the northland, it was that which had brought us together. We came together in a dance of death and so quickly was I sucked down into the vortex that when I came to the surface again I could not recognise the world. When I found myself loose the music had ceased; the carnival was over and I had been picked clean.....

After leaving the Pension Orfila that afternoon I went to the library and there, after bathing in the Ganges and pondering over the signs of the zodiac, I began to reflect on the meaning of that inferno which Strindberg had so mercilessly depicted. And, as I ruminated, it began to grow clear to me, the mystery of his pilgrimage, the flight which the poet makes over the face of the earth and then, as if he had been ordained to re-enact a lost drama, the heroic descent to the very bowels of the earth, the dark and fearsome sojourn in the belly of the whale, the bloody struggle to liberate himself, to emerge clean of the past, a bright, gory sun god cast up on an alien shore. 

It was no mystery to me any longer why he and others (Dante, Rabelais, Van Gogh, etc, etc.) had made their pilgrimage to Paris. I understood then why it is that Paris attracts the tortured, the hallucinated, the great maniacs of love. I understood why it is that here, at the very hub of the wheel, one can embrace the most fantastic, the most impressive theories, without finding them in the least strange; it is here that one reads again the books of his youth and the enigmas take on new meanings, one for every white hair. One walks the streets knowing that he is mad, possessed, because it is only too obvious that these cold, indifferent faces are the visages of one’s keepers. Here all boundaries fade away and the world reveals itself for the mad slaughterhouse that it is. The treadmill stretches away to infinitude, the hatches are closed down tight, logic runs rampant, with bloody cleaver flashing. The air is chill and stagnant, the language apocalyptic. Not an exit sign anywhere; no issue save death. A blind alley at the end of which is a scaffold. 

An eternal city, Paris! More eternal than Rome, more splendorous than Ninevah. The very navel of the world to which, like a blind and faltering idiot, one crawls back on hands and knees. And like a cork that has drifted to the dead centre of the ocean, one floats here in the scum and wrack of the seas, listless, hopeless, heedless even of a passing Columbus. The cradles of civilization are the putrid sinks of the world, the charnel house to which the stinking wombs confide their bloody packages of flesh and bone. 

The streets were my refuge. And no man can understand the glamour of the streets until he is obliged to take refuge in them, until he has become a straw that is tossed here and there by every zephyr that blows. One passes along a street on a wintry day and, seeing a dog for sale, one is moved to tears. While across the way, cheerful as a cemetery, stands a miserable hut that calls itself “Hotel du Tombeau des Lapins.” That makes one laugh, laugh fit to die. Until one notices that there are hotels everywhere, for rabbits, dogs, lice, emperors, cabinet ministers, pawnbrokers, horse knackers, and so on. And almost every other one is an “Hotel de L’Avenir.” Which makes one more hysterical still. So many hotels of the future! No hotels in past participle, no subjuctive modes, no conjunctivitis. Everything is hoary, grisly, bristling with merriment, swollen with the future, like a gumboil. Drink with this lecherous eczema of the future, I stagger over to the Place Violet, the colours all mauve and slate, the doorways so low that only dwarfs and goblins could hobble in; over the dull cranium of Zola the chimneys are belching pure coke, while the Madonna of Sandwiches listens with cabbage ears to the bubbling of the gas tanks, those beautiful bloated toads which squat by the roadside. 

Why do I suddenly recollect the Passage des Thermopyles? Because that day a woman addressed her puppy in the apocalyptic language of the slaughterhouse, and the little bitch, she understood what this greasy slut of a midwife was saying. How that depressed me! More even than the sight of those whimpering curs that were being sold on the Rue Brancion, because it was not the dogs which filled me so with pity, but the huge railing, those rusty spikes which seemed to stand between me and my rightful life. In the pleasant little lane near the Abbatoir de Vaugirard (Abbatoir Hippophagique), which is called the Rue des Perichaux, I had noticed here and there signs of blood. Just as Strindberg in his madness had recognised omens and portents in the very flagging of the Pension Orfila, so, as I wandered aimlessly through this muddy lane bespattered with blood, fragments of the past detached themselves and floated listlessly before my eyes, taunting me with the direst forebodings. I saw my own blood being spilled, the muddy road stained with it, as far back as I could remember, from the very beginning doubtless. One is ejected into the world like a dirty little mummy; the roads are slippery with blood and no one knows why it should be so. Each one is travelling his own way and, though the Earth be rotting with good things, there is no time to pluck the fruits; the procession scrambles toward the exit sign, and such a panic is there, such a sweat to escape, that the weak and the helpless are trampled into the mud and their cries are unheard. 

