The Carpenter drove us back from Granada, all crammed into Marco’s compact car. Millan, and Cas squished into the backseat with Lila, Silvia and me, which added to the exhaustion of not having slept all night. Despite the tired buzz, I did not sleep until the evening.
We didn’t open the Cafe that day, which we can do at whim. One guy did come by from the mountains wondering if we had anything to eat, and I gave him part of the salad and guacamole I had prepared for myself. He gave me a handcrafted wooden crochet hook, a random and generous barter. It was slender and delicate yet appeared to have been turned on a lithe, perfectly sanded, and varnished with beeswax and olive oil. It was a quiet day. The others may have gone right to sleep. In the evening, I watered the plants and wrote in my handmade journal for awhile on the terrace.
That night I dreamt the most powerful dream I’d had since going off the path. It was as strong as the vision of the Earth Goddess who removed the shame girdle from my infected waist. The dream was another vision of nature. Waves interpenetrated each other, like seeing the reflection and the depths alternating in the water of my pool. Both always present, the impulses swayed, giving way to one another, like Shiva and Shakti, energy and matter, the mind and the body. Without a plot, as is the case with many dreams, the lesson of this night’s journey was clear. Nature is ultimately sexual in nature, self-actualizing, contrasting, merging, and being reborn repeatedly, encompassing live and death. When I woke up, the world was teeming with the fertile wisdom exposed by the dream, the virgin possibility of love laid bare.
As I stepped out of the hay shed, the eucalyptus trees were resplendent in the breeze. As I walked up the path to the pool, I marveled. “The plants are making love all the time. They mate. Do they fall in love? Who knows. It seems to be just a sexual thing. A plant strives and strives and strives, not for attention, nor for security, but so that when it perishes and decays into the earth, the glory of its existence will be tasted and integrated by the One. A plant takes its environment in, and gives itself completely to the environment. Seeds carry the essence of their intimacy into new life. Dust carries memories, and untapped potentials, back to the akasha.
Sexuality is everywhere. Not sexuality merely in terms of seeking pleasure, pleasuring, expressing love, or affirming commitment. Sexuality as the ubiquitous, and natural act of giving and receiving, being altered by the other, and creating something new from each and every encounter. Sexuality is all that is constant and inevitable: change, partiality, renunciation, nostalgia, newness, and creation. Sexuality is the platonic musings which give everything every form, which exist only through such juxtaposition. Sexuality is also the full bodied, burning drama of groping in the darkness, learning to connect through experience in relationship.
Why is there such a taboo about sex? It is strange how feelings often get demeaned, similar urges as this divine landscape possesses, unfurling and peaking, blushing and devouring, rejoicing and dissolving. Why would I deny the desire to merge, for my essence to be chemically changed and extracted through the smelting fire of human bonding? We are sexual creatures, far beyond the functions of our genital organs. Co-creative beings, and we become one with everything which grabs our attention, and with everything else subconsciously as well. When I am attracted to someone, I feel the exchange of energy. When I am intimidated, repelled, or oblivious to someone, this energy blends too. We are mirrors for each other in many ways, whether or not we like, or are aware of our responsibility in, what we see. All together this could be seen as sexual. We give ourselves to whomever we allow to reflect us. We are not the same after entering into another’s consciousness, like a river distilling the winding memory of its banks. We have power over another when they reveal themselves to us, and our judgements should be kind and fit for them. We must be firm when needed, and soft other times, whatever it takes to get the river to the sea. Otherwise what?”
I arrived at the pool, and sat on my favorite flat rock, wide enough to preside cross-legged and survey the birds flitting among the brittle branches, the insects casting ripples on the flat surface of the water.
