Mama Was a Drag Strip, Daddy Was a Hot Rod

As a young child I was fascinated by cars, aircraft, and vehicles of almost every kind. In fact, I hoped one day to design them. For some reason motorcycles were not particularly interesting to me, but almost every other kind of vehicle could drive me into a frenzy of enthusiasm. I do not recall my first exposures, but like many male children, I played with cars, planes, military toys, and the much rarer and profoundly more valued vehicle: toys of spacecraft.

Born in the early 60’s, I was soon exposed to an epic struggle between two drag-racers: Don ‘The Snake’ Prudhomme (‘proud man’) and Tom ‘The Mongoose’ McEwen (‘son of youth, born of the yew tree, effectively ‘yew/you – th’). Don was nearly impossible to beat. Tom was one of the few who could manage it. Their battle became an Epic symbol of something far beyond mere racing: the struggle between the fast, hooded, blinding and poisonous power that proudly rules the Earth, and the youthful, humble, flexible power that is the champion of children, the favorite of mothers, and the rightful sovereign of the heavens.

The Cobra and the Mongoose – James Ibusuki

It is interesting to note that many male youths in certain places in the world undergo a peculiar ‘rite of passage’ which also serves as a celebration of maturation. During this usually public event  the aspirant to manhood (interesting pun there in English) must survive a wrestling match with a cobra — and this involves dancing in an unpredictable way in order to confuse the snake and evade its striking capacities. The goal is to grab the snake without being bitten, and to hold it powerless through artful understanding of its powers and weaknesses. In our own way, we each undergo this same challenge, but in the invisible dimension of language and knowledge. Did the snake master you there? Did you prevail? Perhaps you were not even aware of the Cobra’s presence — after all, the hood can be very deceptive… and its venom is, indeed, blinding.

For me, as a child, Don’s dragster was a big part of my introduction to the world of reptiles, a world at least as fascinating as that of vehicles. But particularly, he represented to me the Cobra, one of the most ancient and deadliest of the world’s snakes — a symbol of mystery, mysticism, power, and death. I remember a dream where a statue of a Cobra I had seen in a variety shop earlier that day came to life, and it was very vivid — something more than an ordinary dream. The Cobra represented the epitome of cool. After all, it is -cold-blooded-, no? Does it get any cooler? It also represents the color blue, and the past. It’s shape is done changing, and has become an epitome of itself.

Similarly, Tom’s dragster became the symbol of the power of honesty, truth, and the goodness in the world — in short, youth. The mongoose became the symbol of power over snakes. A very important symbol indeed. But not quite as charismatic as the Cobra. The mongoose represented the power of liquid ‘warmth’. The mongoose is brown or reddish, and represents the future. It may have a static shape, but it learns, and shifts, and flows like water…

In a magazine, I found sew-on patches that represented each of the racers and their cars, with images of the Cobra and the Mongoose above the flame-spitting dragsters. I got some help from my mom and ordered them. I had the Cobra sewn on the right shoulder of my jacket, and the mongoose on my left. I was so excited to bear those symbols, even though it would be 40 years or more until I would really begin to understand this ancient rivalry, and the inner meanings of this metaphor.

:::

What is this bizarre ritual we call drag-racing all about? Now that I have passed the strange barrier that raises itself between us and the symbols and language we are immersed in, I see a very different universe. And in that universe, nearly everything humans do — recalls events they have forgotten, or utterly mismodeled to themselves.

In this case, drag-racing is not only no exception, but proves a perfect example of the rule. However, it can be dangerous to elucidate these matters, for to some degree they confirm gender roles that we have been trained to consider both antiquated and malformed. Nonetheless, what is actually confirmed is quite beautiful, and, armed with the proper perspective I believe it will be shown that not only is the silent ‘female’ presence powerful, it is, in fact, the entire reason for the whole ball game, so to speak. The roaring, testosterone and adrenaline-driven ritual of machines in epic conflict is not only an homage to and a celebration of the Feminine — but a fervent petition for favor addressed directly to the entire line of ancestral mothers.

