Tantric Revolt

Someone once wrote that the 80s were a far more erotic decade than those that followed, and through the haze of mediation you can see it, even in the films. The other day I watched the original Lethal Weapon (currently on netflix). The movie opens with a beautiful, partially nude young woman sensuously writhing around on a huge bed in a luxury hotel room. She gets up, sniffs some lines of coke, then walks out on the balcony and jumps off. There you have it, in one 5 minute scene, the entire shamanic program of erotic sexuality, the Goddess Initiative: beauty, physicality, intoxication, and ecstatic flight.

This culture hates the body, and proof of its hatred is easy to find. You don’t have to look any further than probably the most common contemporary image of human behavior: a person crouched over an electronic device. Brain in a jar, plug in, tune out. Mesmerization is not the same thing as attentiveness.

This body is shaved and made-up and worked out and fed poison. Anything but loved. Anything but embraced. Most people’s physical activity is limited to laying down, sitting down, and brief walks in between places where people do one of those two things. Sit down at your desk, sit down in your car, sit down on the bus. If you’re part of the servant class you probably spend a lot of time standing, and carrying out tedious repetitive tasks that require little in the way of physical coordination.

Maybe you go to the “gym,” that shopping mall of sweat and loneliness, where you watch other people run in place like hamsters, ears and eyes glued to the screen and its chattering. Your body is clearly not good enough the way it is, or else you wouldn’t spend hours trying to sculpt it into something else—something that matches the images on the screen.

This culture hates the earth, which is even easier to see. All you have to do is go outside and bear witness to the asphalt tomb that’s been stamped onto the living flesh of our common grandmother. Further evidence abounds for your direct senses; you don’t have to do any research to discover the reek of noxious gases spewing from metal carriages, to see their mark in the sky, to observe the endless parade of trash. Where are all the coyotes? The creeks and fish?

Nature is everything TechnoBabylon says is wrong and evil. Nature is raw and dirty. Nature is queer and androgynous—it is male, it is female, it is both and neither. Nature is inherently sexual. All that pollen in the air? Plants having sex with each other. Seeds and soil, slime and fluid.

But we’re separate from nature, isn’t that the truth of this consensus reality? Nature is “out there,” some place we have to drive to if we want to visit it, maybe go for a walk while we listen to satellite radio or count burning calories. But the truth of the living world is simple: your body is nature. You are nature. We are nature, and we are natural. My body is the earth, and vice versa. Rivers of veins, fungal brains, stone bones and soft, mossy flesh. I know the touch of the mist and dust.

Your body is “gross” and “disgusting,” and so is everything else that lives. If you don’t believe it, observe the extent of revulsion toward anything that smacks of the biological; germs, dirty hands, body odor, hair, sweat, fluid, waste, bugs, dirt. Disinfect your entire reality! TechnoBabylon’s utopic future—a perfect plastic box in white and gray, sealed off from all life. What a fucking travesty.

What can “eroticism” possibly mean in such a world? If it is a state of being, and not just a word, it can only be a state of complete rebellion. To love one’s body, to immerse oneself in pure physicality is a de facto rejection of even the most subtle oppressions, the fascist cops, sneering bullies, and moralizing priests living in your colonized imagination.

Always remember and never forget: the criminal breaks the law; the outlaw rejects the very spirit of it. Customs and rights! Give me the big piece of chicken and pass the fucking wine.

Tantra is simple: to cultivate attentiveness, to make a temple of this living body, to make it divine, to join in mutual ritualized worship with another—sexual union as the most perfect form of divine communion; the two become one, the androgynous earth, the ecstasy of holistic pleasure—physical, imaginal, spiritual. The rest is just details; choose the head trip that works for you. My entire being is an erogenous zone, but first among equals is my imagination—consciousness also belongs to the body.

There’s no purity here, “cultural appropriation” is a term to entertain the screen jockeys, to nurture their resentment and compulsion to exert superiority. Let them gnash their teeth in their prosthetic, simulated lives; I threw the white man overboard, and now we sail with eyes for treasure of all types. Exotic is now merely another word for pleasurable, and we are cultivators of pleasure.

Cultivate touch, taste, smell, attentiveness, empathy, sensitivity. Psychonautical exploration, birth of the divine within. Don’t ask me what’s in this potion, just drink it. Take the chance, be the bunny. In india and in the islamic world, there are entire cults and religious practices devoted to the sacramental use of cannabis. Now there’s an incense! Now in CaliforniaLand, you can just go into a store and buy it. Let’s not waste the opportunity.


About DZAtal

The true and living
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