From Sex to Super-consciousness 

(Musings of an anonymous MAN on sex, spirituality and everything else in between)

As I am wasting my monotonous days, reminiscences began creeping in of those sex-full days of wondrous, wanton lust, languidly fueling up my torn-up moods of boredom with something magical. And I allowed these emotions to distressingly float along the milky way of guilt and joy, dreads and dreams, being and becoming, and the suppressions and exuberance of an immaturely coming of age man in the city of never-ending little circles.

It combines everything together in a banquet of marvelous delight. I remember my love for that cheeky, whore-like colleague, one with brown black hair, a white-like face, and not-so-soft skin, for the pain of pushing, pulling, falling, digging, eating, and at the end, throwing something from my pocket and something for my horse-like thing—no wonder they call me a real hunter; I was always loaded on with my pestle those days, ready for a fire. Too cool, I thought, or perhaps just a fool.

I allowed my life to remain as an itchy despair.
I, the Hunter, as my colleagues have marked me, am a lone employee in the financial sector of the economy, working in little boxes in big buildings, counting and recounting huge cash with nothing in the hand, kind of analogy, here, eating and getting nothing wearing a leather cap. This kind of situation is so easy to put me off. I would shake and spring out life every night. 

For those days, I considered myself a sex seeker; I was a sex guru's imperfect disciple, but out of resentment, the gaze of “the other” fixed me as a hunter or for some a Billy goat. Yes, I was addicted in sex, but what does it mean for a man of twenty-four to have this addiction in comparison to those horribly ugly things that everybody watches without any disgust? No, I never abused, manipulated or harassed any one for my lust, it was all straight or nothing, all my passions were congenial partners or affordable professionals.

My habit of chasing fantasies began during my college days. They, with rugged cheeks and a bit of soft, tight tissues, all had to come down to this dull valley to make something out there to survive for their families. For happy buck goats like us, we were a pack of four back then. It was the days of abundance; they were everywhere and we were pushing, pulling, and throwing, and they were grabbing, blowing, dunking, and bucking. It was all white and blue. 

Anyway, it all started in a small wooden box. She had a soft smile. I put my hand all over her and then sucked from her nipple. It tasted awfully sweet. I was already high. I emptied my pocket and walked home alone.

In those days of thoughtless sex, I was there almost all the time, at the intersection of seven distinct turns inside the old house. 
Sometimes even the prostitutes found it hard to take my push; her juices were not enough.

After some time, my lousy friend arrived from Australia—wow, it was already down under—to find a young girl who would sleep with him for his foreign gate pass. The first thing I said to him was, Have you done it yet? He was perplexed. I still remember that docile rat running away from his horny girl when she wanted to kiss her. It's vivid, and I wanted to take him to my place, a new and recent one I have found near the holy place. Shiva X, and what next? 

They were ripe from the village and falling down in the valley with soft and sharp breasts; it was too good to miss. Again, what next? As the white explosions continued, I told my lucky-less friend to join me in my exuberance, but he was a bit too human, not half a kind of animal. I was sure that he had come back to Kathmandu to sharpen a dull pencil on a virgin cutter. He had a magical card to juice up any girl out there. That magical thing works for every middle-class girl? 
I can’t understand the black line of separation between middle-class young girls and my better-loved prostitutes; they both easily give up, don’t they? One for the money, two for a show, and three for a pass to fly away. All the same, I am not mistaken between a few thousand and a hard card.

My friend said, I am in search of a life partner to work with and sleep down under. I searched with the face of a sober hunter and found a young woman who was bright, glassy-eyed, restless, and tired of her stepmother and a confused father. I asked her, Are you interested in traveling to Australia? I was not surprised when I got her close, and she agreed. After a few cups of coffee, the deal was done; things will never be the same again.

However, I the hunter was not called for the marriage; I was not bothered, and can’t you see it? What an embarrassment it would be for them to find the presence of a hunter when both of them were thinking about goating each other. 

My friend slept with his wife, and that evening, without any disgust, I did the same with a girl in exchange for cash. It was relaxing.
After a while, a thought came rushing into my mind of that soft-skinned pale girl my friend was digging in all the while. What made her so lovely was that she was pretty and tall, like a slate pole. I wouldn’t reach for her hole; it seemed too tight and obstructed for me. Every time Prakash did something with her, it felt as if my spirit was being rapped through my asshole.

It was too much and too big for that girl, Sony, and my boy, Prakash. They traveled across the long lane to the filthy resorts to do that thing. Am I going to tell you more about Sony? Probably NO. Sony was among the girls I dropped for, but she was hunted down by my friend, and I would only say to myself that her grapes are tasteless and sour.