That said, it is unfortunate that the representations of these co m petitions have become so toxic, ugly, and overblown that nearly any reasonable mother (or child) would be offended ‘from the get go’. Perhaps in understanding what lies beneath the loud, shiny, seductive exterior, we may find our way back to contests that actually celebrate life by nourishing and protecting it, rather than by threatening and destroying it.

::::

As to ‘drag-racing’ I here speak primarily about the top-fuel, elongated dragsters with the massive rear tires and spoked front wheels (which are, in many cases, almost an afterthought). All other similar races are included, but this form is, for me, the truest expression of the overblown reproductive dance that ensues.

The pilot sits atop a clutch and flywheel strained to their mechanical limits, and the engine is so huge that in many cases the driver cannot see past it at all. Afterburners and other technologies are applied to further amplify the already absurd show of force and power. These road-rockets generate G-forces in excess of those involved in the spacecraft launches. In some cases, brakes are insufficient to slow these monsters — parachutes are required — thus, at the end of the race, they ‘pop the chute’.

Canonically, or perhaps ideally — races are set off by a buxom female waving a flag — but as this is both distracting and dangerous, she was replaced with the familiar 7-stage ‘Christmas tree’ or, simply ‘The Tree’. In informal races, the old tradition commonly holds sway. And I do mean sway.

A two-lane blacktop is the basis and the ground of the conflict. Whoever shall traverse its length most quickly and most truly (in accordance with the rules) — shall emerge as victorious — indeed, ‘the chosen one’. Although in modern times we intellectually accord this honor to the most skillful and most technologically endowed — throughout most of human history it was known that contests were, in fact, a stage upon which divine desires were played out, however mundane the scale or form might appear. Thus ‘the winner’ was usually the one chosen by the forces in conflict to better represent the more righteous or empowered lineage.

An avatar.

:::

It is wonderful that Heaven and Nature express each potential with ever-broadening diversity. Every possible mix of gender, gender preference, gender identity, and the capacities of each gender are inexhaustible — just as we should hope! Indeed, we do not possess gender so much as express it. In many cases, it seems to me that the most hardened man is extremely feminine within, and the most feminine women, extremely masculine in their hidden core. But these are mere icons. In human beings the diversity of our experiences and expressions of gender go beyond categories and measurements. It is sad our cultures are so opposed to this, and that the grounds for this opposition are so — baldly ridiculous.

In any case, what I speak of here are broad sketches of substrates (not rules or laws) within which gender may acquire meanings and associations beyond those we normally ascribe, yet also somehow in concert with our ‘traditional’ models of gender (the quiet gatherer/the boisterous hunter).

These models are only limiting if we frame and relate with them in limiting ways. Men set off drag races, and indeed, many love to ‘dress in drag’. Women pilot high-fuel dragsters, and often win against similarly or more sufficiently endowed men.

The goal is not the frozen prison of gender roles defined, but instead the opposite: a broader understanding of the bases and circumstances from which our traditional gender roles arise. It is only with such an understanding that we are empowered to see what is broken about our cultural interpretations, and amend it. Without understanding, we simply throw the traditions away — and what happens in this case is almost invariably as catastrophic as the draconian interpretations we were initially reacting to.

:::

It is no accident that balls and rods comprise the core of nearly every technology we have developed. Keys and locks, axles and wheels, gears and hubs. To steer your car, you hold a wheel, and if you’ve got some guts, you change speed templates with a stick. If not, you let a machine ‘handle’ the job. To write we used tubes, and black liquid flowed forth from them. Some of us still do this occasionally, in remembrance of simpler times. Paper was the context upon which this gesture emerged as meaningful, or even provocative.

