Twinflame Yearning in the RX season~

I ask you for violence, in the nonsense, and you, you give me grace, your light and your warmth. I’d like to paint you, but there are no colors, because there are so many, in my confusion, the tangible form of my great love.’ ~~Frida Kahlo to Diego Rivera

There is a sense of deep, deep, penetrative soul searching love as Mars has gone retro in Aquarius which is my house of relationships from my Leo Sun! And the ruler of my 7th from my Ascendant has gone retro.

There is a deep ache in my pussy that is reverberating from down there all the way to my heart chakra. The Priestess uses her pussy as a radar. The pussy detects twinflame yearning, only if you listen. No amount of making love or no amount of self pleasure can satisfy this craving!

This hunger is Neptune dreaming up impossible dreams of everlasting love and pangs of separation. I guess Neptune retro in my 7th house on my Moon, is a time when my heart craves the most for my twin soul. And so does my pussy and my body!

And this body is entangled with another…far, far away, in another multiverse…

I am searching for that body who carries a part of my soul in his. I told you how twinflames are the same soul. Yes, they are an expression of the sacred union of Shiva/Shakti. The great tantric maithuna!

The CAP FM coming up is in my 5th house of romance from my ascendant as as FMS bring things to light, I want to see what pops up for me as I will be away from my family.

Staring at the full moon from a place of wonder and magick! A place closest to my heart. Tearful longings fill my heart. And I cry…I cry aloud, I cry in silence, I cry alone and I cry with friends…the tears don’t go away. It’s been the blackest day…

And I am forced to think of a love I never had. No matter how much I try to shut him out, the hologram keeps laughing at me. I am helpless. I am powerless and impotent as my body responds to him, so does my mind and what of the soul. He is my soul!

There is someone I want to meet. There is someone I want to hold. There is someone I want to love and it is you! This should be an easy piece to write. The words should flow smoothly, because of my depth of love for you. But maybe, words here cannot do justice!

Every single moment I avoid thinking of you, all I can do is think of you. I don’t know what your name is, but I know when I hear it, it will bring me peace. Blissful, unadulterated peace. A name that will bring a smile to my lips. A name so familiar that it will ring in the very core of my being. A name which resonated within through infinities and eternities!

Memories, memories, memories…they appear in the torturous stormy seas of my mind, but they disappear. All that remains is your smile, like the lighthouse across ravenous destructive waves. Your gleaming light saves me from drowning in the fogs of the abyss.

I know you are as aware of me as I am and maybe while you sit staring at your screen, in your Universe, maybe due to quantum information bleeding into parallel worlds, you see my words appear before you.

You do not know where these words come from, for you have no idea what they mean, but you read on. Why? Because there is something so familiar in these words that makes every pain and every sadness go away.

You are eternally bonded to me, why do you deny it? Are you even aware of this connection? Do you thirst for me?

I think you feel all of this, as much as I do…I feel you crave for my body and soul as much as I do yours and what of my mind? It is as beautiful as yours…

You have looked for me as I have for you, but we have not met, because there is no inter dimensional travel for me yet. Do you want to come to my Universe instead?

Maybe  you’re already trying to figure out how to get to my Universe. Maybe you are devising a time warp machine that will make you cross the dimensional distance and you will come into this multiverse. What unrealistic expectations, I tell you!

Or maybe you don’t exist…more likely the latter…my pussy knows you exist.

So back one more time, due to public demand to speak about Twinflmes. Tada! Now listen to me, I am travelling all the way to a magickal twinflame place called Goa in the next two days.

As La Luna becomes pregnant in Capricorn, the polarity of Cancer, I have been called to be close to the seas. One more time, I will be about to stare at the Goa skies and think of this crazy twinflame connection that I felt once, many, many years ago…

No I am not going for fun and will be going alone. No baby. No husband. Just my work and my solitude and the energy of my twinflame which is all pervasive in Goa. Nothing can stop me from feeling crazy dejavus in that place. It is like he is right there, but I know he is not. Lol!

It’s not possible for my twinflame story to be so easy. What if I see him walking towards me in Vagator? Will he smile? Will he remember me? Will he run to embrace me?

Sometimes I think of what it would be like to meet him. What would I say? Would I feel centered or absolutely ruffled? Would I be articulate? No man has ever made me lose my tongue. No man ever. Maybe he is the only man who can get me tongue tied. And it is not easy to get me tongue tied.

The Hummingbird in Vagator! Part 2, all alone.

Read about Part-1

https://mywritestuffblog.wordpress.com/2016/12/22/the-hummingbird-in-small-vagator/

Walking down the shore, drawing patterns on the beach, smelling the salty seas, thinking of what it would be…if he was here…yes, I wish you were here…you from another frickin’ multiverse.

Couldn’t you just be from this dimension! Talk about complicating stuff!

Maybe, maybe…you are already trying to communicate with me. Maybe through art. The way I like it.

Sometimes I think of you as a painter. Drawing in the canvas of my soul.

Sometimes I see you as a sculptor, capturing my infinite essence in your artwork.

Sometimes, I think of you speaking to me in a tune, crafting the sounds to describe the pain and love in your soul.

I promise to look for them. I know you communicate with me, through psychic energy and sacred sound.

I know you are not in my mind, or are you?

Sometimes, I feel scared that we will never meet in our physical form on earth, but then maybe in death, we shall be united in some way.

Although I hope to meet you in this life. Even if I am seventy and I see you coming, I will know you have come. And I will rest in peace to know I saw your face, even if for a brief moment!

I cannot even write that I knew you were the one since I laid my eyes on you, because till now, I have waited to see your face. Till now I have waited to look into your eyes. I have waited to see if you love me with the same intensity that I do.

I wish we could grow old together, but we won’t. I wish we could read each other’s minds, which we do, but we will never talk about it. We will never see our children, because time and space have conspired to keep us apart.

The best part about this craving I have for you, is that I have no clue what about you I am craving. Is it my soul, now fragmented just wants to seek unification of some sort? And is my body reacting to this connection? My pussy is…there is  stargate in there, waiting to be activated…by you!

Every time the rain drops come crashing down like silver sheets, inundating my consciousness, there is a tune I hear. Or is it a chant? Whatever it is, it reminds me of you. Rain and sunshine, both! How perverse is that!

No man has ever touched my body the way you would, because having the same soul, this body too, is yours. No one can kiss these lips like you do, for they are your own lips and when you look into my eyes, you will feel like you are looking into your own being!

I am your mirror…look at us!

That is the connection I feel to this unnamed energy that I call my twinflame. There is no tangible physical form, but there is energy. Energy which flows from his heart to mine and I think the energy being churned out by the skies above is heightening this connection, this yearning, this impossible fulfillment.

My body aches to be with you, the void in my pussy, impossible to satiate with anything, but you. Every atom of my body is eager to express my love for you in an impossible dance of sacred union. Our bodies enmeshed in an eternal embrace, you pulsating within me, setting every fiber of my being on fire.

No hands can ever worship this body like yours and no one can pleasure me like you.

There is no you. There is no me. There is only the sacred fire of our communion. There is only our love burning bright through the abysmal darkness of creation and destruction.

My all consuming passion drives my creativity, it drives my lust for life, it drives my sense of purpose. It is the anchor of my life, my North Star, the ever present fixture in the mirth of my consciousness.

I know you communicate with me through symbols and archetypes, through birth and death, but now it is time to show yourself…appear and manifest in this Universe…

To someone in some multiverse…

DONATE~

http://www.tinaheals.com

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Notes on #PussyTalks: Sluts and Whores~~

Wow thank you all for the letters and the notes, the memes and the pictures; they made my day just that much brighter. I had retreated into a very deep place, something to do with my natal Pluto, Mars and Venus aspects from where I might never fully return. Astrological work will be coming up shortly as well as more on Sacred sexuality.