My world of human beings had perished; I was utterly alone in the world and for friends I had the streets, and the streets spoke to me in that sad, bitter language compounded of human misery, yearning, regret, failure, wasted effort. Passing under the viaduct along the Rue Broca, one night after I had been informed that Mona was ill and starving, I suddenly recalled that it was here in the squalor and gloom of this sunken street, terrorized perhaps by a premonition of the future, that Mona clung to me and with a quivering voice begged me to promise that I would never leave her, never, no matter what happened. And, only a few days later, I stood on the platform of the Gare St. Lazare and I watched the train pull out, the train that was bearing her away: she was leaning out of the window, just as she had leaned out of the window when I left her in New York, and there was that same, sad, inscrutable smile on her face, that last-minute look which is intended to convey so much, but which is only a mask that is twisted by a vacant smile. Only a few days before, she had clung to me desperately and then something happened, something which is not even clear to me now, and of her own volition she boarded the train and she was looking at me again with that sad, enigmatic smile which baffles me, which is unjust, unnatural, which I distrust with all my soul. And now it is I, standing in the shadow of the viaduct, who reach out for her who cling to her desperately and there is that same inexplicable smile on my lips, the mask that I have clamped down over my grief. 

I can stand her and smile vacantly, and no matter how fervid my prayers, no matter how desperate my longing, there is an ocean between us; there she will stay and starve, and here I shall walk from one street to the next, the hot tears scalding my face. 

It is that sort of cruelty which is embedded in the streets; it is THAT which stares out from the walls and terrifies us when suddenly we respond to a nameless fear, when suddenly our souls are invaded by a sickening panic. Is it THAT which gives the lampposts their ghoulish twists, which makes them beckon to us and lure us to their strangling grip; it is THAT which makes certain houses appear like the guardians of secret crimes and their blind windows like the empty sockets of eyes that have seen too much. It is that sort of thing, written into the human physiognomy of the streets which makes me flee when overhead I suddenly see inscribed “Impasse Satan,” That which makes me shudder when at the very entrance to the Mosque I observe that it is written: “Mondays and Thursdays tuberculosis; Wednesdays and Fridays syphilis.” In every Metro station there are grinning skulls that greet you with “Defendez-vous contre la syphilis!” Wherever there are walls, there are posters with bright venomous crabs heralding the approach of cancer. No matter where you go, no matter what you touch, there is cancer and syphilis. It is written in the sky; it flames and dances, like an evil portent. It has eaten into our souls and we are nothing but a dead thing like the moon. 

Henry Miller. Tropic of Cancer

Muriel's Wedding 

Muriel's Wedding is a 1994 Australian romantic comedy-drama film written and directed by P. J. Hogan. The film, which stars actors Toni Collette, Rachel Griffiths, Jeanie Drynan, Sophie Lee, and Bill Hunter, focuses on the socially awkward Muriel whose ambition is to have a glamorous wedding and improve her personal life by moving from her dead-end home town, the fictional Porpoise Spit, to Sydney.

The film received multiple award nominations, including a Golden Globe Award nomination for Best Actress in a Motion Picture - Musical or Comedy (Collette).

A socially awkward, overweight, naïve "ugly duckling", who is obsessed with the music of ABBA, Muriel Heslop (Toni Collette) is the target of ridicule by the more fashion-conscious girls she considers her friends. She also is a perpetual daydreamer who yearns for a glamorous wedding and marriage to a man who will help improve her personal life and free her from a tedious life dominated by her demanding and often psychologically abusive father Bill (Bill Hunter), a corrupt politician who verbally lashes out at his subservient wife Betty and their unambitious children at every opportunity.

After Bill discovers Muriel has used a blank cheque to steal money to finance a vacation at a tropical resort, she leaves her family in the coastal town of Porpoise Spit, Queensland to set up house in Sydney with her carefree, hedonistic friend Rhonda (Rachel Griffiths). In Sydney, she follows her dream, only to discover life's realities. Although ostensibly a comedy, Muriel's Wedding deals with serious issues. The overriding theme of following one's dream is regularly punctuated by scenes depicting the disappointments and loss of self-esteem that frequently accompany the quest.