Now, the context is more like light — and may even be invisible, mere numbers dancing in memory refreshed with current at hyperbolic rates. The slow, flowing penetrations of the pen or pencil have been replaced with the hyperactive tapping penetrations of the fingertips. But make no mistake, the same game is afoot. That keyboard is receptive. It’s inviting your penetrations. It’s certainly no woman, and lacks every organismal grace — but the representation is clear and real. Think I’m joking? Take a look at the symbols above the numbers. If you’re rational, you think those are accidental. If you’re slightly irrational, you’ll think someone planned it this way. If you’re closer to the mark, meaning, if you’re not in sin (literally: to miss the mark), you’ll understand that it was neither accidental, nor was it engineered — it’s more than both, and the meaning of that more won’t fit into words or tokens. If you’re boring you’ll excuse it some other way, probably by claiming that I have a good imagination or something on that order.

But when you get your grasp around the actual way that the universe relates to itself — God or no God — you’re going to find that Science was nearly always brashly ignorant in the face of its own seemingly necessary denials, and Religion was too often foolishly slavish to the forms instead of the nature of the content.

The long and short of it is this: if you’re in the universe, you’re an instance of it. Everything you experience, sense, feel and do — and all the ways you do these things — are that very universe itself, doing it. This gets a bit treacherous as regards free will, but there’s an angel — I mean… well, there’s an angle of approach that keeps the game mysterious and real. Makes the fact that, for example, your heart trembles with joy when you see helplessness met with adoration — it gives that fact real purchase upon both Heaven and Earth. And that, dear drivers, makes the race worth running.

And yes, all of these topics have direct purchase on Drag Racing, and if you don’t believe me simply examine the slang that goes with the race and its features and you will immediately see — that what it’s all about is a bit more surprising than nookie. There are supernal forces at play, even though the stage appears mundane. Just as it has always been.

But neither Science nor Religion is going to allow us to make the move of discovering these things, because it would utterly overturn them both. Some wacky magicians and sorcerers would also like us to think they’ve got the matter ‘all sewn up’. I daresay they will have their surprises, however — just as we all shall. After all, Hubris and Humility are very different matters, so to speak. In any case, all of this is highly secret stuff, so if we’re going to play with it at all, we have to do it like kids in a clubhouse: in a secret way that won’t scare ourselves silly or have the adults losing their already paranoid marbles.

Oh, yeah. Back to that thing about your keyboard and the ‘accidental’ relationship of the numbers to the symbols on them. Think about these numbers as though they were steps in a process, starting from nothing, and proceeding into being — and elaborations of being — like, you know, an evol-you-tionary process. Get me?

The Key-Board: (kudos to M.K.C.D, thinker from the Underworld)

1 = ! : Yes! How did we get to ‘1’ from everything? The answer is an exclamation! WOW! We DID IT! We got from everything-at-once to ONE!

2 = @ : ‘Where it’s at, baby!’ This is a little fish in the belly of a mother fish! Jonah, straight up. This is the @ in our internet addresses, and a WHOLE lot more! It’s a Whale of a tail, two!

[Mess with the bull? You get the horns. Mess with a whale? You get the –tail– (bounce!)]

# = 3: The three (a tree) that is one (is won) but it’s made of FOUR! Yep, a new mother’s baby enters (the) radius. A nu m b e r. The capacity to identify things beyond the self/mother unity that forms the first basis.

Need I go on? The next one is abundance, value, the capacity to derive meaning. After that? We get the ability to estimate things, and compare them. Percentages. I don’t expect you to buy my story here, but have a close look at it yourself. Something’s very fishy with those associations, and it’s neither accidental nor designed.

What could –that- possibly mean???

:::

Balls and wheels are feminine. G-force? Gravity — that’s feminine. Inertia, weight that cannot be dislodged, is also feminine. Inward momentum. S(he) attracts suitors. [By the way, If she’s a planet, and is invited to attract suitors, this can have grave consequences for her existing children]. Foundations (of matter). Her defenses are primarily reflective. She’ll bounce you, seriously — you won’t even know what hit you.

All of this is too obvious to announce, but there it is.