“Every single person we meet reminds us of our sexuality in some way, no matter if we admit it. That does not mean we are attracted to everyone sexually. Sexuality is hardwired into us, passed down through evolution. Sexuality is the hub of our identity, the crux of the lemniscate uniting life and death, life rightfully selfish and death benevolently selfless. It might sound rather extreme, even perverse, to say that everyone reflects our sexuality to us somehow. When I see an old man, I am aware that in his prime, he wooed women my age. I might remind him of his past. When I see a young child, I am aware that one day I may be a parent, that this child’s parents’ decision to be sexually involved now includes raising young. When I see another woman, characteristics which liken or distinguish us are brought to light and weighed. What am I missing? What do I have to give? When I see a potential partner, my relationship to my own sexuality is brought to bear even more literally. Am I confident enough to be with this person? Could they please me, physically, emotionally, mentally? Could I please them? Can I use them as an excuse to stagnate, or as a muse to grow?”
Few things grab our attention more than others who mirror our sexual nature specifically. Sex engages aspects of our identity that we most long to be reflected, what can most sooth us, thrill us, hurt us, connect us, and change us. In less physical, emotional, or conscious manifestations of sexuality, it is easy to hide one’s head in the delusional sands of fragmentation and individualism. “I am not impacting the world as long as I keep to myself. See, I do all these things, but I am not effected by any of it either. There is no give and take unless I say so, and to use the word sexuality so much is just sick.” In such cases of unawareness, actual sex raises the intensity and ups the ante. The desire for love, sexuality’s crowing achievement, which can purify even the most vulgar and ruthless tendencies, deals with our state, or lack thereof, of unity consciousness. Sex commonly brings rude awakenings, giving a forum for psychological wounds, which make us feel cut off, separate, unworthy of the one, to be worked through. Risking submerging one’s identity into the bottomless waters of romance and touch often leads to people’s profoundest glimpses of wholeness. There is no neat break between sexual liaisons motivated by wounds versus those sparked by the mystical desire to commune. Our wounds are just as benign as our highest aspirations if we trust the process. Like all other forms of sexuality, sexual relationships trade both our fears and our blessings as currency, revealing the truth about our hungry fragile nature in its journey to perfection. “What am I a vessel of, which my partners will gain access to through me, and vice versa? Will I be able to hold my ground as an individual when I take this person’s soul into my life? Will I be annihilated? What part of me do they desire? Will knowing my soul enhance theirs or limit them? Are they hoping to set me free, or gain power over me? Am I attracted to this person to gain power, or to awaken the heart?
The river of sexuality leads to all-inclusive, diversified vision of self. Others not only remind us of our existence through the precipitation cycle of sexuality; they give us our existence, the substance with, and context in which, we recognize our fluid uniqueness. Regarding anything as ‘other’ is to enter into sexual rapport, commanding conflict, transmutation, and generation of insight. To cut off any stream in this web is murderous, and thus suicidal. Sexuality is the model for all interactions, not just human. Nature is sexuality, although only rarely is sexuality erotic. It is a dance of self-restraint and surrender, cultivating what has been created, letting go of old parts which no longer serve. Sexuality purges delusion, as a plant expels rotten fruit once the seed has reached satisfaction.
Unconscious power plays are common, usually to resist the aching swell of the self when it expands. Women are often called ‘easy’ for exploring their sexuality. Centered women know that to revel in ones sexuality does not mean depending on others for recognition. Females often mistakenly give up their own phallic alter ego, to bless, to propose, to caress, to affirm, to fulfill. Men may pride themselves for being virile and aggressive, but do they know how to nurture their seeds when they sprout, like the sun does, like growth hormones in the soil, like the motion of wind? Most men can pursue relentlessly, but can they receive love, bring out the best in their partner, like the mountains milk the clouds for rain? Other men may feel ashamed of their sexuality, as women often do, calling themselves shallow, a player, a pimp, when they equate lust with infidelity. Is the sky a pimp? Is the fertilizing bee a pimp? Is the temperature of the air a pimp? Is the flower a slut for alluring the bee? Is the nose a slut for smelling the flower? Is the mind a slut because it cannot get enough new ideas? Rivalry exist when competing for the attention of the same potential partner, unless one learns to pay attention to one’s own body with an unconditionally friendly mind. Rivalry can also exist between partners, to dominate the unknown of the relationship with what is familiar. Our primitive sexual nature is not always competitive, however. Though less mature, there is another, more humane, trait, often seen in minerals, trees and animals but crescent in humans: solidarity with other sexual beings, cultivating the good will to treat others as one would like to be treated. In other kingdoms of nature, the golden rule is instinctual. In humans is it a discipline.