The film received positive reviews from critics. Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun-Times said the film "is merciless in its portrait of provincial society, and yet has a huge affection for its misfit survivors... [it] has a lot of big and little laughs in it, but also a melancholy undercurrent, which reveals itself toward the end of the film in a series of surprises and unexpected developments... The film's good heart keeps it from ever making fun of Muriel, although there are moments that must have been tempting."

Peter Stack of the San Francisco Chronicle stated, "With such recent hits as Strictly Ballroom and Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, Australia seems to be cornering the market for odd but delightful comedies laced with substance and romance. The latest, Muriel's Wedding, is another bright, occasionally brilliant, example... The movie is much meatier than its larky comic sheen leads you to think at first... There's poignant drama in this brash, sometimes overstated film, and Muriel's transformation is truly touching."

Peter Travers of Rolling Stone called it "exuberantly funny... a crowd pleaser that spices a tired formula with genuine feeling... In the final scenes, when Hogan dares to let his humor turn edgy, Collette's performance gains in force, and Muriel's Wedding becomes a date you want to keep."

Wikipedia

Don’t give up on the people you love. Your patient love and faithfulness may be exactly what they need to make a complete turnaround. Armor of God 

Failure is only postponed success as long as courage 'coaches' ambition. The habit of persistence is the habit of victory. ~ Herbert Kaufman 

Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened. Dr. Seuss 

To whoever invented fantasy, redwood trees, and apple pie for breakfast: well done. ~ Dr. SunWolf 

The empires of the future are empires of the mind. ~ Winston Churchill 

All is not lost that is delayed. (French). Patti Proverbs 

I plan on living forever. So far, so good. ~ Author Unknown 

And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. The Beatles 

“Sometimes letting things go is an act of far greater power than defending or hanging on.” ~ Eckhart Tolle

Just Pt lV. A Self Portrait 

I am a jailed crazy who ties up spirit-women. I am Solomon. Rumi 

By love you mean big lightning bolts to the heart, where you can't eat and you can't work, and you just run off and get married and make babies. The reason you haven't felt it is because it doesn't exist. What you call love was invented by guys like me...to sell nylons. Donald Draper. Mathew Weiner's Madmen 

I wrote the story myself. It's about a girl who lost her reputation and never missed it. Mae West 

Those who tell the stories rule society. Plato

There are no pacts between lions (Lionesses/Female Titans/Sacred Whore High Priestess Hierophant Avatar Valkyrie Monarchs™) and men. Achilles. Wolfgang Peterson's Troy 

AMERA ZIGANII RAO ALCHEMY & LIBERATION & HUMANITY™

Alchemy. Know Thyself. Re-programming the mind, to reach the inner heart. The only way to courage. Soul. Esoteric mastery and mystic work. Consciousness. Know Thyself and know the lies of religion. God is love. All kinds of love, including cruelty. And of a nebulous highest love intelligence. The rest is up to us. I woke up one day and realised I had finally become present on earth. That I had finally arrived. I was no longer inhibited, shy, envious, wooden, holding back or trying to be invisible. The negative ego was dead, self esteem was mine and I had entered the magical world of mystery and courage, called Soul. I had died and been born again. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2011

I believe in the human capacity to change and evolve into the best we can be and to re-programme the mind from any state to another, even from the lowest emotional intelligence you can possibly think of, to the highest emotional intelligence you’ve never thought was actually possible. The process is real and attainable by everyone. Whatever background, experiences, teachings or life that we come from. The process of alchemy works and I do not ask anything of anyone that I have not done and do not continue to do myself. The mind is infinite and the human soul is real. Whether you believe in God or not, the higher mind is real and the inner heart is real. And universal intelligence is most certainly real. This is alchemy. And it is available to all. The mind is our playground and personal genius computer, if we put the work in. The rest is education and re-programming. As adults, forever. This is God on Earth. Re-creation. Us. And for those of us who are spiritual, this is co-creation. Human and Divine. Everything is up to us, whether you believe in the unseen or not. This is mastering one’s destiny. Changing. Evolving. Becoming. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2012

