From the abutment where my apartment windows had once been, I watched the fatal dawn. The sun was hugely greater than it had been. Its lower edge seemed almost to touch the far horizon. As I watched I imagined it drew closer. The green radiance that lit the frozen Denizen grew steadily brighter. I saw that the sun was changing shape and shrinking. Gradually, as the world moved on, it seemed the sun had vanished. The Denizen moved into black shadow and all was night. Night, black, starless, and intolerable.
Tag: Hwang Jang Lee
The first shamans, or healer priests, in nature societies were women. The first male shamans imitated women by taking on their roles and wearing female clothing. Wherever patriarchy has overthrown matriarchy, even in nature societies, the previous religious power of women is feared as something diabolical; and it was only ever overthrown through the cross-dressing of those who pretended they were man enough to be a woman but weren’t! Once these new emperors were sufficiently emboldened to throw away their lipstick and skirts, the priestess was transformed into the figure of the witch. There is, of course, a link between the original she-male cross-dressing shamans and homosexuality. The gay male shaman and chicks with dicks who didn't want to get down with male power were turned into heretics.
Woo said she was using sex magick to bring about the downfall of Chinese state capitalism, and that eventually there would be a world-wide proletarian revolution in which money was abolished. Woo said the process of disalienation that would lead to real communism would make everyone cosmic. Nothing made her angrier than the capitalists of Chinese state pretending to be communists. She said it was the lies of the so-called Communist Party of China that had impelled her to join the International Communist Coven and work for the return at a higher level of not just of the modes of social organisation that had characterised primitive communist societies, but also the shamanic magical consciousness that characterised them.
In my vision I’d seen my angel lovingly murder Tao. I’d seen the political slogans written in blood on the wall. I’d heard the woman's laughter and although I had a clear recollection of looking around me, I had seen no one else. Yet all the evidence pointed to the dead man's brother being present. Was there lurking deep inside my subconscious a love that dare not speak it’s name? Ultimately would I find it more erotic to have my life snuffed out by a man? Was this why I bought and hung on the walls of my London apartment Xiyadie's paper cuttings depicting tormented gay desire. Pictures I didn’t dare hang on the walls of my properties back home!