Sexuality is often misunderstood by human beings, even though we are surrounded by sexuality in the natural world. Mother Nature and Father Sky are making love all day. What we often forget is that the lovers switch roles. Once the earth receives the impetus she is given, she becomes the impetus herself, and she gives back the energy transformed by love. The air touches the leaf, the leaf in turn gives itself to the stem, to the flower to the fruit. The flower receives the bee, but it also gives itself to the honey. The honey receives the beauty of the flowers, but it also gives its nectar to the queen. The fossilized forest surrenders to the weight of ages. The sludgy elixir surrenders to the drill rig. The barrels of crude oil surrender to the will of the market. The consumers surrender to the convenience of the product, tarnishing the air, gnawing holes in the atmosphere, pouring acid upon the earth. Scorched leaves surrender and adapt. Ice caps surrender. Our species surrenders to the oncoming rising tides.
Sexuality is not saying ‘I love you.’ It is not a polite manipulation of one’s surroundings to levy away change. Sexuality is karma, coming together, remembering, the opposite of denial. It is the consequences of our attempts to fragment, isolate, and categorize the world. We are neither male nor female. We are all both. We are not predators or victims. We are omnipotent. We are not dependent on sexuality to be ourselves. Everyone is the monad, scattered through being embodied, like the angles of a dragonfly’s eye. Thou was me before the split. Sexuality does not allow us to contribute to the One. We already are the One, simultaneously lovers and Beloved. We are not enslaved by sexuality. We are freed by it. Sexuality does not homogenize the world blending its wild recipes. Sexuality produces newness at every intersection, giving birth to diversity, multiple intelligences. The rampant liberation of sexuality is not taboo. Every sense, every part of our body, every moment, every act is sexual. It is not optional. It is ubiquitous and constant. The potential of moral behavior is dependent on sexuality; the decline of mandatory togetherness presents the possibility of Love. In the vast fields of the unknown, Love is tended like a garden. Surrendering to the timeless dance of free sexuality allows us to evolve, reverently beholding the world, giving back in gratitude. Responsible, loving, and creative sexuality is the challenge.
Nature’s tantric playground is a holy war between nihilism and caring. The debate over whether the outcome is chosen or predetermined depends on whether you credit free will or the will of God. Either way, within time and space, evolution is taking place, and it is the existence of Love at stake. Dualism threatens more than just peace. So does minimizing differences between us. The cosmic battle is not about right or wrong, black and white. It is about freeing Love and loving freedom, embracing and spawning creativity. It is no longer cool not to care. Gray is the new black. Love is the new God, and initiation through sexual/romantic relationships are the new religion. The inner world becomes the outer world, and the outer world becomes the inner. They make love. Sexuality does not become holy by appreciating another’s uniqueness. That is easy, the joyful celebration of comparing and matching colors. Love is the cultivation of something other, something we must fight for against, haunting figments, our fears, through stilling the mind, accepting feelings, and willful right action. Sexuality becomes holy within every individual who reclaims the sacred masculine and the sacred feminine, owning the phallus, the womb, and the clit.
.......
Always a baby about getting enough sleep, it took me a day or two to recover from the excursion to Granada. All I seemed to do lately was party, which made me feel like I was forgetting something important. I was just going with the flow, allowing the moments to penetrate me like light on old fashioned film, but I didn’t know what I was taking pictures of, nor why. I kept hoping one day I would wake up and understand all the beautiful images saturated in my heart, but I had not clue what anything meant. Time was beginning to lash back. That’s what happens when you ignore anything. It returns with a vengeance.