Spiritual power = emotional power = emotional intelligence = mental intelligence = re-programming of the whole self = spiritual intelligence = The Lost Knowledge™ = power = The New World.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2013

The privilege and the right to live the life of a man. Incomparable and worth all of it. What it was all for. From the inside out, from the outside in. Living the life of a human being and a real woman. Call me a feminist, call me what you will. All I ever wanted to do was to live as a whole human being. That's what I call a woman. Phew. Who gives a fuck, who I lost and what I lost. I have the right to live the life of a man and that is worth everything. I have the right to be free, whole, independent and strong. I get the right to be a servant to no one, chattled to no one and dependent on no one, and most of all, whoremongered to no one. I get the right to be free. I get the right to be me. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2012

The Financial Marital Whoremonger™ I come from the filthiest men on the planet. Polite wife beaters. Sadists, backed by institutional and financial power. 'Men' who make you feel like a whore for every penny you spend of theirs. They are the filthiest, most evil men on the planet, because they beat you with 'love' and 'generosity' while everything is conditional and dependent on what you give them. Whoremongers. That's what I come from. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2011

Real men do exist. Real, mature, exciting, artistic, sexualist, individuated, spiritualised, liberated, humane, primal, egalitarian, open minded, visionary, courageous, women supporting, women loving, women lusting, women sparring, full, human beings. Male human beings who can fly. Male human beings who can love women. Male human beings who can love Titans and Lionesses. Lions. Real men. Sacred Pimps™. Leaving home for the second time. Taking that leap of faith and life. Leaving The Patriarchal Womb Stealing, Female Genocide Tribe™ again. And again and again and again until...Real men do exist. ‘Champions are not born’. Real men can exist. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2011

I am the light. I cannot be conquered and I cannot be controlled, because I am the WHOLE light. That is Shaman. That is Hierophant. That is True Intellectual. That is High Priestess. That is Wisdom Carrier. That is Sacred Whore. That is Wizard. That is Monarch. That is Soul. That is SPIRIT and that is me. Warrior of light. Warrior OF light, FOR light. Warlord of Light™. I and my people cannot be controlled and cannot be conquered. We ARE the light. We ARE the love. The High Priestesses and High Priests of this world. Do not envy us. Work with us. Do not try to control us. You will always lose. And do not try to vampire us. We will always win. We are the light. We cannot be conquered. We are the light and we are the love. Because WE are The Higher Mind. The intelligence of The Universe. Soul. The love intelligence. The love. We are the Warlords of Light™. Spirituality in your world may be some sappy tolerant thing. In our world, it is to be a Warlord of Light™. It is to ‘kill’ for love. For the light to shine. It is to have seen hell. And it is to have come out the other side. This is our world too. And love has a right to exist. Being a Warlord of Light™ means it will always exist. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2012

I have seen too much this year. So much greed and meanness in men. And anyone with material power, male or female, the so called Mars Archetype. The 'Executioners' and Whoremongers of this world. I had no idea. I knew you were all beasts, but I had no idea there was so much greed. The Whoremonger + greed = Casual Fascism. Kind of sums the whole world up really doesn't it. I had no idea that money were your penises. I had heard these things but had no idea. What little men you all are. What hypocrites and empty, shallow nothings. So greedy and so mean. No wonder African American Slavery existed. No wonder Nazism existed. No wonder war and carnage and cruelty exist. It all comes from the same source. You. No wonder women earn 10% of the whole, stupid world's income. Whoremongers. Evil. Casual misogynistic whoremongering fascism. You. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2011

Am I the only one in shock, that 'tradition' or 'love' means the death of a woman as anything but a womb, servant, nurse, silent Lolita dollybird or carer? I hope that always shocks me. Otherwise, I'll know I am dead. Nothing has changed for 8000 years. Women are still only colluders in their own downfall or cast out as the 'women, men don't marry'. Nothing has changed. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2011

Need is not love and power is not love. The vulnerable and the executioner, the two archetypes and the 'gender racism' of the profane everyday world. Power is not love. Neither is need. The journey to any love or purity of heart. We are actually born to be alone. Anything else is a rare gem of a harvest after the most demanding journey. Power is not love. Need is not love. Only love is love. And we are born to be alone. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2011

You're born alone and you die alone and this world just drops a bunch of rules on top of you to make you forget those facts. But I never forget. I'm living like there's no tomorrow, because there isn't one. 