Jupiter in Scorpio brought about a wonderful surprise, remember it is on the third house from Ascendant. The house of communication and the energy is Scorpionic with Jupiter amplifying all those attributes. I spoke to a group of empowered Escorts and sex workers who know and love their work. They also love their clients(well most of them).

You might not know, but I have been interacting with escorts, Johns, Dominas, Tops, Bottoms, Crossdressers and many others from the sex industry for very many years. Collecting data and looking through a Uranian filter on such SCORPIONIC ISSUES.

Something about the way women’s sexuality presented itself in society did not do much for my identity as a sexual being. In fact, I told that virginity was something to be saved for your husband. Fuck yes, I remember it. Fuck, everything to do with sex was such a stigma. All the time.

Obviously bad girls like me do not listen and we do what we need to do to experience life in all its awesomeness. How can you leave out sexuality which is at the very crux of human civilisation?

It made no sense that it was so hush-hush. It made no sense why my BFS got so jealous if other men(including their brothers and their best friends) looked at me or spoke to me with excitement. They behaved like I was their possession and it pissed my rebellious spirit off to no end.

In fact, it happened to me recently. I lost an old friend because her husband could not contain his excitement at meeting me! And this is one woman who should have known that I will never be into her man. Even if he was my type. It hurt me tremendously and is a wound I have been carrying for a few months. There I spoke of it…

Such is the place from which Pussy Talks was conceived. I had to discover for myself that I was not alone. I was not the only woman who CRAVED TO CONNECT. I was not the only woman who wanted it uninhibited, raw, deep and fiery.

I knew there were others.

That is when I learnt of the Virgin/Whore archetypes. That is what society has reduced us to. Either we are good little virgins(wives, mothers, sisters) or we are whores(free minded bitches). I may be a wife, but my husband knows very well and loves the fact that he does not own me. I am as free as he is.

I saw girls gossiping amongst themselves every-time someone lost her virginity. There were always the most psychotic, obsessive, desperate-to-accomplish types who held on to their hymens.

It was strange the way they held on to their virginity as a commodity with which they could in some way leverage a better deal.

Not for me. Hahahahahaha! Some even went for hymen transplantation. Such is the saga of human sexuality today.

Working through the sacred slut archetype yesterday with the ladies MADE ME SO EXCITED that I made up my mind to write this post. Every woman has the right to feel this orgasmic bliss that rocks her whole being. It is as much your birthright as it is mine.

Most times, men will not give it to you, so you must learn to give it to yourself till you find the ONE you can merge in sacred union with. Trust me there is someone who will make love to you and stick all the broken parts back together. Dreamy shit…hahahaha!

Anyway girls, your virginity is not a commodity and the first time you make love, keep in mind that even if the person is not your Mr. Right, even then, be PRESENT in the moment. In the NOW. Be there. Smell him, feel him, feel the whole scenario and just experience it. Do not feel upset if it is not what you had in mind. Embrace the reality while knowing that the fantasy might happen, someday.

There is nothing as disturbing as losing your virginity while drunk or drugged. In fact, if you decide to lose your virginity, make sure, you and your beau abstain from alcohol, especially if you are doing YONI PUJA or tantra meditation sex. Remember, this is not Neo-Tantra, so my ideas may differ from what is being sold in the West as Tantra.

I know that to activate your sexual energy, you have to connect with your pussy. It has to be done. My work with women focuses on activating the GODDESS FORM INSIDE EACH OF THEM and the YONI or the PUSSY becomes a direct symbol of the GODDESS.

The ladies I spoke with were working with sexual energy and if they work with the GODDESS FORM, they might find more magick in the work they do. The men will also respond to this energy flux. This might result in lots of kundalini activity.

Although they were pretty adjusted on the surface, yet, some of them failed to really tap into their INNER SACRED SLUT/WHORE and sex work can become healing work if you just understand how to work with the energy and it all begins with INTENT.

Most girl were telling me that they find no time to meditate or do anything spiritual at which I told them and showed them how putting on your daily make up can become a meditation.

They were thrilled I can tell you that.

As Jupiter moves through Scorpio, society will be confronted with FEMALE SEXUALITY like never before.

Believe me, wild sister, man wanted monogamy. You did not. He decided to control you while you were pregnant and had to depend on him. And look now, what has changed. Women’s reproductive rights are a joke.

Women are way more sexual than men and the Courtesans and Sacred Whore of yore knew this. They were SLUTS because unlike the wives they did not belong to any man, but chose to mate with whomever she liked.

No man controlled her, not with money, not with sex and not with children.

She was free to explore her sexuality and in most cases made it a spiritual practice. Women have this inherent wisdom and trust me, talking to sex workers from all over, I can tell you that they are some of the wisest and experienced women, especially if she has successfully drawn on the COURTESAN archetype.

For the Courtesan was a truly accomplished Artist and MUSE, sometimes of really powerful men. She was a Philosopher, a musician, a singer, a confidant, a seductress and even a top in bed and she played all these roles to perfection.

Why are wives sacred of the Courtesan? Like some women are scared of sexually empowered women? These women are your witches, your bitches and your bossy bosses. Don’t you just hate them? Hahahahahaha!

The wife fears the courtesan because the courtesan does not need any man. But the wife does. Remember she is a wife and her whole identity is wrapped around that little concept.

The Courtesan is free from this. She is sexually free, in most cases(if she is smart, lol) then she decides and chooses her lovers and they in turn provide for her. Yes the Courtesan is seen as a FREE and available woman and in most cases vilified, but it was not so in ancient times and it is also imperative to end the stigma behind sex work and prostitutes. They are girls, like you and me.

Escorts and sex workers have to understand SACRED SEXUALITY, because they work with kundalini energy at the very base level and if they manage to rise up in vibration as a collective, then imagine what could happen. Our society could change.

Being in love with somebody and cohabiting with someday- two totally disparate concepts. How can you love someone if you know them intimately? The courtesan provides the allure, the mysterious. Whereas the wife is an open book that the husband mostly ignores because he has read every page. So instead of going through the painful process of reinventing yourself over and over again(spending tons and tons on the way you look and getting stressed AF), wouldn’t it be better if we redefined feminine sexuality.

It is so very important for women as a collective to come together and scream out that- WE RECLAIM OUR SEXUALITY, our reproductive rights…We will decide as well how sex and sexual imagery will be portrayed in media and in society.

Look at the images in front of you…hacked and quartered limbs of women selling you products. The breast will sell you everything, but when it pops out to feed an infant- ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE. While breastfeeding my toddler the other day at the airport, I was stunned at how many men stared at my breast, forgetting the fact that they were once babes suckling on their moms.

Look sexual imagery is created for the MALE GAZE. There are no spaces for women to express their sexual preferences, desires, fantasies and the rest. Fuck that, there is really no avenue for women to be sexually empowered. Look around you, wherever you go…the violence on women is apparent and evident.

You cannot hide from it now.

Working through SACRED SEXUALITY and all the archetypes in our consciousness must be a top priority, not just for sex workers, but for all women and men out there.

Men are being fed a garbage diet of misogynistic porn and soon to come, robot sex. Think hard. How will a man handle the idiosyncrasies of a real woman. So men, tune into your sacral chakra. It has a lot of wisdom.

Men are not from Mars and women are not from Venus, although they are the cosmic archetypes of masculine and feminine. Both men and women are from Earth and it is time to join together.