I still didn’t know if I should visit Agus. The Moon Fest was the following night. I still hadn’t decided whether I would return to The Vines afterwards, and the even bigger question, whether I would return to the United States after that. Thinking about Blondie and Cas made me feel shamed. Rather than being free, I felt possessed. I was doing the opposite of what the Capitan preached about. Instead of ruling my own destiny, I was shipwrecked by the slightest wave of desire, which coincidentally happened to be for the only males my age in the vicinity.
“Is it wiser to find people online, not simply settle for the random people nearby? Or maybe it’s not random at all. What is the difference between karma, destiny, fate? Do they even exist? How do I know which way is forward or backwards? Is there any choice in the matter? Is love the chains than trap me in my past, the gullible fall into codependency?”
I had this thought as I was putting water on my third eye by that morning by the stream. Every time I thought I knew what love is all about, it vanished like a mirage. The insights from my dream were helpful, but didn’t take away the pain. This pain, these power plays devastating me, were nothing but my higher self, my doctor my healer, my teacher. Just one month before I’d witnessed universal love in my own heart, and like a wave it was gone. I receive, and then I must give, dream and then wake up. I could hardly remember what unity consciousness had meant to me, yet I knew the challenges I faced now were exactly what I needed.
“Life gives us exactly what we need to grow. Each lesson is perfectly custom made, by ourselves in fact. Even though it seems like Blondie is winning, this game is symbiotic and it only ends one way!”
Exactly how, I knew not, but I intuited that the struggles of love are not about winning, being in control, nor staying on top. Love is not a safety net, which has to be maintained. It is a feeling, and feelings are inexhaustible. They never stop, even when we sleep. They cannot be denied.
My reverie abruptly ended when I remembered suddenly that I had not seen my wallet since I arrived in the village. Quickly returning to the hay shed, I searched the area around my sleeping bag thoroughly, and rummaged in every pocket of my backpack several times. Nothing. My plane ticket was missing too, which I could not even recall the date for. Worst of all my passport had gone missing!
“Is this a sign? Isn’t this what I wanted? To cut ties, start fresh, stop lending my strength to the things that prevent freedom?”
Silvia had told me several times to just be clear about what I want and to not settle. I wished she would be slightly less exacting sometimes. I still needed to err. Even though I beat myself up too much when I made mistakes, I needed time to explore, like Blondie who rationalizes his hypocrisy to justify his convenient, self-centered life. Unlike the prophetic lovers in the Tales of the Alhambra, who risked their lives and their kingdoms to fly away on a magic carpet and be committed to each other, I still needed to follow my bliss to before knowing what to commit to. People who reminded of myself annoyed me greatly. Each morning I awoke with no vision for the day, and in the evenings, I did not recognize the signs trying to catch my attention, spirits greeting me with a blessing, and a message, and a toolkit for my mission. I needed to gain awareness of my own thinking process, my own feeling and behavior patterns.
I decided to look everywhere I could for my wallet that day, and if I hadn’t found it after the Moon Fest, I would tell Silvia. If it didn’t turn up, I would have to borrow some money and go to the embassy in Madrid, which was the last thing I wanted to do. Determined to set this logistical crisis aside until tomorrow, I trudged in a daze down to the Cafe. Silvia, Lila and I made a huge batch of dough, and Blondie and Marco made blood sausage with chopped onion and fresh blood from our neighbor’s pig. When the bread rose, we wrapped patties of if around the maroon pulp to make salty empanadas, and folding and rolling, folding and rolling, with butter, cinnamon and sugar, we baked sweet roscas for the party. For ourselves and the customers, we prepared tomato and lentil salad with vinegar, olives, and chives, and heaping bowl of hummus, ground by hand-cranked mill with raw garlic, parsley, tahini, and olive oil, and wild boar stew in red wine broth.
.......
My contributions to preparing for the Moon Fest were carried out in a grumpy mood. For one thing, I was not invited. Secondly, I don’t know what the hell my problem was. PMS is always a viable culprit, if it’s that time of month. The sky was a heavy burden, and social interactions grated on me, with a tragic tinge. I had hoped becoming an adult would help me sort things out. Unfortunately everything was starting to look more and more like one big jumbled mess.