Donald Draper. Mathew Weiner's Madmen

THE END OF THE MISOGYNY SERIES

Daddy's Girl Pt ll. A Self Portrait 

AMERA ZIGANII RAO

A PROFILE  

FEMINIST AND HUMAN RIGHTS, METAPHYSICAL PHILOSOPHER. WRITER. MENTALIST AND ARTIST 

AMERA ZIGANII RAO ALCHEMY & LIBERATION & HUMANITY™

The Sacred Whore High Priestess Society™

The Super Sacred Brother Lover™ 

The Return To The Source. Ascension.

The Sacred Whore High Priestess Society™. When we were giants. All of us. When you did more than rape me. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2013

Neo Feminist™, Post Tribe Social Reformer™ and Sacred Sexualist™. Human Rights Healer. Metaphysical Philosopher, Writer, Spiritual Intelligence Teacher, Hierophant (Interpreter of The Universe) and Mentalist Self Actualiser. 

I can help you grow power, from nothing. 

Alchemy & Liberation & Humanity™. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2013

The Sacred Whore High Priestess Hierophant™ and Sacred Pimp Warrior Protector, Brother Lover™ Society. The kings and queens of old. Angels and Sorcerers together in each of themselves and in the other. The Wizard life. Forever. Living and loving from The Source. Sourcery, Carlos Castaneda first said. I'll say it again. Sourcerers together. Living a life worth living. At last. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2013

Witches are healers. Witches are the Love Healers and SOURCErers of The Lost World, when we were the giant warriors. We were good and so were were you. 'The World of Men'. The Tribe of Misogyny and Bourgeois™. 

Gives us all a bad name. And poisons all hearts. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2013

Feminist Lolita Intellectuals™. You lucky man. A place at the table, a place at the Executive Table. That's all. The rest is easy. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2013

THE EVOLUTION OF HUMAN RIGHTS: APPLIED CONSCIOUSNESS™, NEO FEMINISM™, METAPHYSICAL PHILOSOPHY & SACRED SEXUALISM™. POST TRIBE SOCIAL REFORM™. POWER IS THE NEW LOVE. FREEDOM + HOPELESSNESS + SEX. NIHILISM FOR A SUCCESSFUL LIFE™ THE LOST KNOWLEDGE™ THE WIZARDRY OF BEING™ POLITICAL SPIRITUALITY™ TRUE NEW LOVE. BEYOND THE REVOLUTION™

SOCIAL REFORM. THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM AND LOVE. SHAMANISM. PHILOSOPHY. TRUE (UNIVERSAL) LOVE. NEO FEMINISM™. ANTI MISOGYNY. THE ARTIST'S WAY. WIZARDRY. TRUE INTELLECTUALISM™. WISDOM. GONZO SPIRITUALITY. NIHILISM. SEX. SOUL. GOD, THE MOTHER, THE UNIVERSE™. SPIRITUAL EXISTENTIALISM™. THE VOID OF CREATION™. ALCHEMY & LIBERATION & HUMANITY™. HELL. SUFFERING. GROWTH. ASCENSION. LOVE. LIFE. DEATH. WARLORDS OF LIGHT™ TRUE LOVE & TRUE SEX. THE POST TRIBE SOCIETY™

The Company. 

Writer, Speaker and Enlightener, Amera Ziganii Rao, is now putting together a comprehensive and unique programme of Alchemy & Liberation & Humanity™. A programme of learning that is specifically about one particular kind of woman. And one particular kind of man. The Sacred Whore High Priestess™ and the Sacred Whore High Priest™, and the true society that they come from and the one they, in particular, she can and has to return to and that anyone can join her and him in. This is about Paradise on Earth.

This is about The Sacred Whore High Priestess™ and the Sacred Whore High Priest™, and the Alchemy and Liberation and Humanity that is for all as a result of their healing and in particular, hers. This is about the kind of woman who is at the bottom of the pile in a Patriarchal Toilet Tribe from Hell Society™, the norm, the conventional world and the world of the Tribe. This is about the kind of man who is next in line from the bottom. The sensitive man and the female chattel. The High Priestess and High Priest of a profane society, that has long forgotten who they are.