A woman is way more sexual than a man. Believe me and please note that the walls of the vagina do not get stretched or loose with sex. In fact the pussy is full of elasticity, the muscles and tissues can expand and contract easily and return to how it used to be.

I have heard so many women bring this up as a lack of interest in the men that I feel like shouting it out from the roofs tops. Google it bitches…check it out. You can start the Kegels later on now.

There is so much bullshit propaganda around female sexuality thatt it has perverted human sexual expression and its freedom. Society never makes women’s sexuality a priority. It is a filter through which a male can masturbate and enjoy. Watch the lesbian porns out there and you will know of what I speak. You already do.

The clothes we are meant to wear. They are so freaking uncomfortable, some of them, yet they serve the purpose of the male gaze. Look at the bikini, it is an elaborate subterfuge to get women exposed so men can stare at them while sitting with their wives. Making the wife insecure and getting her hating on the younger girl. See how it is a vicious cycle. The wife hates the sexually free woman, even though they both stand oppressed in the hands of patriarchy.

Little girls are falling under the trap of hyper sexualisation and that is creating a more perverted scenario where they find it hard to fit in and adhere to set norms of beauty because they are unrealistic.

If women became sexual beings and decided to take matters in their own hands, then things could change. Women can bring about a change in the way society perceives and separates us.

Maybe there can be BALANCE if men and women contribute to the sexual repertoire. It will benefit us as a culture.

Ladies reading this, you need to reclaim the INNER WHORE and trust on your vagina. You have to begin a relationship with it and start to love it. Like your womb.

You can only bring pleasure to your husband if you learn to pleasure yourself and take sex as an artform. If you tap into the COURTESAN archetype, you will see how it shifts your whole energy signature and sexually awakened tigresses are beacons of hope for the rest of the females because we have been so repressed and controlled in that department that we have lost our voices to speak of sexual pleasure. Or wait, people might call you a SLUT/WHORE.

So what?

 

DONATE TO ME AND SUPPORT THIS WORK

I intend to work with escorts, sex workers and others from the sex industry and am available for Talks, Seminars and Discussions. Feel free to book me for such events.

tina@tinaheals.com

The Mansfield Story

BELOW IS A PART OF MY NOVEL CALLED THE MANSFIELD STORY.

IT IS ALSO DEVELOPED AS A SCREENPLAY.

HELP ME PUBLISH~ BECOME MY PATRON

 

CHAPTER 1

SHAMBHAVI’S POV

I am not going to pretend that I’m this master story teller, in fact I’m seriously beginning to question my choice of vocation as writer/ filmmaker. No HD has my film on it and the analogue era was before my time. I have made all these films, in my head. From script to post prod, I’ve created these monstrosities and they exist. Don’t know where, don’t know how, but they do. Mistakes are portals of discovery, right Joyce. Works every time, doesn’t it. But then you were seeking to be immortal, hence the elaborate subterfuge, but for me. I am the nothingness, the mistake. These films that I’ve made in my mind, over and over, lead me nowhere in the real world, for they don’t exist. Neither does she, but there she is, invading my senses, my ideas, my dreams.

I think of these bizarre stories and it’s not even that I write them, they write themselves. I’m just their victim. They laugh at me, they torment me, they wake me up at four in the morning in jest, they drive me insane tossing and turning in bed at night. They are my oppressors. Not always. There is a friendly angle to our relationship. It does exist.

To the world, I’m this depressed writer who types away for hours on end on her laptop, writing God knows what. I’m in the fraternity of paid-poorly writers who are paid next to nothing to develop content. That’s my day job, at night I’m batwoman! You wish right?

I write screenplays and then make my films over and over again. And then there are these surfeits I have to deal with, like my friends from these stories, they begin to cohabit with me. These characters, they decide to pop right out of the Final Draft document and strut their stuff in front of me. There’s a reason why I’m constipated. How do you drop the excrement off your body when someone is reciting to you, a fluke line out of Keats, or no Shelley, I think. The Romantics definitely. Or you have this beer bar dancer doing make up! She keeps wanting to know if she’s looking saxy, not sexy, but saxy.

How the fuck is someone to shit in peace? Then there’s this boxer, he’s got tuberculosis and I write about it. Bam! I develop this terrible cough and an unbearable pain in the chest. The next day, I go to clear my throat and the phlegm sitting in the basin has blood. What does the boxer do? He laughs at me.

Then there are these pregnant women. I don’t think I’ll get into that right now, but yes you guessed it right. My periods stopped coming. Who could be the father? There were three possible candidates, but no one I could discuss this with. Not like they were my live-in boyfriends. They were nothing, not even friends. I stared at the pregnancy stick, yes, two lines. It didn’t matter how many times I re-took that test, it was the same. Now I’m no fool, I use protection. So did it not work? Did the bloody condom burst? Am I… I don’t think I could bring myself to voice that word. PREGNANT!!! I was and I did what I had to.

Not only am I plagued by these people, but strangely the things I write come to pass. No don’t think of  it as some kind of gift, it’s a fucking curse actually. It might have been a gift if all I wrote about was unicorns and fairies, but here I sit in silence and type away. What do I see? The desperate situation we’re in, yes us humans. I see the pain, no I think it’s more like I am in pain. I suffer day and night, sometimes with reason, sometimes without. I’m just a sucker for pain and my heart is perpetually broken. These films that I make are extensions of my tragic self and the most persistent theme of them is suicide.

You can say that I have a morbid fascination for suicide. My mother committed suicide when I was four or five, her mother too killed herself and so did her father, so yes it kind of runs in the family. I’ve been subjected to hours and hours of counselling so I don’t jump off a high-rise or hang myself with a dupatta. Morons! As if those sessions helped.

You see to me suicide is an art-form. You’ve got to be an artist to kill yourself with grace. You’ve got to see the beauty in death and embrace it. You’ve got to worship the power you have, the power to decide when it’s over. There is no fucking God, there is just you and the choice is yours.

My mother named me Shambhavi, I have an abbreviated form that I’ve chosen- SHAM! Yes I’m a sham! I’m not artist, if I was then I’d have already created the master piece- my death! The suicide, but I am not an artist, just a writer.

There are these three projects that I’m working on- developing for filmmakers who are too lazy to write their own shit and need to hire morons like me. The boxer does tend to get on my nerves, otherwise I am actually pretty involved with the rest. They tell me what to write and I do. It seems to be working. Of course there are times when these directors feel the need to impose upon my feeble intellectuality and ask me to make corrections. Temper tantrums will be thrown, but somehow we manage. We don’t exist without each other. We need each other.

Then there are these turbulent characters that take birth from my mind. They wreak havoc on my life, depressed, suicidal, maniacal, it’s difficult to deal with them. There is no sense of closure, no sense of comfort with them, only angst is the best way I could describe the feeling.

I have also tried setting MSS on fire, but once they’ve been conceived of in my head, there is no annihilating them. They are a part of my life, actually these creatures are my life whether I like it or not. The only way I can get rid of them is to finally begin work on the masterpiece.

It was so strange, when I met her that night. She stood in front and for the life in me, I couldn’t fathom her identity. There was something so familiar about her. P.S- I don’t subscribe to God or reincarnation. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive as I did when I saw her.

Don’t ask me how I landed up there, but I’ve had such strange and absurd situations happening to me recently that I just let go and watched her. She was tiny and her hairdo reminded me some old flick on Joan of Arc. Dressed in all black, there was this pendant around her neck, a spiral in jade and it looked like a fern would spring right out of it. Waist-upwards she had this sphinx like quality, her short crop was unkempt, her bangs fell on her forehead. She blinked her eyes through thick glasses as she looked at me. It had to be me, right. There was nobody else there, just a cat.

