I have an irrepressible urge to make everything I live intoxicatingly cinematic, deeply sensory and ferociously comedic.
Sometimes this is at my own expense, and I compromise for characters, all wild and no sense, whom will make for an epic story rather than provide safety or consistency.
This is due to my sneaking suspicion that life is a grand illusion, a massive manifestation of something more, something infinite, hugely illusory and funneled through my own limited experience and personal individuation. I crave experience and am hungry for the ungodly voyeurism of story, of beasts and burlesque and beauty. I believe we are each players, a compilation of planetary archetypes- and our cosmic makeup will trigger and fire each other up because of what we each represent. The task is to figure out what you symbolize .
In my almost clumsy nonchalance, I seem to casually collect admirers and bore of their flesh and blood -instead seek the creatures from my imagination, which have always had more defined contours. I do not underestimate the greatness of a single love, as the people I know are as changing as the tides, ever evolving, always capable of immense depth. If I wish to know you, I want to know every part of you, even the mangled, dusty parts, that don’t get taken out for anyone. Most people are not always brave enough for such feats.
On my quest for depth, I moved to a New Age Mecca, a virtual magnet for spiritualists, environmentalists and eccentrics alike. I resolved to leave the long chapter of juvenile debauchery behind, an era of boys who fell from the clouds and switched companions as fast as their fingers could swipe. I was ready for something lasting and whole. Little did I know, around the corner awaited the most dangerous of all the fuckboys, the shiny archetype of the New Age: Spiritual Fuck Boy.
The player with a messiah complex.
He may be of a “higher vibration” than mere mortal women, but he seems to only frequent locations where he is vastly outnumbered by them, particularly retreats, where he can prey on their inner-seeking.
You’ll be able to identify him by his sacred geometry tattoos, jarring and discombobulating color scheme, glassy stare, and the stench of pot that enters the room before he does (he claims these are pheromones). He seems to know a little about everything, and is probably beautiful.
There will usually be some sort of polarity between blatant drug use (“only medicine, man, only what comes from mother gaia”) and shaming anyone in the general vicinity who drinks coffee or takes an advil. He knows a surprising amount of useless information about the benefits of Millet and Kale. He claims fearlessness in the face of adversity but quakes in his recycled footwear when witchcraft or feminine mystique is mentioned.
He says money is evil (so wastes all of yours), monogomy is unevolved (so recklessly engages in a multitude of skin deep flings) and treats you as if you are a mere pit stop on his extensive spiritual journey. An iridescent accessory- makes a statement, but shouldn’t be worn more than once.
He tells you that you don’t need to wear make-up, that it’s a turn off, unnatural and deceptive, even after you explain you don’t wear it for him.
These types will paraphrase scriptures and Osho quotes and use them as pick up lines, will claim to have a wide knowledge of tantra, lacking any sort of physical embodiment, but following where they feel energetically called (which is undoubtedly, everywhere.) He is, of course, hyper vigilant when it comes to his own fragile ego, which requires more delicate care and tip-toeing than tending to a garden made out of glass.
You will hear him reference his individual, elevated journey or path- which usually is a straight road to his penis- until you have exceeded your use. He has absolutely NO understanding of boundaries. He claims to be using his intuitive capacities, but unless they are located in the sacral region, he doesn’t seem to be very perceptive to any sort of feeling.
His brand of spirituality is “Competitive Spirituality”, and he holds the idea of a higher power/god that is privatized and only available through him. If you try to discuss your own cosmology, it is questioned, criticized or simply shut down.
His guaranteed exit will be announced in the following format:
“I’ve been called to..(run away from this place, follow my shamanic calling in Los Angeles, start a permaculture community comprised of ex victoria secret models, begin a quest to grow copious, ungodly amounts of bad marijuana, astral project out of my physical form) and I don’t think this connection serves us anymore. Namaste.”
I want to tether the rope tying me to this story, and leave the days of dancing with the solemn artifice of ‘flings’ in my rear view. It’s getting boring.