Marco cheered me up some. When the empanadas were done baking, he helped stack firewood, delivered by some of Cas’ friends, next to the herb drying shed. Taking a break, in the only shade near the Cafe, under the large encina tree out back, Marco blew my mind while sipping lemonade with more information about Moorish Spain.
“Was last night your first time at the Alhambra?” He asked me.
“I saw it once during the day as a tourist two years ago. It’s the most beautiful building I have ever seen for sure.”
“Do students in the US learn about the history of Islam in school?”
“It may have been mentioned briefly in history class that the Moors invaded Spain for several centuries during the Middle Ages, not making it past the Pyrenees. American society is saturated with Christian rhetoric, from our national holidays, to war propaganda on TV, to subtleties in everyday speech. Go to hell. So and so’s a saint. Sex is a sin. That kind of thing.”
Leaning against the stout trunk of the evergreen oak, Marco sipped his lemonade and gave me reason to wonder why I had never learned more about the Moorish Empire. Come to find out, while the rest of Europe was floundering in centuries of dogma, disease, and ignorance, having forgotten any technical advances made by the Romans, in the Arab world, Muslims, Zoroastrians, and Jews and Christians were living peacefully together. The Islamic civilization became great by integrating the best of Asian, Ancient Greek, and Middle Eastern traditions into their culture, including matriarchal influences of some Sahara Desert tribes.
There were seventeen universities in Moorish Spain, the first in the world, offering free education to all, men and women alike, including international scholars of any religion. Cordoba, for centuries the capital, compared with Baghdad and Constantinople as one of the greatest cities on the planet, and was twenty-five times larger than London, where most everyone was illiterate. Andalusia’s vast public libraries made available hundreds of thousands of manuscripts on Mathematics, Physics, Astrology, Geography, Chemistry, Medicine, and more. This learned Mediterranean metropolis provided its citizens with over 600 public bathhouses, over ten square miles of street-lighting, running water, and dozens of clean hospitals, whose physicians performed complex surgeries and produced scores of medical textbooks, containing many concepts, instruments, and approaches still practiced to this day, 600-1200 years later. The Moors navigated by the stars, knew the earth was round, celebrated Poetry, Philosophy, the Arts, and passed on to the Hermetic scholars of Europe the mystery teachings of Alchemy from China, Sumeria, and Ancient Egypt.”
Macro and I finished our cool drinks and both stood up.
“It’s too hot to stack wood until this evening or maybe tomorrow. Go take it easy.” I told him.
“The heat doesn’t bother me as long as I stay hydrated. Silvia told me you’re managing the Cafe tonight. That’s nice of you. Let me give you my cell phone number in case you need to call for any reason.”
“Should I be worried about anything?”
“No. Remember what el Capitan said. Never do that.” Marco winked at me, from under his white brimmed hat, wood chips stuck with sweat on his buddha face.
“How did the Moorish Empire end? There were many local wars fought all over Spain, right, until the Christians eventually won?”
Marco and I went into the kitchen and each drank tall glass of cold mountain water. The air from the clay oven as it cooled was purifying like a sauna.
“Internal conflicts within the Nasrid ruling family of the Emirate of Granada, corruption, and dogmatic strains of Islam drained of the mystical element, weakened the culture’s fiber, prompting some Muslims to convert to Christianity around the end of the Crusades. After that the remaining Moors were killed or forced to convert, and the secular, artistic, and academic culture of Moorish Spain fell into the hands of Christian invaders. When Muhammad XII, the last Muslim leader in Spain, who was rich in West African gold, handed over the keys of the Alhambra to the Catholic Monarchs, the Spanish Conquistadors used this booty to fund plundering the New World. I could blabber on about this all day, but I’d better go see if Silvia needs any more help getting ready. I wrote my phone number by the potholders over there. Blondie has a phone that works, right?”
“Yeah. Great, and thanks for the history lesson!” We smiled at each other, as Marco pushed through the beaded curtain and was gone.