This is about being at the bottom of the pile, for the forgotten and strangled shamans, and for her, the story of escape. Abused by her family, her friends, her men, her whole society, by the very nature of who she is and who they are and what has happened on this Earth. It is about women of love, of Spirit and of sex. It is about men of love, of Spirit and of sex. It is about the Cinderellas of this world. It is about the The Sacred Whore High Priestess™. Who she is and how, loving her is the secret to Paradise on Earth and how we have been living a lie for 8000+ years. A lie of male (non High Priest) religion with a male ‘God’ and with Patriarchs and Patriarchal types and Matriarchs and Matriarchal types ruling over us and making our lives hell, all in the name of family, the tribe and the way things are and should remain. Hate, fascism and profanity. A sick society that vilifies, more than anyone else, the The Sacred Whore High Priestess™, just because it was told to. A sick society that calls her Eve. A sick society that has forgotten who we all are, let alone the The Sacred Whore High Priestess™ and the Sacred Whore High Priest™. This is about us remembering and knowing who WE are.

This is a programme of healing for the The Sacred Whore High Priestess™, and the Sacred Whore High Priest™, to take them and particularly, her, from monstrous levels of low self esteem and lack of self knowledge, back to herself and it is a programme for all those who truly want to love her, and indeed, him. This is a programme for the greatest carers on Earth, who are vilified, destroyed, ridiculed, ignored, abused, used, misused and hated for being everything that those who would steal from us are not. This is a programme to turn Cinderellas into The Sacred Whore High Priestesses and for anyone who wants to love her or live by the values of the The Sacred Whore High Priestess Society™. And this is a programme to turn sensitive men into Sacred Whore High Priests™ and for anyone who wants to love him and live by the values of the The Sacred Whore High Priestess™ and High Priest Society. Love, humanity, Spirit and sex. This is a programme to reverse 8000+ years of witch burning, women hating and healer ridicule. This is about the The Sacred Whore High Priestess™ and all those who would love her and live by her values.

This is about the chance for Paradise on Earth. This is a programme for the most beautiful, kind hearted, wounded women and men on this planet. A programme of how to implement a system of how to beat life, how to survive life and how to resurrect from the grief that is a true life. Alchemy and Liberation and Humanity of the lower mind into the higher mind, the soul and the inner heart and therefore one's true, confident, ‘happy’, successful, creative, sexual, sensual, individual, intelligent, emotionally healed, capable of loving and being loved self. How to turn grief into creation and survive and thrive, despite all the shit, all the pain and all the hurt. How to live in a world of madness, hollowness and cruelty and how to be a winner. How to stand up for oneself and to take back the power that has been stolen from anyone with heart, Spirit and sex. The art and science of Alchemy.

This is a programme, based on my scholarly and non scholarly work over 15 years (so far), if not for my whole life, and my extensive and intense, visceral experiences of self transformation from resignation, cynicism and despair to a state of relative bliss, and above all, the right to be. The programme and the courses and my speaking and indeed my forthcoming book, will cover the method of change. The psychological, sociological, spiritual, cultural, political, emotional and physical and even anthropological methods of change. Why we are here. Who the Sacred Whore High Priestess™ is and why she is here. And who the Sacred Whore High Priest™ is. Why we are here. Who we are and what we are and why we are. The beauty and glory of the truth. The meaning of life, no less. This will be on offer in the future.

My first book of consciousness, my first book of the spiritual politics of humanity, of authentic power and of self love and strength. A comprehensive series of online courses, live events and audio and visual material. Books, live events, CDs and DVDs. And one on one personal empowerment consultations. The Amera Ziganii Rao Method of Change™. The right to be and the way to have the right to be. And indeed, how to maintain the will to live without love. How to BE unconditional, self sufficient, self caring, self love. The right to be and the will to be and the unparalleled success that comes with that. The Lost Knowledge™. HOW to live. And how to heal others, the profane and the sick and the soulless. The others. My Business and that of any Sacred Whore High Priestess™ and Sacred Whore High Priest™, is Human Rights, The Right to a Sexual Society, Self Actualisation and Freedom.

My Business is To Overthrow Fascism, in the Home and in the Country. My business is also mastering destiny. Overthrowing the ultimate 'fascism'. Our journey on Earth and The Return To The Source. Our healing, our ascension and our redemption. Fate. The daily crucifixions of a true life, the challenges and the fury of being healers and people of love on a planet like Earth.

