#thetelling

[koyotetheblind]

Oceanic Triptych: Born of Purusha

This is the third Telling of the Oceanic Triptych. It was performed in Santa Cruz, and dedicated to Babaji (Baba Hari Dass)–who initiated Koyote in Kriya Yoga in 1988.

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[koyotetheblind]

Oceanic Triptych: The Oceanic Feeling

The second Telling of the Oceanic Triptych series was performed in Santa Fe, where we were fortunate to have Tito Rios accompanying Koyote with his classical guitar. 

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[theshyamantak-blog]

The Telling

Hello dosto mera naam hai Shyamantak Mallik aur apka swagat hai mere youtube channel "Telling" pe . App yaha kahaniya aur kathaye sun sakte

[koyotetheblind]

The Kindly Ladies: Mama Spider’s Invisible Story

Mama spider. Mama spider. Weaving and forming. Teaching and feeding. Out of your bowels we ate.

Out of your spirit we grew; to hunt one more day,

and tomorrow. So was the spirit of my mother, even when I did not see her.

From the depth of her corpse, I grew and came out. 

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[koyotetheblind]

The Kindly Ladies: Maiden Voyage

This Telling was recorded on May 13, 2010 in Riverside, California.

It explores the nature of the shape shifter woman who takes all forms, the ever-virgin-crone-mother-of-all.

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[koyotetheblind]

The Kindly Ladies: God's World

This Telling is about the beginning of the kindly ladies. The spinning of the web that begins in the chaotic silence of confusion swirling about.

I looked at this world of God, and the more I saw this tiny world made of concerns and intent, the more my consciousness was pulled into it.

I fell into God’s World. And it took me a while to get my bearings.

This is the beginning of the Kindly Ladies, and the spinning of stories and the laying of worlds.

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[koyotetheblind]

The Kindly Ladies: stories before civilizations and the wars

I heard the stories as the world who was old was disappearing.

I heard the stories with the unequivocal assurance that they were true exactly as they were told. It made me wonder how many stories were hidden in the darkness, after the light of humans came, after the subconscious myth of gods and voices was erased from the light. Made me wonder what was lurking in the shadows of my racial memory.

What remained behind corpses under the ground and what was to come out if I was to open my mouth bigger than my face and look at the sky with eyes of infinite sadness?

What would happen if I would let something spin and spin and spin around until I became centered and everything disappeared and fell and moved?

What would happen if I spun these stories not with words, but sensations and moments with small movements and gentle spans—and the darkness within illuminated through infinite spaces?

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