She lumbered across the vast living room. I could see her legs did not carry her well and she was stooping. There was a fire in her eyes which I could see even through those thick glasses. She sat right in front with a cuppa tea. I was not offered any. We sat like that for I don’t know how long. I was looking to say something. “Hello, I’m Sham,” “Hello, I’m a sham.” But I said nothing.

There was something that caught my eyes- an old calendar that screamed 1922.

Okay officially I have lost it, I know it to be 2017, not 1922. That made me look around. The deco was very vintage English, complete with Victorian furniture and then there were books. Quite a collection! I could happily bury myself in there for the rest of time and not bother about those people who live in my head or even the person in front with her sparkly eyes. She was not old, maybe thirty, but she looked much older. Her body was bent out of shape and her face showed signs of physical pain. I could tell she was sick and ailing. I looked on.

That belligerent and witty tongue could lash out at me, but it remained mute. It could raise a tempest but the waters remained still.

“You know I want to be like those ballerina’s of Dega, frozen in their graceful posture…” Those were the first words that came out of her mouth.

A reply, it came quite effortlessly. Then I bit my tongue. Crap! I sound like an idiot, I thought. “But those ballerinas are frozen, there is no life in them. They’re dead, like dolls…”

She threw her head back and laughed. That sound awakened a primal part of me and the ballerinas of Dega were right in front of me, suspended in space. There was this one figure of a ballerina and right next to her was this strange woman whose face you could not see, hidden by a hat in black attire and they both seemed to be waiting. It felt like us, that moment that time. I felt like the ballerina, massaging her foot in eager anticipation to perform and she was like the chaperon, waiting for that moment when I would set the stage on fire, pushing my body for fleeting moments of grace that would captivate one and all. I do that every day. I push my mind so I could come up with that work of art that would have entire generations enthralled, now you see what a SHAM I AM.

She wanted to be like those ballerinas. Why? Did she not feel their pain, their exhaustion? Did she want to be frozen in time?

“I never leave the house anymore and don’t like having servants,” She told me.

“T.B is painful and in 1920 it is incurable and you also have gonorrhoea, you must be in severe pain, most of the time.” I replied.

“You speak as if you come from some other world.” You can tell the gutsy woman she is.

“I come from the future…” I burst out laughing as I said it. “It sounded like some corny Sci-fi that no one would go to watch.

“You mean the motion picture…” She sounded interested, but then who is not interested in film.

“It’s very interesting that you would bring up the motion picture, because I have this story that I’m working on and the protagonist makes motion pictures, but from a feminine perspective, you know…”

I knew. “You want to explore the feminine angle? You seem content telling us stories through the male POV, Point of view…” I had to explain as she had no idea. Feminism, not one of her strong points.

But then what do you expect from her in 1910? Seems a bit bizarre, absurd if you ask me. I reach out in my pocket to stroke my I phone 6. The screen is cracked, just like my life.

You do not abandon your husband in 1920, you’re a woman and your place is right by his side. There are no other options, do not seek them. She seemed to know about real people, not some theoretical characters, but people of flesh and blood. That captivated me for years. How does a woman of her class and upbringing understand the human condition that well?

How does a marriage last only a day? There are no answers to such theoretical questions? Are writers really so crazy to get married to see what it feels like? Is this research? What is a marriage anyway? There was so much to talk about, but we sat silent.

 

CHAPTER 2

MANSFIELD’S POV

The tuberculosis has drained all my energy, the pelvic pain is getting worse, but my dream portrayal must continue, if anything today there is a seeing that I have felt. It’s not writing, it’s seeing. There are moments when I see all black before my eyes, need to sit down and gather myself, but the imaginative process never stops, it’s akin to breathing.

Much of my work remains unpublished and there are days when I lovingly gaze at them as a sign of acknowledgement and appreciation. Writing or rather seeing is a need and it must be done. In fact this sabbatical from my amorous lifestyle has given me time to write and I am thankful for it for all my stories come from the depths of my being.

Bliss and other Stories has just been published this year and it seems to be doing rather well. But there is suddenly a story inside me. I don’t even know what it is, suddenly I see Maata’s face and her breasts like a motion picture, a silent film and once again I’m back in the Hippodrome and I see the audience. Predictable! Their hands, their heads, their expressions.

I dreamt a story last night, every little detail etched in my mind, down to the smells and sounds and I was a part of it.

I see her eyes. A dark melancholia! An intense hankering for experience in the world of echoes and shadows. Who is she? She could be my alter ego. Her olive skin glows like logs burning at the fireplace, her long, dark hair is threaded like the negroes. Her mind is where she lives, the outside world has no fixity for her. I remember gazing at the audience, why not, I was a part of them. In this story I’m a part of both- I am her and I am the audience.

This story about her, this absurd protagonist who writes these films. Could it be that she makes them? Lumbering away with that heavy contraption of a camera? Who knows in the future there just maybe such women? I’d have loved to discover that platform.

Story-tellers tell stories, it doesn’t matter what the medium is. I have been told my writing is descriptive, just like the way they do it in the studios in America. I could have gone there, but travel for me is not a possibility. It’s why I cannot even go home- New Zealand!! Oh my pain and pleasure.

I’ve been criticized, compared to Chekov, snubbed for my hankering to be free, my will, my feisty nature, but people forget I’m just human. Where is the time? I’ve lost so much, I’ve gained so much. I have cried, I have laughed, I have lived and now I will die.

But this story, it wants to be written. Murray will surely publish most of my work even though I’ve told him not to. It sells, my writing and so shall its fate be, it’ll be sold! I need to sit down on days when the pain is bearable and write. I want to give my readers hope, yes everything is twisted, but there is hope. I was tired of reading every single thing out there from the perspective of a man, I mean how long is society going to ignore us? The fact that the women in my stories have decided to speak up shows me there is hope for us. Our voices need to be heard.

The Fourth way may just be my way, reading Gurdjeiff is a complicated process, yes it has opened up new portals to my experiencing life, but then there is so much left to be discovered and do I have time? Regret, don’t we all have a pinch of that with every sip of life we take. I for one, am swamped with regret. I regret my childhood, I regret the taunts and mocking because of my rather hilarious glasses, I regret not writing more often, I regret not supporting the women’s suffragette in the U.K, I regret not being vocal about it, I regret not telling Maata how much I loved her, I regret my obsession with Chekov. No I take that back, no regrets there. I regret my brother dying like that. I can still see him in uniform, bloody and dusty.

Although I have been quoted as saying that I do not regret anything. I have asked my readers to never regret, but that is only the half truth. Yes regret is an appalling waste of energy and nothing can be built on it, but it exists. I wish I could just erase it away. REGRET ERASED!

The Work must be done, it’s 1922 and here I am in colonial India, Calcutta to be precise, all alone. A sick white woman in the midst of all these natives.

Then I saw her, she was vibrant, her olive skin was smooth as it tasted the Sunlight which played on it and created so many hues that I just watched. I don’t know how she arrived right in front of me, definitely not dressed like the ordinary native girls or like an English lady. She had on trousers like men, I think they’re called denims. The road workers in America wear them as overhauls. I never expected a woman to dress in them and then her long, dark negro like hair. I thought she was a figment of my imagination, the medicines playing a trick on me. After all I was a sick woman. I waited for the apparition to disappear. But she sat there and just stared back. I think we briefly spoke, about Dega’s ballerina’s, but it made no sense.

Theosophy and Gurdjeiff! You know the three types of men or women found in this world- those that are centred in their physical bodies, then the ones centred in their emotional space and those that focus on their minds. What type am I? I have never been able to quantify myself in any one category, I’m indeed a mixture of all three. I have lived centred in the physical, more than not I have existed only in my emotions and then of course my mind is one of my favourite places to visit and spend some time. So yes, I’m a bit of all. All writers are as we have all these stories inside us where we become those people when we write them.

