Spitting Magic

The sun has just hidden itself behind layers of thick, swelling clouds..  there is a noticeable yellow blur as the sky dims and becomes an opaque, rusty version of its afternoon brightness.   It is high-tide, and the waves are biting at the shoreline.  
My body is wet and panting..    I have the feeling of supreme essentialness and near clairvoyance.   I am sprawled out in a chair, gazing into a pristine, blue-tiled swimming pool - feeling refreshed from swimming laps.
 But not here...  in the ocean.  
And not really laps... but more like fierce strokes of aggression in one direction until I am exhausted by the swell of the waves.  
And then repeating.  
Back and forth..  overtly directionless, pawing the turquoise and kicking up sparks of aquatic smoothness.   
    
I have so much energy here its ridiculous.   Brimming on every level with enthusiasm and subdued machismo... flowing into a state of obscene clarity.   I am fortunate to have the jungle in every direction so that my possibilities are continually narrowed.

I am sitting cross-legged, post-ocean-swim, holding a tattered copy of Carlos Castenada's "Tales of Power".   This moment is perfect and supremely ironic.
I am in a conversation with a priestess...  a female sorcerer.   She is in all ways effortlessly feminine and articulately cool..  like a stone sculpture, carved by philosopher hands.
   I expect her to be in her 40's - she is tall, her long hair tossed around her shoulders, her bare skin still magnificently vibrant.   I can feel intensity stirring inside of her.  I can feel it literally coming out of her stormy eyes and passing between her nostrils as she exhales.  

We are spitting magic..
 the two of us side by side, conjuring the splendor of each other's minds.. discussing the fundamentals of sorcery, and the birthplace of rituals. 
  Both within ourselves,
 and elsewhere...  





Andrew Tipton