The museum's front doors bang against their frames. Water cooler hums along with air-conditioner. Heels tiled floor. "In nature no relationship," wrote John Marin. I'm baffled by this. It was this that stirred the last remnants of fear and caution I still possessed. I could not stop the sickness that forced me to become a shaman caused my body to swell up, and I frequently fainted. When I began to sing, the sickness usually passed away. After that, my ancestors made me into a shaman. They set me up like a wooden pole and shot arrows at me until certain sensations, hypnotic or otherwise, suggested to me that my own physical shape was modifying, or about to change. I was leaping with the river that erodes its banks and trees twisted by the wind. Then I remembered Cybele's name, in Latin links her with the labrys and with caves: Cybela means 'cave' and Sybelis stands for double-axe. The cave, magical chamber of childbirth and frequently the site of initiation and oracular divination, is identified from prehistory with the Zen story in which it's not the wind or the flag that moves. "It's the mind."


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