I remember alluding to this story of this woman who makes motion pictures, these dreamy silent films. I think she is my protagonist.

Right now, all I can think of is Van Gogh’s painting- the self portrait. I consider myself a writer/painter. I paint too like Van Gogh, I paint with words.

I just wish I had more time. I want to be healthy again, to experience a full, living-breathing life. I want to be with the Earth and see all the wondrous things- the sea and its infinite waves, the mellow Sunrise of a perfect morn.

I know I exist in this state of hypnotic waking sleep. I want to wake up and I’m willing to see if the Method will help. This story needs to be written. I need to find her again. That woman, no she’s more like a girl. I need to find her.

And then I see it, the Insect scuttles away and there are these strange voices that I can hear. Sounds like some Hindu chants. What is it?

Is my illness getting the better of me? I see myself, is it me or some other woman, no wait it’s her, dressed as Van Gogh, holding a gun to her face. She pulls the trigger!

I see a thick manuscript by the coffee table and note that’s its rather gloomy this afternoon, the wind shakes the trees so. Flashes trouble me- I think I see Lawrence. Murray tells me that THE LOST GIRL is modelled on me. I know, I know that my writing and me in person have had a significant influence on him, and he’s drawn parallels between me and some of his noteworthy characters, but why do I see him, in Colonial India?

My neighbour from Cornwall, my friend, the eminent D.H. LAWRENCE. I am his Albina and we both struggle everyday for our independence and outcasts we’ve become. We shared a number of things in common, I was a colonial outsider; he was from a working-class mining town. I am more like Lawrence than anybody. We are unthinkably alike, in fact. Four of us did form a peculiar brief and uneasy friendship in bleak Cornwall, yet, I treasure those days.

And now I find this letter from Murray. It does nothing for my mood right now, but leafing through it seems to be my only option. So I do it.

“You are all about me – I seem to breathe you, hear you, feel you in me and of me.” I actually wrote those lines for him and felt like I was home in his tent, sitting at his table. It seems far away, back here dreaming of silent films and Virginia Woolf.

There were times when I wanted to strangle my beloved Murray. I go back in my mind to one such incident. It left a sour taste in my mouth. I was cruel, we were verbally bashing one another, oblivious of who was present. I’d like to think it was tragedy that kept us together.

There’s nothing I want more than a cigarette. The curls of smoke rise up to meet their oblivion as I take a pull. It calms my frayed nerves and I take a sip of the tea. Darjeeling tea from the foothills of the Himalayas, a colonial addiction. Tea snobbery!

As I relax, she appears in front of me. Seated in a cluttered desk, she seemed to be looking at something. It looked like a boo, but a light emanated from it. She seemed to be typing like it was some sort of type writer. I couldn’t see properly, the smoke and mist clouded my vision.

The Plan ~~ A Novel by Tinaheals

MIZPAH

The smell of death, the touch of suffering,

The hungry mouths, the tired bodies,

This is reality, wait, its buffering.

This is what it embodies.

The sleep, the dream, the dream in the dream!

 

I force my memory to return to that day, that fateful night.

I feel so divorced from reality that everything seems to be from a film, some experimental film, where the maker is purposely using disjointed close ups, to display the brokenness of the characters, to make visible the dehumanising of them.

It’s like when I look at advertisements- dismembered body parts of women are made to mimic products, a torso becomes a bottle of alcohol, and two legs become scissors. The woman is not only sexualized, objectified, but her body is not even allowed to remain whole, it is sliced up. What violence!

But here in this scene the filmmaker has perceived of slicing the characters to convey to me that they are somehow not whole, they are somehow disintegrating, they are fading away. The film I see, has a burnt out texture, the whole shot seems to be fragmented; there is an emptiness evident in the mise scene; the atoms are 9.999999999999% empty, so reality is essentially emptiness and I am more not here than here.

The camera is fluid, the shots keep going out of focus and then the subject gets refocused on. Wait, is this some film festival? Nah, it’s my life, more like a snapshot of my life.

That day!

I see her face; her mascara is running down her face, she looks like some character from a horror flick. Dressed in torn jeans and a white tee, her feet bare, her  messy make up, the alcohol on her breath and her cigarette smoke, they all surface at different times in my mind, like abstract close ups. They help me conjure up that very moment and I am there again.

A few weeks ago we had gone to the Police Station to file an FIR against this bastard. Not much was said that day or the following weeks of what had transpired because my sister was pretty much catatonic and has been since them, but this evening I get a call from her, drunk out of her head asking me to drop by. I ask Frank not to come as she might open up easier without a male presence, so hopping into a rick, I went straight to her Andheri apartment that she shared with Mel.

Anxiously I waited for her to get the door, and the sight that greeted my eyes shocked the living hell out of me.

Zeenia is wearing the same clothes in which she was raped and has painted her face very dramatically, presumably depicting the way she feels. I’m fucking scared. All these past few weeks what seemed like an eternity to me, she had suffered terribly from rape trauma syndrome and it has devastated us. We have all pretty much given up smiling or talking about anything normal, we just eat when hunger threatens to burn a hole through our stomach. Between Mel and me, we supervise her day and night, never allowing that one moment of weakness to overcome her. Slowly, slowly, she began to sleep for a few minutes, which has become a few hours. She’s stopped screaming in her sleep and the hallucinations about the rape have also lessened.

Only on days when we went to court, she’d be pretty much devastated to see the perpetrator sitting across the room, all smug and confident; lying through his teeth. Today the session at court was traumatic and this night is the reaction to that.

The night begins…

There are red Sula bottles strewn round the floor. I’m in Zeenia’s apartment at Yari Road, at least that’s where I think I am, my senses and understanding have abandoned me; we’re smoking spliffs and cigarettes like it’s going out of fashion.

The tiny apartment is smoky, it reeks of that cheap, sweet Sula smell that I detest; never been much of a drinker, in fact I do not care for alcohol at all, but today’s different.

Zeenia is drunk with a capital D and she keeps thrusting the bottle in my hand while petting Bhola, a stray puppy she rescued from the alleys of four bunglows. I keep sipping, knowing that she has something to say, but it is one of those things which can be mouthed out when one is sufficiently inebriated.

So I keep quiet, I drink on; we’re getting sloshed, Zeenia appears to be crying, hugging Bhola who stares at her surprised.

I see her face, a close up shot, her smeared mascara, and her face pale. What’s happened to you, my dearest friend, my sister? Why’re you wearing the same clothes? Why would you wear such ghoulish makeup?

Zeenia breaks down, she’s sobbing her eyes out. Bhola drags himself and sniffs her; he cannot walk as his hind is paralyzed, he carries his whole body weight on his front paws. There is a cello playing in the background, “Nothing else matters”, the celebrated Mettalica tune plays; there are no words, just the haunting tune spoken by the cello. It is spooky, it is surreal; eerily it plays on, the cello is hell bend on making me nauseous.

This nausea is different; it is filled with anxiety, with trepidation, with a doomsday feeling. Something bad is happening, no, no, it has happened and she is trying to tell me about it.

Birds fly high,

Heart as heavy as sinking iron.

The dusky twilight of today.

My haiku for the day, as I wait for her.

She is trying to work up the courage to speak about it, yes, something horrific has happened and she’s kept it bottled up for so long. Life as we knew it has ended, even Bhola can sense it.

Zeenia is on all-fours, on the floor, pulling her hair, screaming out in pain; all this while she was holding it in. I want to comfort her, but nausea is all I have. Where is Dadu? Where am I? Obviously not here, this body is here, pissed out of her mind, but where am I?