“So, why is this chapter often omitted from American history lessons? Who are the Crusaders nowadays? Who’s living in the Dark Ages? Why did the Christians not give credit to their Muslim brothers for the heritage they stole? To whose betterment were the secrets of the Arabs put to use? Have the hand and the key touched yet? Who is the imprisoned princess?”
I had forgotten to water the flowers that morning, being so entranced by last night’s dream and searching for my wallet. When the empanadas were cool, I put them in a large basket covered with cloth in the herb drying room, so no animals could nibble them at night. The leftover feast from lunch went in Blondie’s improvised refrigerator, and I cleaned the rest of the kitchen very thoroughly after the busy day. Lila, Silvia, Blondie, Marco and I had joked around a lot, but my primary focus was whether Blondie valued me, even a fraction of how much I valued him. If only he were single. If he would just wake up and see the US empire is rightly on the decline. If only he would come into the kitchen while I polished the counter, leaving it cleaner than it had been in months. If only he would see how much love I put into watering the plants, giving each pot of soil just the amount to drink it needed, he would change. He would be just right, if only....
Watering watering watering, I perused the view. The air was growing somber on the soccer field. Shadows in the forest became darker than the trees, whose bark usually stood out against the pale sandy trails. Some cars on the highway had switched their headlights on, while others were so accustomed to the dark, they didn’t notice it increasing. The hose ebbed silently, and the temperature calmed me. The stone oven had cooled. The exigent sun had retired, and I had resigned myself to not worry about my passport for two days. Hoping Blondie would appear looking for a snack, my mind wandered, thinking about the Moors, and the mores of my homeland, where the word Islam is becoming synonymous with Jihadist.
The United States is often renowned for being casual and openminded. It is openminded to get along with everyone, as long as it doesn’t trump using your mind. It’s nice to get into a conversation with someone you have never met before and nod and smile and say Yes! But what about when they say, “My son is gay” and shake their head, pursing their lips with disappointment? What if they say, “if the Democrats hadn’t taken office, we wouldn’t have this socialist healthcare system?” Or what if they say, “the Republicans are so greedy, they don’t care that deregulating government dismantles what little civilization we have in this country?” You might postulate, “Most people everywhere in the world are basically good and want the same thing, to be safe, to spend time with their loved ones, and believe in what they are doing.” The other person could answer, “I don’t think so. Most people just want the prettiest girl, the most money, and all the credit they can get.” It is not so easy to be openminded, when you have to confront someone to stand up for what you believe in.
For example, people Americans would love to have a two party system, one of which they would agree with. That would mean that approximately 50% of the population would be on their side, and there is the chance of winning more people over to become the majority. Our ancestors lived in the forest, in the mountains, in the jungle. They rowed on frigid ocean in dugout canoes, cleared fields by hand, and did the work of tractor trailers on horseback. Being rejected by the community equaled death, alone in the dark, being food for the innocent and ruthless fangs of wild animals. Millennia like this has engraved into our endocrine system the unconscious desire to fit in, to be popular, to be protected by the tribe. Knowing this, and having control of the media, large corporations can bribe enough politicians to lead the masses by their noses after the carrot of social normativity. Slowly but surely, as primates became smarter and weaker, psychology digressed from primordial unity with the environment to paranoid psychopathy. People will do anything to be accepted by the larger group. Appealing to the innate hope of being safe and accompanied, those vying for power gain traction by making the rhetoric simplistic and generic, minimizing the number of platforms. We fight the good fight. Keep children safe. Subsidize the overthrow of evil. Sacrifice for freedom.
While most people fervently buy into these ends, justifying whatever means, somewhere along the chain of command, someone must know these missions are lies. Freedom cannot be fought for. It must be released. Fear does not bolster safety, education does. The good does not condemn. Does anyone actually make the decision to prioritize personal gain at the expense of other’s wellbeing, or do we just assume others are too stupid to make their own decisions? We must have given the freedom to exploit for a reason, to push the button, to turn a blind eye to the casualties of our boundless immanence? The way big government works, leading Democrats and the Republicans must have wild orgies together, where corporate leaders gather material to blackmail their political careers. Why else would someone overthrow a progressive freely elected foreign government and put a puppet president in their place, who steals the counties resources, saying it was for the people’s benefit? How else could someone in the arms trade get away with starting wars which carry on indefinitely? Why else would a private firm who prints money be responsible for preventing inflation?
