subject: Toltec Art Of The Telling [print this page] The stories of the times when it seems that we escaped death come to rest in my heart softly. The account of the people in the house, my brothers, sisters, mother, father, and others close to each other in the darkness, Pirata not barking, soldiers smashing the gate and their machines and tanks circling outside tell of the moments just before death. It is weird in a way to see how composed they responded, just waiting, some, while others wanting it to be over, hoping it would not happen. At different times I have believed, when thinking of these tales, that death came close.
Koyote's achieved something in the Toltec art of the story telling, something that allows for a look into what happened really. Death was not avoided. He displays it in the theater, in the mood, in the appearance. Death did come. Death did happen. All those times where the mind continues the game of memory and association are but the extension of the thread of consciousness. How many times I've missed it before! While going for a drive on the freeway, blind-stoned on marijuana, a single blast of the air-horn from a semi explodes in my head. I swerve right. I swerve left. I adjust well and am able to continue down the roada spawning point. Death came and I did not even noticedeath on dying. How many times has Koyote died in El Salvador, only to grasp his story is not dependent on time, and consciousness is not linear and three dimensional.
Take it ahead and I reach the moment when we lose connection with the online broadcast of Koyote's Telling and the moderators of the online group. We who are tuning in from a distance all wait, as in the living of El Salvador, when they woke us children up from our beds on the second floor of the house early one morning and they brought us down to wait and be with each other. Guns were firing just outside the windows; screams from older people outside that sounded desperate, full of directives and orders; boots of running feet stomping on our sidewalk; big vehicles with metal-chain tires rumbling down the street, shaking every window, shaking every wall, quaking our floors. Pirata was also silent then, and Oti, my cat, was just outside on the window sill. I asked my dad to let her in but he caressed the back of my head instead, the doors and windows do not open anymore. They remain shut until the fighting stops. We wait, floating in our small island in cyber-space, knowing this happens often, like us children in the living room of El Salvador. Soon, it will be over.
As I wait, disconnected from the continuing show, I feel my anger, my demon talking, that son-of-a-bitch. I am angry, unable to take care of my resent disembodiment with the elegance and experience I once knew. I blame others, the spirits, the unresponsive guides, as if I am the sufferer, the only one that is. I feel a blare-up; it is the demon, the Me-Within, the I-Demon, telling me to leave; it's been forty minutes and no one has given a damn that you are no longer with them; just disconnect and go! I oppose those commands, but I unsuccessful to control my bitch, the demon; and the anger and rage are contained within my shell. It is apparent to those close to me.
When we are connected back, Koyote begins to breathe and sing, or hum. It is very strong, the vibration, the vigor, the impulse shakes the horrendous demon scared. It cleanses and soothes, though they feel harsh. It sounds like an alien attempt, from out of this universe.
Meeting death with a bit of awareness is a great education, a great practice that has arisen with this Telling. The Tequihua Foundation: www.tequihuafoundation.org