Am I in her scream? Am I in her pain? Am I even there? Do I even exist?

I just want to type away all this pain, yes, that’s what writers do, don’t they? A fucking fucked up cliché.

He raped me Nina, she’s saying. For the first time, I hear the words, the sinking feeling gets worse, as if it could get any worse. Since that day at the police station, she’d remained mute and unresponsive to everything, but today the flood gates have broken. I think I handled it better when she was silent, seeing her like this, with such a painful rawness is actually very scary.

Chills ran down my spine to actually hear these words- RAPE, RAPE, RAPE, it kept making a din in my consciousness. No, I did not hear it, but why is this word making so much noise, drowning everything else.

You read about rape in the newspapers, you watch it on tele, you see actors getting raped in films, you come across it in novels or short stories; but where do you encounter that word in the comfort of your own surroundings?

Such words do not perpetrate their violence in my mind when it comes to my sister.

As a writer you explore rape through different characters, you feel it deeply, but not like this.

Focus Nina, I hear a voice in my brain. Focus on what she is saying. “That bastard, he’s a fucking doctor, I trusted him…” All these words came to my ears disjointed, like a fragment from a whole dialogue but in the time they travelled to my ears these sound waves had lost most of their substance.

“How do people in positions of power abuse others so badly, I fucking don’t understand, especially women; these cunts create feminazis” shouts Zeenia. Her hands trembles as she tries to cut some white powder into straight lines. She snorts it through a crisp note, her eyes begin to water. She offers me the note; rolled up, ready to aid me in devouring some white powder.

No fucking way man, I did not yet care to fry my brain this instant, and of course the nausea is threatening to take charge. I have to keep it down. How did she get this stuff?

“Tell me all about it Zeenu, forget about the crap his lawyers are throwing at you, just tell me everything, from the beginning; he was about to operate on you, what happened?” I hear a small voice ask.

“Doctors are cunts; they probably rape patients on an everyday basis, who knows? Oh! And so are lawyers, fucking fuckballs…” she vacillates as if in a trance.

“But how, how,” I hear an insipid murmur. “How did it happen?”

“Fuck Nina, you’re just regurgitating the same shit over and over again, I was thinking about the story you wrote remember, about the rape…in the stables,” she reminds me.

I am quietened, I have no words. Yes I am dying to know how it happened, but I must not seem insensitive, as if at this point I can even feel anything. I think I officially know the meaning of hollow inside. I am guilty of writing that rape story in the stables, I am guilty, guilty…just hang me!

Once reminded of my creation of pain, I keep quiet; I know I have to pacify her, to give her some warmth. Why the fuck did I write that story? Oh Dadu, where are you now?

My mind is such a mess that right now even if Dadu appeared and spoke to me I could only materialize a vacuous stare.

Pull yourself together, that voice inside my head would just not shut up.

The scene playing in my mind, this movie I’m watching is boody nerve wracking. I want to shake this character Nina, the idiotic poet, phoo. What on Earth is her problem? Why can’t the bitch just hug her sister?

It’s as if the character in the film heard my cue. I see this Nina person slowly go up to her sister. She hugs her, it’s not a hug; it’s more of surrender. Zeenia had not expected this move, her rigid body turns limp, she surrenders to the power of human touch. The two sisters sob in each other’s arms, it’s perfect. The observer and the observed became one, for a second, I became Nina.

Nina, the writer; no big deal in a country where Chetan Bhagat is a best seller, it’s absolutely mundane now, being a writer that is. It’s officially the death of the intellectual. Besides what does this girl really write? Most would label her work as b.s, too grim, too existential (as if that’s a profanity), basically useless! Entertainment kahan gaya paaji? Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Yes I am a morose writer, a fucking retard, oh, and depressed retard!

Scream of infinite solitude,

Enmeshed in traffic of the soul,

A faint smile.

This kind of shit is running through my head, fuckity fuck!

The night drags on. It’s funny how when I have a pleasurable time, it’s gone before I can even quantify all the sensations I had felt; but when things go downhill, it’s like karma coming full-force to bite me in the ass.

Finally, we both stop sobbing!

Her voice is small, it’s in fact tiny!

I can barely hear it, although we’re so close.

“You know how fucked up this shit is, I went to consult him for that boob job, my producer finally gave me the cash…so I found him online and went ahead, those D cups were all I had in my head, I’m so fucked up, don’t shshhh me, I’m a dumb bitch. You told me not to go for it, but what was I to do. I needed bigger tits, for that fucking part. Fuck, shit’s really hit the roof. I’m fucked, fucked…” She says.

I have no response, my eyes are closed. I am not watching her face, just imagining her reactions.

I could see every single micro expression, every single movement of her jaws, of her eyes, how the lines creased in her face, I saw all the details without actually looking.

I taste Zeenia’s tears in my mouth or were they my own? I have no answers, I have just feelings. The nausea, the confusion is overwhelming and the emotions are transmigrating as words in my mind palace. I wish to document the pain of the dark night, there was an abundant amount of it and my psyche could not hold all.

I wait with bated breath for her to continue and it looks like Bhola did the same.

Her voice has a far off quality to it, like it echoes from some distant world. I listen as she continues.

“Don’t they have the bloody Hippocratic oath, practise medicine honestly, screw practising medicine, isn’t it absolutely unethical on so many grounds to sodomize your patient,” as she says this I realize she has stopped sobbing, so have I.

My eyes are still closed, I’m watching this scene as the abstract, fragmented film, all those extreme close ups to help the exposition along.

She moves away slowly, I just wait. Our embrace is broken, now we sit facing each other. I open my eyes, I see her eyes.

The pain in them is excruciating, it rips my heart apart. Looking into her eyes I know that no matter how hard I try I will never be able to pen down that emotion, that look will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Zeenia’s my baby sister, I came to the world five seconds earlier, so I’m the older sister; in any case I’ve acted like she was my choto bon.

Shey amar choto bon, boro adorer choto bon…yes, I would piss her off to no end when this song came out of my lips. Damn you Nina, cut out the didi complex, what’s with Bongs and didigiri?

And kobigiri? Kobi kobi bhab, chonder obhak. True that. What’s with all the poetry in my heart, it’d be better off being more prosaic, that’s what the world needs.

Anyway, I protected her, I supported her, I guided her; overall I performed all functions of an older sister as well as that of my mother. Dadu was always there, he was our guardian angel.

Sanity is returning slowly to me, I guess it’s the warmth from my sister’s hug. I’m inclined to ramble on, “Your tits are fine, and why did you even need to go to that asshole? I told you not to, you don’t need silicon in your tits to become an actor. You’re not a bimbo, you’re way better than that.”

Zeenu starts shrieking, “I know what you’re thinking, tell me, tell me. You think it’s my fault right?? You’re probably thinking of some fucking haiku right?”

“Nah re baba, how can it be your fault and no I’m not thinking of a fucking haiku?? Nah re shona, it is my fault. I should have insisted and when you didn’t listen I should have done something severe.”

“What severe? Tied me up?” Her voice takes on a lighter note.

“Probably, fuck knows.” A hint of a smile in my voice.

“I have made Dadu proud, gone and got myself raped.” She laughs cynically. Bhola gets excited to hear her laugh and barks loudly wagging his tail, she grabs him roughly and begins kissing him. What violent love!

“Dadu would have never judged you know that, although your desire for the film led to all this…” I murmur.

A slap is what I deserve; blurting this out was definitely not the right move.

“Desire is the root of all suffering he would say,” she smiles.

I think this night will never end and I don’t know when we passed out on the floor listening to Bob Marley- No woman no cry.