The precursor to having any lasting clout in politics is to perform bizarre sexual acts on camera. This is the financial elite’s mild stipulation to make sure that the hundreds of billions of dollars spent every year on campaign financing is not wasted. To have any power as a politician nowadays, there are three covert gatherings you must attend. First, are the fundraising meetings. Large corporations, who control the media, bring fledgling public figures, preparing to enter the world stage, into a fancy professional-looking room, away from their moms and dads, their bodyguards, and reporters. The politicians-to-be are offered bubbly drinks in clear cups of enviably thin glass. If they agree to all the things the corporations ask in this first vetting procedure, the budding politician is invited to an actual party, with real VIPs who get to have their names in the newspaper and on TV a lot. It is a scary event for eager aspiring mostly men and some women running for office, being vetted by the big dogs. Anyone with a moral compass would have to be emphatically fascist to reach this level. Hazing rituals go on there. The veterans in the group want to make sure the newcomer can fake a smile when they are upset, change the subject away from a suspenseful topic while they are in the spotlight, and most of all, justify violent, calculatedly corrupt, and cruel acts using only rational, legal, and politically correct vocabulary. No media coverage is released displaying this luxurious pomp, the gay festivities serving the sole purpose of a personnel clearing house for the military industrial complex.
To provide opportunities for idealistic public servants to demonstrate their reliable ability to override their conscience, the older members of the group sometimes flirt perniciously with the wife of the applicant. This is one way to attest that such personal concerns don’t interfere with the contestant’s capacity to preserve an unruffled appearance in public, during emotional duress. Sometimes new politicians are challenged to do the opposite of showing off their political correctness and make irreverential, dismissive statements about the environment, human rights, and other matters of public liberty and safety, in the presence of other prominent guests. This is a way of showing that they understand the process, that they are being groomed to exert their power as a government official to further the agenda of corporate interest and globalization, at any cost. Another typical provocation is denigrating the servants, who are of course people of color, in front of the initiate, as they converse with senior members of the elite. Offended facial expressions, signs of empathy with the servant, or faltering in the small talk conversation would terminate the process. It is necessary that the minutia of specific causes not interfere with the overall purpose of the gathering -to be endorsed by the private club of the most financially dominant individuals alive.
Only a few, who have impressed the wealthiest stakeholders at these parties, are bequeathed the initiation rites which follow. Initiates are brought blindfolded to dark caverns underground, where the rites, of joining the most powerful people in the world under the guise of public office, are held. These chambers are made of stone, like gothic chapels, lit with torches. They can only be reached by hidden staircases in the earth, and even many permanent members of the order are drugged before they arrive, so they cannot remember the path. The orgy ceremonies involve hedonistic sexual behavior, enacted between the new initiates, in pairs, threesomes, or more. There are many closeups of the face captured during filming, which is the primary focus of the event. Pleasure and passion are elicited as much as is necessary to acquire the most visceral footage of the politicians, at the height of their campaigning careers, licking each other, wincing with desire, moaning as they lose control, succumbing to the fun of the activity itself.
Once the orgasms and the drugs have worn off, the tapes are played back to the initiates. Delicious coffee, expensive pastries, and platters of pineapple, kiwi, and starfruit are catered in a bright hall with prestigiously draped curtains. The delegates must agree, in the sober light of day, for the recordings to remain in the safekeeping of the prudent hands of the brotherhood founders. This last hurdle passed, the incident is usually forgotten, and the sweet idle days of expensive gifts, deposits in anonymous bank accounts, and international fame can begin. Having sworn allegiance to private interest, the new poster children of Democratic and Republican parties alike, with their top advisors, and committee leaders, are escorted to the civil duty where they prioritize corporate profit in the name of the people.
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