Rods, spokes, electricity, fire, speed, force, forward momentum — these are masculine.

Life is balanced between a star and a black hole. The star makes light and life. The black hole eats it. Even cells are like this, and if the star of the cell is lost, the hole turns the cell cancerous — a sort of terrible gravity that devours every possible resource to sustain itself at all costs. Atoms, cells, and molecules all partake of such elemental polarities, even magnets and electricity obey it.

To be whole, we need both. The masculine/projective and the feminine/receptive. The star’s masculinity is based in a feminine core. The black hole’s femininity is based on a masculine core. You might think the star is good, more important, better. But you can no more live in an explosion than you can in an ongoing evacuation. There are all different kinds of mixtures of masculine and feminine qualities in objects, planets, stars, galaxies, beings, numbers — you name it!

But only between the two overwhelming powers can life exist. And more: the powers must agree, as regards boundaries and balances! Anywhere they cannot agree, Life cannot survive the outcome. At least, not in the traditional sense of the term ‘survive’.

We must have birth and death, waking and sleeping, inhaling and exhaling. It’s perfectly natural, nothing is being lost, and in fact there’s really no way to fail to be showered in absolute abundance — except through thinking.

To live at all you have to have both, and thus, both are actually terrifically exciting!

(But it’s even better when they –get together-!)

:::

Now, there’s a problem we need to get out of the way immediately, which is that Emptiness has a bad rap down here on Earth in the representational phases. We think it means nothing. Boy, is that a mistake. I mean, the whole game starts in a womb and ends in a tomb and these are no accident — both precede emergence into an entirely new universe of … ways of making universes!

What we call emptiness is something like singing, shocking, iridescent fertility — pure undifferentiated potential — basically, the greatest unstuff there is. Anything differentiated is not as interesting as the pure stuff. It’s like the difference between the direct experience of value or meaning itself, and money (the representation of value).

The racetrack is black. It has to be empty. Not empty? No race.

I was once told a joke by an Angel. Went like this:

“Have you got any Idea why God is invisible?”

I pondered for a moment, before answering in the negative.

”Because… if (s)He wasn’t?

(The Angel paused for effect)

…the Universe of timeSpace would be a single solid.”

[I suddenly saw the whole universe as a solid and how extremely ridiculous that would be]. I have a strange sense of humor. I found this completely hilarious.

Sometimes a jest can reveal what studious inquiry would avoid, and the Angel’s jest emphasizes that what is missing is vastly more important than what is present, in fact, without that missingness nothing could be present at all.

Having a pet in Heaven — while it might not seem as amazing as having our pet with us on Earth — can actually turn out to be astonishingly, unexpectedly wonderful.

What’s missing can be more present than when it’s being represented in matter.

Look into this matter carefully. See if you can verify it for yourself. The result is really worth the candle.

:::

Twins and Trines are uniquely relevant to human sexuality. Two ovaries, two testicles. One womb, One Penis. “Protrusion Seeks Attractive Cavity”. The feminine gesture calls to the male. The male gesture approaches the female. We can model this in many ways, and show how Quads and Quints are involved as well. But for my purposes, we’ll keep it simple for the moment.

We have a triune nature. This can be demonstrated in endless wonderful ways and analogies, but within a living context, two forces vie for supremacy: the supernal, and the physical or mundane. Their contest forms an aspect of the context in which life exists and pro\./re\./cedes. The three together: (super)context, the supernal, and the mundane form a trine that is a unity. This is no great mystery. Many trines are One. Not the least of which among these are our generative organs and their advertising media (hips, breasts, chests, behinds).

Here, in our bodies and also in our ‘inventions’ the trinity is physically re-presented or represented. One of the ovaries can be said to represent the spiritual aspect, the other the physical, and so too with the testicles, one of which is ‘the living remembrance of the spiritual mothers’, the other of which is the living remembrance of the physical mothers. DNA is the serpent, shared by Man and Woman, who connect their lineages to engender a child.