The mind is a funny mechanism, it does not remember everything, yet everything is tucked away neatly in some kind of mind palace. We remember things selectively, otherwise we’d go stark raving mad!

The scene begins to fade away, like a slow fade out. And I remember typing lines on to my laptop…

The smell of death, the touch of suffering,

The hungry mouths, the tired bodies,

This is reality, wait, its buffering.

This is what it embodies.

The sleep, the dream, the dream in the dream!

The lines disappear…

Another more menacing scene replaces this one. It has an ominous overture; the sound of water fills my ears.

You know the sound of water running in a shower.

Zeenia is inside and she is scrubbing herself furiously. We’ve lost the court case, after months of painful hours spent in court, the verdict is out. Dr. V is officially not guilty. It’s somehow proven that my sister’s the slut, apparently they had consensual sex. So the case is blown to dust, like a lamp extinguished with a puff.

That night will be embedded in my psyche forever. We’ve returned home after another god-awful day at court, and today was the last day. We have lost in the Mumbai high court. We may decide to challenge the verdict in Supreme Court, but that’s something we’ve got to decide together. For tonight, it is just silence I seek.

Melissa is Zeenia’s partner, they seem to be in love. I quite like her, the girl seems to have her head on her shoulders.

We were talking softly about nothing exceptional, in fact I did not even want to talk, but had to, Mel needed to talk and I was there.

So we spoke, sipping coffee and taking turns to pet Bhola.

I had insisted that Zeenia leave her bathroom door open, she had one too many episodes recently. The breakdown of her psyche bit by bit was becoming more evident and today in court I saw the look in her eyes- the look of defeat. It broke my heart.

I heard the water run in the shower and the words to her favourite song floated out. We kept on talking, the water kept running, the beats marched on. It was as if time was set in a loop. I registered nothing from the conversation with Melissa, I’m sure she didn’t either; we were both trying to keep from breaking down.

Then she politely asked us to leave her alone and went for a bath which seemed like ages. We also wrapped up and I went to see her to kiss her goodnight. Yes she was in bed, smelling wonderful, hugging Bhola. Kissing her I left, Mel went into the shower, finished up and crawled into bed.

That night I saw baba and ma in a dream, it was prophetic. I ran after being woken up by my dream and the thoughts that followed. I went into her room.

 

The air had turned chilly, if that was even possible in a city like Bombay; and I miss you like the deserts miss the rain, said the song.

We ran. I saw this happening in slow motion. My life in film- we ran to the bed, and what I had expected greeted my eyes.

She lay on the bed, all snugly hugging her Bhola who was not making any noise.

Mel shrieked Frank ran in; I don’t know what happened after that. Some sort of primeval hardwiring in my brain took care of things.

Zeenia’s mouth was wiped dry, she had to be changed into jeans and a sweatshirt; after cleaning her up, her clothes sat snugly on her body as we put her down in the couch.

I remember seeing her face, all the troubles had vanished, and she seemed to be in deep sleep. I remember Dadu singing “Amaro shone chandero kona, bhubone tulona nai re…”

He sang this song sometimes; it was apparently our mother’s favourite, her mother would sing it to her when she was a child.

Where is she? I barely remember her now, but she’s there somewhere in my psyche; sometimes I hear her sing, her smell, her touch, for a micro second I remember.

Today she had come to see me, in my dream. She had told me something which made absolutely sense- you are her, she is you…

The reality was beginning to fragment again, my head was spinning and I could hardly focus as parts of my dream danced around my mind.

I imagined her last moments; she kept her pills hidden somewhere, maybe in the cistern. I see her take out a fistful, while her tears and water all get mixed up, you’d know she’s crying if only you watched the agony on her face.

She stuffs the pills in her mouth, chokes on them but swallows them down. Reflex action, she feels like throwing up. But she clutches her mouth, forcing them down.

I cut back in my mind to another scene, we’re sitting in the bathroom floor, she’s fallen flat on her face, she’s hurt, purple blue bruises adorn her face.

“Please Zeenu, stop taking this shit. Are you trying to leave me alone, do you want to kill yourself?” I tell her.

Suddenly a smile breaks free from all this torment; she whispers softly, her voice like silk.

“Nina to be something I am not is also a form of suicide, listen I want to hand in my resignation from this fucked up life, before I get fired.”

I hear her laugh softly as if this idea had amused her.

“Quite the philosopher, to be or not to be,” I say.

“Has always been the question,” she says definitively.

“Don’t do anything stupid ok, remember what Dadu would say, all this shit is unreal.” She sensed the urgency; the request in my voice touched her somewhere I know.

She looked at me long and hard, “I’m the fucking poster girl for stupid at this moment,” She thinks, probably about Dadu as her face softens. “I doubt Dadu would quite put it like that, but I get the gist.”

We sit in silence on the cold, wet tiles, we embraced our tears instead of suppressing them and calm washed over us.

“Some fucked up illusion this is…why can’t something good happen to me for a change? She blurts out; I feel her heartache. “At least your Muffin has nine lives right, can’t he give me a couple?”

I smile. Do cats have nine lives?

Mel is touching my hands, she is trying to bring me back to the present moment. I cut back to the scene in front- my sister’s body is stone cold, she finally did the “stupid” thing.

Was it so stupid after all? My grandmother also handed her resignation and so had her father; after all we share the same mitochondrial DNA.

Somehow this incident had made Zeenia hate herself, it made her hopeless; I did not understand what could make her as full of despair as to end her life, not just hers, but end our lives.

After Dadu’s passing, she is, I mean was all I had. I’m still not used to referring to her in the past.

I can still feel her vibrations; our feelings exist as vibration along the nervous system and we feel what another feels. I feel my sister.

I hear the sound of an approaching ambulance; she will be taken away soon. Bhola is whining, his tail stiff and he just keeps licking Zeenu’s hands.

Mel was ready when they walked in, thankfully she sorted everything out. She tugged at my hands and nodded, signalling it was time to move.

I got up zombified, it was time.

The journey to the hospital is hazy, a blur in my mind.

I remember her body being carried in a stretcher, with tubes all over her nostrils and face.

What the hell were they doing to her?

It looked to me like some scene from a D-grade horror; hospitals sicken me to the core. It’s a bloody phobia-

Nosocomephobia!

I had this phobia all along which is why I had googled it; it was at least a comfort to know I am not alone.

They say that the fear essentially arises from the fact that one has no control over their lives once admitted.

A control freak, I’m not! It didn’t take me long to realize that nothing is under control and in fact nothing can ever be.

All I can recollect is sitting on a steel bench in the corridor; it’s flooded with lights, the walls are white, and everything smells disgusting! The Doctors in their garbs, mouths covered, the nurses in their uniforms, hair tied severely in a bun, they all looked scary and ugly; all the action was happening in slow motion and it looked like they were experimenting on humans. Maybe they’re aliens, who even knows?

Something about the smell in a hospital, a mix of Dettol, bleach, blood, sweat, puke and faeces; you can also smell the fear, the anxiety, the devastation disease and bodily suffering brings.

And then it just goes blank- fade to black.

Nothing else exists- not matter which is just a form of energy in a matrix of probability.

I see Dadu, his big, white beard swaying in the dark; a fire seems to burn in front of him, I can hear the wood crackle, I can see the fire dance in his eyes. He begins to look like someone not quite like Dadu, but he is him.

Dadu’s face began to morph into the face of Sanyal Mahasaya, his gurudeva. I knew that face only too well; it had been a part of my life as seeing it as the first thing in the morning cemented that face forever in my brain.