Still, I remember the day of her marriage; it was astrologically supported and arranged, and I even saw tears in her eyes. Her husband was dissimilar as my friend, but he was another kind of hunter; he was rich, round, dull, and bit of hairless in front. 
As I go through the news these days, I realize that sex has indeed become a bit too complicated and dangerous because people are too either curious or judgmental. It’s a looming disaster when sex ceases to become straight and spontaneous and begins as a point of abuse and bargain. What if you bump into a stranger who can trap you with lust and completely wreck you?

You may say I got away because I am not a celebrity; I was young and too fit, fine, smooth, and healthy, but I say to them I was an addict because without sex in that zone of quantity, I wouldn't have survived. I have never undermined a woman; even if I had bumped off a feminist, she would have never complained, because there were no tactics, tricks, abuse, false promises, or power involved; it was my nature; no betrayal. And thanks to my ocean guru I never turned into a suicidal man or a suppressed serial killer.

I don't know how I ended up in a marriage—from which side I don't know—but that was the day, around thirty-two, I realized the hunter also got hunted out and the Billy goat in me got castrated. I think to move out of sex addiction is something like moving up in the ladder of seven chakras, channeling that energy some more into the heart and head, and allowing those impulses to find their expressions on something else; there is no need to push or pull so much as these days, I paint, poet, music, focus more on math, and meditate; my guru would say take that leap from sex to super-consciousness.
 
Oh, my master, I have not touched it yet; I am hanging in between. But I have realized that in the cosmic scheme of things, a sage moon as he was, my master Rajneesh spoke that the urge for sex is an unconscious way of searching for your soul. Indeed, it gives a sense of transcendence to be with the mind, not obsessed with sex.

(Gaurav Ojha is a writer, researcher, and educator at different educational institutions.)

“In age of consumerism and materialism, I traffic in blue sky and colored air.” --James Turrell

Exploring the Arts: Nothing “Blue” About Blue Man Group
By Jacques Fleury

[Originally published in Oddball Magazine & Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self]

In a world maligned by socio-political division, our society is most definitely overzealous for something to mitigate its intermittent malaise.

Then comes Blue Man Group:  an American Performance Art Company founded in 1987 like a fast moving storm, boldly rushes into The Charles Playhouse to strut their wildly colorful rapid-
fire Ritalin paced show! The Canadian Company Cirque Du Soleil purchased the company in 2017.

The show, which was surprisingly interactive, started out with the audience following the directions of a scrolling marquee. The audience was engaged in reading the words out loud which was meant to be like a warm up before the Blue Man made their blue
appearance. Another thing, which stroked me as peculiar, was that the first three rows of people were wearing raincoats. I must admit, since I was in a suit, I experience some minor anxiety not knowing what was going to happen. All I could think of was the performance artist “Gallagher” smashing watermelons to whet his audience’s appetite for a meticulously planned mess. Toward the middle of the one hour and forty-five minute show, the Blue Man squirted banana juice all over the eager audience! Interpret that as you wish!

Essentially, the show had the flare of a circus with something for everyone! It was what I would call edutainment, a mixture of education and entertainment. At one point, it became philosophical by encouraging us to appreciate the here and now instead of
worrying about what’s coming up next. Then on the other hand it was engaging when the Blue Men picked a female audience member, brought her up on stage and strapped a blue-breasted suit on her. Their comedic talents became evident when all they did for a
few minutes was just sit there behind a table all aligned in a row and stared while their “victim” masquerading as their date waited patiently for the Blue boys' next move.

Eventually they began to interact with her by playing romantic music, setting flowers on the table and sharing their “Twinkies” (described as a finger shaped cake filled with white cream) with her. Again, interpret that as you wish! Then in a disgusting twist, the newly digested Twinkies turned into yellow liquid and began to pour out of their chests, which emanated a drone of disgust from the audience.

All in all, the Blue Men were innovative and alluring. They even parodied what they call “The new Rock ‘n Roll” band as a bunch of choreographed boy bands who eventually disband to break out into their separate “projects” when they reach their height of success as a group. In doing this, they demonstrated their versatility as performers, gyrating their limber bodies to dance music. I was particularly pleased with their drumming, a sound that penetrating my pores so that the drum beats became synonymous with my own
heartbeat. The finale had pounding dance music and rolls of white toilet paper falling from the ceiling in a white fluorescent light reaching a crescendo of climatic proportions! Everyone was
on their feet, saturated in a creamy white glow and giggling like children during recess on the playground.

