Desiring Total Obliteration

About two years ago, I started to take pictures of bugs. What seemed like an innocent hobby was really something else entirely. I was drawn really intensely into The Love-World of Bugs: specifically, flowering plants and their best friends, all kinds of bugs. The bugs called ugly, the bugs called gross, the bugs called scary, the bugs called beautiful: to me, they were all beautiful, just by existing. I simply failed to make distinctions between bugs I liked and bugs I didn’t. So, I don’t understand the impulse that imposes hierarchies of value upon creatures of Nature. (That impulse is characteristic of a supreme lack of Love for This World. The overwhelming Beauty that Radiates out of this world is not lessened or negated because we don’t perceive and revere That Radiation.) Like an overzealous child does, I tried to share my newfound joy with people, and basically tried to communicate how much LOVE I was feeling, how lucky I really felt that we could really live in This World, with All These Precious and Beatific Beings. All of them, without exception.

 

Most people thought it was some sort of cute hobby or eccentricity — “wow, he’s REALLY into it” — or maybe that was just my own self-consciousness that was thrown aback by all this rapturous feeling I was exfoliating. I was ashamed and embarrassed by my own Ecstatic Love. For I knew the magnitude of what I was feeling, and I knew unequivocally that these weren’t “just photos” — but I found that so hard to talk about. I was afraid to corrupt the ecstasy with attempts at language. I tried the macrophotography online groups, and they mostly just talked taxonomy and science: species, sex, mating strategies, evolutionary history, biodiversity, etc. All that stuff is cool, but it’s just too rational for me. There’s no feeling in it. Ecology is great, but it’s not ecstatic — there’s too much logic in the way. You can be fully logical and fully ecstatic at the same time, but that style of maturity is rare in human form. In the end, I started to feel really lonely in the intensity of my intimacy with, for, as this world. That Ecstasy, That Intoxication, That Feeling that I have for Nature is just so vast and so inexplicable…. I felt shame and great loneliness at having this Profound Love for something most think is just scenery, or “the outdoors”. No matter what I said to people, it just felt cheap and trite.

 

How could I explain that Perfected Ecstasy is the Feeling of Seeing and Loving Nature, in all Her Grandeur, Face-to-Face — as One’s Own Self? How could I explain that Nature is Love Itself, is The Heart Itself? Can you feel that? So, I started to write poetry, pining for The Mother, obsessed with total obliteration and dissolution in(to) The Mother. I wanted to be eaten up by The Great Goddess, completely devoured. I mean those primordial Goddess Nature-Worshipping lineages that predate human thought and language. I no longer wanted to observe Nature in some subject-object relationship, as a human looking “into” the world of Nature. I wanted to drown forever in the Perfected Liberation of Unobstructed Feeling that we call “Nature”. Whatever was happening with those bugs in those flowers, whatever trees and bears and fishes and birds feel, whatever forests and deserts and oceans and planets are, I wanted to be THAT, without hesitation, with the most reckless and blind urgency.

 

I wanted to be Nature — The Mother. I wanted to Know and Feel Myself as the Womb of the All-Pervading Primordial She. I wanted to Float and Frolic and Flower Forever and Ever in That Immeasurably Ecstatic Heart. I wanted to be Fully Baptized in that Meadow of Immaculate Vulnerability we call “Love Alone Is”. I wanted The Eternal Rest of Her Effulgent Unity, no matter the consequences. I wanted The Nectar of Her Radiant Heart-Luminosity to dance in total madness within every cell of my body, unceasingly so, so that I could feel, with total conviction, that Only She Exists, and I am She. To Be Totally Possessed by and as The Mother, to Weep Uncontrollably and Eternally as the Sacrificial Altar of Whatever She Wants, to live and die permanently in the Insatiable Intimacy of Her All-Pervading Climax. In short, I wanted to go home.

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