Sanyal Mahasaya looked wrathful, fearsome and terrifying. His voice was booing in my head, “Actions or karma can cause bondage, it can also liberate, in the one BEING, the ONE ALL, everything is connected to every other thing. Good and evil are subjective…the Universe is both positive and negative, like the atoms bouncing in your body…it is the whole series of contrasted qualities- NOTHING IS PURE GOOD OR PURE EVIL.”

I saw her face again; the song is playing louder now that the monologue is over, like the sound designer turned it up a notch!

“Now you’ve disappeared somewhere,

Like outer space,

You’ve found some better place

And I miss you…

Like the deserts miss the rain

Could you be dead…

By now the words had begun to scream at me- could you be dead??

It hit me hard- she is dead!!!

I will never hold her again, I will never laugh with her again, never share my life with her again; the same way I can never see Ma or baba or dadu.

It’s over, finito, kaput!!!

I see her again, frothing from the mouth, her body all twisted and blue from the poison, I feel the nausea swimming in my head.

I think about the observer’s paradox, this concept that the observer decides what to observe. What if I am observing all the wrong things??? There are infinite probabilities, so why is this option playing itself out??

Am I in some bizarre twisted way responsible for this? Can I take the blame for this?

I am ready to do pretty much anything at this point to suppress this immense pain; absolutely anything! Muffin where are you?

I’ve got to write, the words are coming, but not as fast as I’d like them to.

I shout, I see it, I hear it,

The pain, the atrocity, it exists….

In me…

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the_twins-1382139739m

 

 

Can same sex couples be Twinflames? YES THEY CAN!!! ~~~

“The best thing to hold onto in life is each other.” — Audrey Hepburn

Yes guys, the answer is that same sex couples can definitely be Twinflames and Soulmates. Before we became separated into the sexes, there was the DIVINE ANDROGYNY/ GENDER LESS LIGHT BEINGS OF PURE ENERGY. This 3D DIVISION came much later. And all of us here on Earth have incarnated as MEN and WOMEN and all the other sexes, over and over again.

Look I have been working with gay and lesbian couples for many years. I have provided tarot readings, horoscopes, counselling to many of them and most importantly I have been a FRIEND and a LISTENED when they desperately needed someone.

Why? Let me just say that someone very close to me is gay and I intend to help him discover his twinflame energy. Gay couples also can meet their twinflames and let no one tell you that gays cannot be twinflames.

Fuck that shit! I have been meditating on the Twinflame phenomenon for many, many years. Gathering data for my writings and make sense of this phenomenon. But I tell you one thing, the more I delve into the subject, the more I realised that this remains largely unknown to humans. This Twinflame phenomenon.

It is a hankering we all have. To connect with the ONE. The one who is the most intimate part of us. We all feel this need in varying degrees, some more than the others. Having so many planets in Leo, I am obsessed with this concept….since I can remember.

The more I dated and explored my sexual desires, the more I realised that everything is fucking HOLLOW and SYNTHETIC. Like life itself. There is so much HATE and useless judging!

Why do people need to discriminate because two people of the same sex decide to love each other? What business is it of theirs? The couple is told they will burn in heaven and that they are not doing the needful by not procreating.

http://jezebel.com/talking-to-meghan-daum-about-selfishness-being-childle-1694081568

Leave women alone if they don’t want to procreate! It is normal.

Fuck! We don’t need more babies! We need responsible, conscious adults who will care and love the Earth. We need a brand of Earth Warriors who will shed off all the polarities to join together to create this world where everyone is EQUAL.

People can fall in love. Even if they are two men. There is nothing wrong with that. Why are people so scared of such phenomenon. In fact responsible gay couples can adopt and help raise all the orphans and the war kids. That is a good solution.

Just because they are gay, does not mean they cannot raise children.

Many times when I have tapped into the AKASHIC FIELDS, I have come across archetypal imagery which surfaced from my UNCONSCIOUS. Yes same sex couples have existed from the beginning of time and TWINFLAME RELATIONSHIPS ARE NOT ABOUT SEX, although you may be ravenously attracted once you lay hands on them.

http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2014/02/15/the-complete-glossary-of-facebook-s-51-gender-options?source=upworthy1

Look at that list! That is the wide range of human sexuality!

All couples of all orientations can meet their twinflames, but like the rest of us, they have to wade through the karmic quagmire of shit! Don’t be irritated if I tell you that there is work to be done! Fuck, right? What work? How the fuck do you do this work?

Relax, all of humanity in its 3D expression is as clueless as you, but our 5D self is AWARE of it all. So learn to tap into the INNER SELF with meditation and soul work.

Believe me in 5D you will be reunited with your twinflame because moving to 5D is not possible without YABYUM with that SOUL. Yabyum is the cosmic UNION of the MALE/FEMALE polarities.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yab-Yum

How then can gays be Twinflames?

Do you know that every human has both the sexes in them.

Genitals? Most people think that male and female genitals are about as different as can be: penis = male and vagina = female. But even this basic dichotomy is not really correct: the genitals emerge from the same mass of embryonic tissue. For the first six weeks of development the tissue masses develop identically.  At about six to seven weeks, depending on whether the fetus has XX or XY chromosomes (usually), the tissues start to differentiate. One part of the tissues begins to form the clitoris or penis and another forms the labia or scrotum. Another area begins to form into either the testes or the ovaries. This means that physiologically, male and female genitals are made of the same stuff and work in similar ways. ~~Psychology Today

Do you see how similar we are? We are ONE SPECIES after all, yes?

The animal kingdom is full of homosexuality providing it is 100% natural and not man-made.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Homosexual_behavior_in_animals

I want to mention something about the Twinflame energy though…

When Twinflames unite, it becomes their karmic calling to elevate humanity and themselves through ART/ SERVICE and such things. Twinflames are ready to GIVE to us all, to the collective and that is the best thing about looking for and finding this person. Somehow this is an unspoken agreement between the two souls before they incarnate and it is beautiful to watch.

Remember Twinflames have to work through their separate baggage as well. After their separation, they have interacted with other souls. Some of these souls are from the original 144.

https://mywritestuffblog.wordpress.com/2017/05/21/twinflames-and-soulmates-how-to-identify-them/

https://mywritestuffblog.wordpress.com/2017/04/25/the-twin-flame-phenomenon/

Read these two articles, might make things clearer.

So as I was saying, that Twinflames have to wrap up all the karma with the rest of the SOUL TRIBE. Most people land up marrying people from their soul group. It’s the same story with same sex couples.

Oh the most important thing that I am observing now is that Twinflames are incarnating into different races. Why? To bring in the Sixth race(not colour of the skin). According to Blavatsky the sixth subrace of the Aryan root race will begin to evolve in the area of the United States in the early 21st century and those humans will look nothing like us. Races as we know it will disappear.

The sixth or Australo-American sub-race will “possess certain psychic powers, and for this the pituitary body will be developed, thus giving an additional sense, that of cognizing astral emotions in the ordinary waking consciousness. We may say that in general the sixth sub-race will bring in wisdom and intuition, blending all that is best in the intelligence of the fifth subrace and the emotion of the fourth.”

Twinflames are here to learn about UNCONDITIONAL LOVE and experience life with maximum intensity. It is that intensity some of us seek.

So I wrap up here. The message is simple. If you are gay/lesbo, and if you are into the whole twinflame thingy, then let no one discourage you because you are not a hetero. You too can tap into this vibe, but it is not easy.

I provide support and counselling to gay/lesbo couples, so ping me if you need to talk.

I have helped many come to terms with being gay and this has helped them to come out. Yes I can be there for you.

Email me. tina@tinaheals.com

I plan to start a DATING PORTAL where I will help couples and people of all orientations to help find a mate. Support me if you like my ideas.

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