A man with ‘no balls’ is said to be a coward, but indeed, he is a man who ‘has forgotten his mothers’ and thus has lost a crucial impetus to pull him toward wise or heroic behavior, and no reason to exhibit all of the rather penetratingly charismatic features we associate with masculinity.

The force that drives his heroic competitions has been degraded, or destroyed. We say, indeed, he has ‘no guts’. Similarly, a ‘bastard’ is one who has forgotten the lineage of Fathers — and so has no reason to act with honor, or goodness. These matters may seem mere superstition in our modern times, but if you could speak to an animal, or a tree — or any living thing that doesn’t use language as we do, you would immediately discover that it is we who are confused, and that our forgettings are not the mark of progress, but of blindness imposed by long travail.

:::

The egg has a spiritual aspect, and a physical aspect. Both represent lineages completely — the spiritual lineage of all mothers throughout space and time, and the physical lineage of all organismal mothers — all the way back to the first one.

So too with the sperm. So too, with the mother and the father, the agents or living avatars of these lineages. It is not merely a spiritual union which occurs during sex, nor is it merely a physical one — it is both, at once, and in synchrony. This is, in part, what produces the overpowering feelings of ecstasy we experience during these events — the unification, within the living context, of the material and the divine. When the father is invited and received, this is a double invitation, and a double reception. When the mother is manipulated and penetrated, she is doubly penetrated.

The right and the left matter in these games, though saying more than this is at once too tempting and too dangerous.

Since any ‘mother’ (or female) is really two mothers: a physical and a supernal, we may understand that every race is actually a co-mother-petition — or, a petition to all mothers, physical and spiritual. The petition is to decide between contestants, and thus empower, the better to prevail As for these con\./test(icle)\./ants who engage each other on the behalf of these petitions, one is supernal, the other mortal. Which is which shall be revealed by the presiding powers.

Each of them uses something akin to a ‘hot rod’ to accomplish their co-m-petition. Sound familiar? In fact, the stunning similarity of the classical ‘dragster’ and the male generative organ is no accident: the word engine is a supernal gloss on en-gyne (literally to be propelled by the memory of our supernal and physical (line of) mothers). It’s a big secret on Earth that a man’s balls, and a woman’s ovaries are the physical representation of the lineage of mothers, supernal and spiritual. One for each. It might even turn out that the side matters…

In this seemingly absurd (but profoundly applicable) model, the womb is the male aspect of the mother, the soft, watery ‘evacuation’ which is the superposition comprising the unityBeing. Being an evacuation, it never speaks or is spoken of. It is sacred silence. Somewhat similarly, the long tube within the male member is the female aspect of the father. Quite vociferous. Rigid, even. And very hot. The engine is going to spin those balls, in a serious way, that will result in fire, smoke, roaring, and — speed. In the end, only one shall prevail — and either or both may be utterly destroyed in the ensuing struggle.

At its base? Two balls. One for the supernal mother, one for the physical mother. And believe me, girls, when that rod gets rigid at your pleasure, those balls begin to spin. And what we get, essentially, is a drag race. And this race comprises a ‘celestial ball’, and ‘a ball game’. And all of these, my dears, are played for your pleasure and to earn your blessing. No matter the gender of the driver or the engineer… or even the holder of the flag that sets it off.

The track, black, linear, stretching off into the horizon, is the representation of the desert-mother, (space, the living waters, is the ‘black mother’ whose roads are endless and whose virginity cannot be compromised). Of course, it’s happening on the surface of a sphere, which is herself a mother, and it’s happening within her children, who are, themselves, instances of the mother/father/child trine. The whole game is so recursive that a cartoon of some sort would be necessary to reveal its depth. And of course, as every sperm knows: Only ONE of the TWO tracks…leads to the ultimate reward for co m petition: an Egg. The other? That leads to death.

The ‘balls’ or, in the case of the dragster ‘wheels’ are the physical representations of those two lines: the physical maternal line, and the supernal maternal line. These ‘spin true’ only if the suitor has pleased them both — and the co m(other) petition (a plea for her blessing) is truly a spiritual one, though none alive on Earth understand these matters.