Submitting to the journey to liberate and evolve oneself, through following one's heart, however much heartbreak and devastation it leads to on the long long long journey to freedom and then the longer journey to happiness. 'Long Road to Freedom', as Nelson Mandela says. My business is always taking risks, never giving up and making the endless sacrifices it takes to become whole. Enlightenment, Nirvana and then Parinirvana and beyond. My business is pain. My business is bliss.

My business is seeing the truly glory of Spirit on Earth. The Sacred Whore High Priestess Society™ and all that it is. Spirit, humanity, sex and love again at last. And the end of our legacy as either servants or witches or unpaid carers or indeed, ignored mistresses, other women, other men even, and the weirdos that are at the bottom of society. This is our world and it is time to take it back and I can show you how. And that makes my life, truly, worth living. 

I want you to feel the way I do. Alive, with the right to be and the belligerence to exist in this profane and male ‘God’ led world of male supremacy, female supremacy, domestic, casual fascism, tribe rules from hell, with beautiful and kind, love intelligence laden, female and male Cinderella warriors at the bottom, caring for everyone else and getting nothing but hatred, ridicule and isolation for it. The meek are already inheriting the Earth and I can show you how.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2012 

I am THE High Priestess Monarch of the ancient past and I forgive you for becoming enslaved and taken over by the machines of the alien reptile force that invaded and took over Earth 8000 years ago. They taught you to hate me and my kind and you believed them. They told you I and my kind were dictators and that you were slaves, when all we had done was love you, honour you as companions and above all, we had let you just live. 

We were the holy communers, the ones who gave birth to human beings, the leaders of society, the creators of society, the vehicles of Divinity on Earth and the channels of wisdom. The ones who looked after everything and the ones who built everything and ran everything, because we could. And because we loved it. We are and were the force of creation. And you loved us and you lived. 

But they told you that you ‘deserved’ power too and that we were the ones standing in your way. And you believed them. The oldest ‘divide and rule’ strategy of hate in history and it worked. They used it and you bought it, hook, line and sinker. You had to give up sex, love, magic and your own spiritual gifts and you burnt, destroyed and violated me for 8000 years. 

The world calls that male supremacy. And indeed, family supremacy, Matriarchal supremacy and supremacy of the material world and all who believe in it. Men and women like you. When all that you are are slaves to a reptile force to generate hate energy for them to live and thrive and vampire the human race. The puppets of a hate force, that chose to destroy women and men like me, for hate to grow, so they could live. You bought it and it worked. The greatest fraud in the history of the world. 

I am THE High Priestess Monarch of the ancient past and I forgive you for becoming enslaved and taken over by the machines of the alien reptile force that invaded and took over Earth 8000 years ago. They taught you to hate me and my kind and you believed them. They taught you that my mind was evil. My mind, my sex, my body and my ways of life. 

The humanity, the glory of sexuality and the glory of creation and creativity and the glory of Divinity in each and every one of us. Our souls. They taught you that human beings are separate from Divinity, that sex was wrong and that women who have minds of their own are uppity slaves. They vilified us but much much worse than that, they destroyed your relationship with all that is unseen, all that we honour and love. 

They taught you to hate what is really God. By teaching you to hate us, you hated all that is good in yourselves. They taught you to hate the light. They taught you to kill us. The daughters of The Universe. The High Priestesses of God. The Spiritual Mothers. The Sacred Whore High Priestess Avatars of The Universe™. The Sacred Army of Love on Earth. 

The Shamans, the Mystics and the Communers. The Hierophants. 

They called me Eve and blamed me for the downfall of the human race and created the awesome profanity that is religion. Of men, by men and from men. Of reptiles, by reptiles and from reptiles. Christianity, Islam and Judaism and every other philosophy around the world was poisoned. There are no female spiritual leaders left. It is all profanity. They chose you to represent them because they wanted to divide us and they did. They told you to hate me. And you believed them. Now I am back and I forgive you. 

I forgive you because I can. Because I came here to save your soul. And because I finally know who I am. I am THE High Priestess Monarch of the ancient past. I came here to return your soul to The Source. God, The Mother, The Universe. To return you to what is really God. Because I love you. And because She loves you and your kind, whatever you have done. 