Then the Blue Men even waited in the lobby for picture opportunities and signed autographs with blue paint. The audience, a mixture of the young and the young at heart, left beaming from ear to ear. And that’s why the Blue Men are here in Boston to turn our moods from “blue” to blissful and for a brief moment, forget about our woe and foster a sense of unity and camaraderie in spite of our disparate identities.

the rain tarot blues, the world weary watery hues

along the worlds, the sleepy town, passengers by the mile, the down trodden in spirit for they have money but lack a smile. oh the skies; seven days and nights of it…wind and water and dark, even the artists who muse upon such things say, ‘This here is no lark.’ and somewhere past air brakes and tires on puddles melancholic and lit by electric light and chemical rainbows both, beyond old time Christian church some kind of Protestantism, further than the purlieu of the pastoral world (pastoral in summer sun past anyhow), is the unknown den of coyote far past the feral fields beyond coyote road. the tarot reader places the cards and speaks. there are truths spoken about the orphan soul, and how journey’s take their toll, but to yet take heart; for much w/light is writ for a double crowned poet inside an astral scroll. deep inside the witching hour dream between strange hours I walked in a small space w/kindred souls looking on. the space is too small, thought I; and it must mean I have outgrown it. and I awoke to the old rain laden branches outside the window, and they said nothing.

BURIED FANTASY!

The fantasy I had buried deep 
Within my heart began to flash
She met me after a long time 
Like an untimely rain
My vision got shifted to one side
Now you are laughing at me
As if nothing has happened
The wounds you have given me
Have started hurting me yet
I thought to set fire in our love
I was the one who changed my fate
My heart cursed you million times
Every time I remembered you
Even in my sweet dreams 
Your shadow is always chasing me.



 ONLY LOVE CONNECTS!

My poor heart was stolen by a stranger
I loved you more than you did  yourself
Though I 've so much pain and anguish
This impatient heart 'll get patience 
By giving you happiness
I was capsized by bundle of sorrows
Know not how these years 'll pass
Perhaps this is the condition of my heart
I am leaving the whole world
My heart is covered in dark clouds 
The day I forget your love
Will be the last day of my life .



 TWILIGHT OF TIME!

Sans you my life crawls to despair
Eyes search you all day and night
As this selfish world crashes on me
My dreams are scattered into pieces
Yours appears in the west horizon
Can't stay alone with the twilight of time
Heart can't bear pain of your parting
Wish you were here with me at this crisis
Eyes drench with your words and thoughts 
The whole world is with your sightings
But you are unable to see me only. 



 INTIMATE BOND WITH YOU!

Someone who dips deep into your eyes
And quivers on your lips like an unseen word
Someone who can read your mind
And has an intimate bond with you
Someone whose warm breath you feel 
And who meets you daily stealthily
Someone who never misses dreaming of you 
And lives in your lovely thoughts playfully
Someone who claims you as his own
I know I'm not the one you're in love with.


 Biography of the Author.

Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai

(DOB 07/06/1973) is a passionate Indian Author-cum-poet while a tremendous lecturer of English by profession in the Ganjam district of Odisha. He is an accomplished source of inspiration for young generation of India. His free verse on Romantic and melancholic  poems appreciated by everyone. 

He belongs to a small typical village Nandiagada of Ganjam District, the state of Odisha. After schooling he studied intermediate and Graduated In Kabisurjya Baladev vigyan Mahavidyalaya then M A in English from Berhampur University PhD in language and literature and D.litt from Colombian poetic house from South America.

He promotes his specific writings around the world literature and trades with multiple stems that are related to current issues based on his observation and experiences that needs urgent attention. He is an award winning writer who has achieved various laurels from the circle of writing worldwide. His free verse poems not only inspires young readers but also the ready of current time. His poetic symbol is right now inspiring others, some of which are appreciated by laurels of India and across the world. Many of his poems been translated in different Indian languages and got global appreciation. 

Lots of well wishes for his upcoming writings and success in future. He is an award winning poet author of many best seller books. Recently he is awarded Rabindra nath Tagore and Gujarat Sahitya Academy for the year 2022 from Motivational Strips . A gold medal from world union of poets France & winner Of Rahim Karims world literary prize 2023.The government of Odisha Higher Education Department appointed him as a president to Governing body of Padmashree Dr. Ghanashyam Mishra Sanskrit Degree College, Kabisurjyanagar. Winner of " HYPERPOEM " GUNIESS WORLD RECORD 2023.

Recently he was awarded from SABDA literary Festival at Assam.
Books.

1.Psalm of the Soul.
2.Rise of New Dawn.
3.Secret Of Torment.
4.Everything I never told you.
5.Vision Of Life National Library Kolkata.
6.100 Shadows of Dream.
7.Timeless Anguish.
8.Voice of Silence.

Found Objects



On each beach they’ve been different.

at home there

washed up gently by lapping waves

or thrown by high seas.

Now they’re at home

in my house.

Each beach together,

captured memories now.





.........



Daylight



It starts with one.

One skylark singing.

Then the robins 

and blackbirds

the early birds,

then the wrens 

and warblers.

Listen.

Can you hear them still?

Don’t sleep.

Don’t wait

to hear 

the silence.



........



Night Light



There are light spaces in the dark

Places for light to shine through,

for stars to dance,

for neons to cast

their artificial glow.

Hidden places where glowworms

call to their mates. 

And the infinite space where lightening cuts

through the night time storm like glass

and finds a home

in some dark

place and lights

it up.



Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/