Whether we imagine the buxom pin-up girl provocatively causing the curves to jiggle as she drops the flag, or the modern 7-stage ‘Christmas Tree’ descending in order from yellows to green (with a red beyond, for error). The explosion of fuel, the burning rubber, the cheering crowd — and the families at home, each with their chosen champion. Those furious engines spouting poisonous exhaust as the metal chariots careen into deadly danger at the whim of their drivers, we should now be able to see that the entire play is at once sexual, in honor of the feminine, driven by the feminine, and happening ON the feminine. I am sure it doesn’t look like this to nearly anyone else — and I don’t expect them to adopt my perspectives. But just look carefully at the overt correspondences, and I think you’ll see that indeed, it is a co – petitioning of mothers.

Drag racing is a competition in which vehicles compete to be the first to cross a set finish line, usually from a standing start, and in a straight line.

The burnout represents a flourish, in which all parties are made witness to the ‘thunder and squelch’ of the contenders, and each can, to some degree, guage the other’s character and power as implied by their displays.

Staging represents the power of estimation taken to an impossible degree. This is essentially ‘gunslinging’, — the slightest error or oversight can easily decide the match here. So too the slightest lag.

The tree is a test of both obedience to and complete mastery of the relationship with extrinsic authority, as expressed in light signals.

The race is a test of skill, determination and intuition.

Although a wheelie appears to be a flourish suggesting power, (or even ‘a hard on’) it had better be a significant suggestion, because the momentum lost in raising the front end would in most cases be better applied to moving the vehicle. Yet, in some cases, a wanton display of power such as this may have a demoralizing or confusing effect on one’s opponent.

:::

For all the shock and awe our mechanical representations may create, and all the excitement they may elicit, I think we can all agree that something tragic is happening here. The celebration and expenditures are not supporting the mothers or the children, but instead, lifeless reflections made madly mechanical.

Something truly amazing and valuable has — in being transformed to a representation which is for sale to the highest bidders — been dishonored, and even insulted.

Perhaps rather than serving such monumental representations, we could lead lives that that fulfill the most fervent hopes and impossible dreams of the many Fathers and Mothers who preceded us and raised us, investing us not only with their DNA and lifeblood, but with their souls, and with a responsibility to and for each other, the environments within and around us, and our world. It’s a sacred responsibility, a humble one. It disappears instantly in the roar of an engine or a crowd of spectators. But it is a worthy responsibility, and a necessary one.

I feel that one day soon, we shall trade all the representations away for something far more amazing, true, and worthy of the joy of both branches of our many ancestors: each other, and our living world.

I believe we will trade the applause of the crowd, and the role of spectators for the wonder and happiness of our own friends, beloved families, and our progenitors, heavenly and terrestrial.

We will trade the draw of the racetrack or football field — for the urgent and worthy living truths of our personal and collective destiny — something no representation will ever replace.

But until these things come to pass, or until we are bold enough to insist upon them, we can start by understanding the nature of our representations, and the crucial interplay of the supernal and material realities that motivate and shape our games.

For in the final lap, what becomes clear is this: the real object of co m petition is the (potential) Fathers’ petition to please and celebrate the mothers, without whom, indeed, there would be no games, no competitors, and no authors at all.

Postscript:

It’s strange how far I’ve come. In being unable to move about at all, I have come to understand the source of movement. In experiencing the vehicle who all machines are not even worthy to be called shadows of, I am no longer fooled into believing they are good. In seeing the prices paid to create, maintain, and operate them — I have seen an unconscionable horror that must be amended.

Yet I have been thoroughly and forcefully scripted to adore technology — and I still have a hard time ignoring the way those machines fit together so tightly. The shining, spinning reflections of her — excuse me — their wheels. The way the Chassie.… oh, sorry —  I got a little Carrie’d away there.

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