Whatever you have done to me and whatever you have done to Her. And most of all, whatever you have done to yourself. We forgive you. This is your redemption. Your freedom and your ascension. We are here to save your soul. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2012 

You bought the Sacred Whore like a piece of meat and you called that a wife. Your trophy wives. Your dancing girls. Your chattel and serving girls. Your piece of beauty. You bought us like you would cattle. Then you called it wives. Now you call it prostitution. The High Priestesses of the real God. You bought us to buy God, The Mother, The Universe and you caged us, separated us from our Divine gifts and skills in the Temple and drove us mad and then lost interest in us, because we had no gifts left, no excitement, no hunter in ourselves and no hope or joy left. Then you just called us mad and discarded us. You called us evil and you call love obedience, even though it had already killed us. You moved into our Temples and you played with the divination tools and thought you communed. The destruction of Atlantis was your gift. 

You stole us from God, The Mother, The Universe and you tried to usurp us. You vilified us, enslaved us and you still envy us today. You call it intuition. You might want to think about this when you hate us out of your jealousy. The mystic gene means physical tortuous pain and taking on the empathy of the human race. All their pains, evils and dark thoughts. We see and feel everything. We make crucial sacrifices to be near Spirit and the unseen and we go without for years. To be shaman is not glamour. I make it glamour. To be shaman is a specific Samurai existence, ascetic and harsh. We commune to be guides. And you take that and you shame yourselves because you just want the meat. You didn’t just want the meat. You wanted our beauty of spirit, our personalities and our love and kindness. And you destroyed them, because you caged us and called us wife. 

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2012 

The High Priestess Sacred Whores, the High Priests and the true protectors. Those who do not have the gift like either the High Priests or especially like the highest of all, the High Priestess Sacred Whores but who honour, protect and facilitate them to the world. Who honour the Shaman Sacred Whores of this world most of all, and who know who they are and who they are not. Who know the difference, who do not envy and who protect and love the representatives of Spirit, GOD, THE MOTHER, THE UNIVERSE, on Earth. Who honour their wisdom and who honour the latent Shaman in themselves too and who honour the communing ability of the High Priestess Sacred Whores. The non violators. Our only friends. The New Society exists. It is called Enlightenment. It is called Love. It is The Holy Grail.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2012 

The master race. It's all a lie. You are brought up to be a despot king and it is only your sister who ever tells you that you have become a pratt. The master race is all a lie. There are no kings in an equal world. Your father was misinformed. What he brought you up to be was a killer. Pure and simple. A misogynist. A modern misogynist. A polite killer.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2011

I enter the magical hours of pure feeling, pure thought, pure imagination and I think and I write and I 'mysticise' the Universe. I escape at will, the truth of my humanless, Samurai solitude, and I pursue the truth of love in myself and in everyone else. I am philosopher. I am shaman. I am alone. I frontier the Soul to be spirit on Earth.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2011

Amera Ziganii Rao is a former hard news journalist who is now turning professional with her art forms and indeed, her healing forms, after a long journey of inner searching, self teaching and exploring many layers and areas of both craft and wisdom. She is now working on her first book of philosophy and esoteric thought, and social, cultural and spiritual commentary. She is also showing her first photography collections. And last but most definitely not least, she is building a business to share her Sacred Whore High Priestess Society consciousness and empowering explorations to reach as many people as possible across the world. She is in her forties and lives in London.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2011

In the meantime, please enjoy this website. I have included many of the subjects I am covering, areas of experience and insight that I will be exploring to the fullest in my book, the courses and all the other work that is to come as a dramatist, novelist and essayist. I also of course, include many of the wise people on this planet, who have come long before me; authors, screen dramatists, playwrights, film makers, artists, and other enlighteners and grand carriers of the wisdom I have found the most helpful on my journey, to find peace and become enlightened. The seemingly impossible journey, in the face of oneself and one’s circumstances. People who have contributed massively to my healing on this mad journey called life, in this insane existence called The Universe. People who have helped to make me as good a carrier of wisdom as I in turn, can be. Thank you.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2011

Copyright and intellectual property rights are serious issues. And legally protected. Please do not reproduce my work anywhere without due credit and obviously, never for financial gain. 'Big Sister' is watching you! Other than that, please continue to enjoy my original work and the work of (credited) others, for free, while I work on using my material in further professional formats. Thank you for your interest and support.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2012

Thank you to outside sources for photography and artwork. Darkroomed by Amera Ziganii Rao