This IS THE Revolution, (part 2).

Awake.  Alive. 6 am. Ready.  Ready like never before.  Ready like it’s my job to save the world, (again!).  Do I pick up where I left off at Hoxton, or offer some dynamic preamble.  I have been surreptitiously warned.  It’s a cult, don’t join.  Frankly, I have no personal evidence of this, I have no evidence of Love Bombing hefties extorting money, washing my mind, though I am vigilant  after all the practise of Orgasmic Meditation is to say the very least controversial.

My personal opinion of Orgasmic Meditation, or OMing, as it is sometimes referred to is this; it is the Revolution, pure, unadulterated revolution.

Accept no imitations.  I address this initially to women.  Accept no imitations.

Let it be known outwardly and openly, I am no evangelist for Nicole Daedone,(the founder of the OMing practise/brand.).  I am also through with holding these types of society pioneers on lofty pedestals.  I do have sincere gratitude for her “being”, I sense this is her destiny on earth and that is, in my opinion what gives her authenticity to deliver her subject; Desire.

I met her in the context of “teacher”, and I use the word teacher in an old fashioned sense, the kind of teacher who deserves my quiet, unconditional reverence.  These souls are a scarcity.  I revered my primary school headmaster.  I revered my senior school English teacher.

Why?  Because, in my opinion, the subject she delivers is that to be revered and she is a vessel of communicating this.  The same were true of my two school teachers, their jobs and subject were to be revered and they were the physical human communicants.

Does Orgasmic Meditation make me a slut?  I hope so.  A slut for my own sexual pleasure.  A slut to receive that which is rightfully mine.  My Orgasm.  My pure, unadulterated Orgasm.  The very same Orgasm that men fight to be heroes of.  The very same Orgasm that ancient civilisations have crumbled to tame.  The very same Orgasm I have been whipped and beaten for experiencing, in the name of God, or satan.  The very same Orgasm I have been burned at the stake for and taunted about, and repressed, in the name of decency  in the name of being the woman that society wants me or expects me to be.

My Orgasm. The secret under the hood.  The coveted enigma.  My Holy Grail.  My clitoris.  My vagina.

And so, I am in Hoxton at an Orgasmic Meditation workshop.  We are based in an underground archway, one that has been converted into a studio and hub for Revoluntionaries like us to assemble in the name of Orgasm, in the name of Desire.  The cockney taxi driver who drops me off tells me he grew up in this area and never had he seen the like, these arches are groovy, he says, for groovy people.  Groovy, I tell him, that’s me, groovy.  I pay him and step under the underground railway arch.  I am welcomed and made to feel welcome. I register.  I drink a coffee and eat some groovy crackers with apricot cheese.

There’s an air of vibrant expectation under the arch.  Trains rumble overhead.  My stomach churns with equal ferocity.  The toilets are covered in Ladybird children’s book pages.  A montage of childhood innocence and I find myself reading the pages.  This is how I learned to understand the world many, many, moons ago.

After introductions and preliminaries Nicole enters the seminar.  She is wearing a gun metal dress and for some reason I am totally disappointed by its colour.  A simple piece of trivia.  I do think it has been a deliberate choice, but I have yet to dot my I’s and cross my T’s about OM fashion.  It’s dull and maybe this makes her light shine brighter?  Or it’s a martial art branding  move that flies way above my head.  She reads her audiences, this is part of the Turn On process.  Part of the Brand.  This is a skill, transforming words into some semblance of meaning, so the people can understand themselves more, understand their desire more.  I listening quietly and reverently to the confessions and the emotions that pour out of these railway arch people.

And then I get it.  The openings of truth.  The confessional.  The infected wounds puss out and cleanse themselves.  Pain in its potent purity.  Pain of human sex.  Pain of human existence.  The red bricked archway begins to shimmer.  This is long before a clitoris is touched.  There is gold here. I sense gold.  Pure gold.  The gold that is fervently bright  and will blind you if you do not respect its  hammer on the anvil.  The ignition sparks from your  Base metal, your “fucked up” Base metal emotion that transmutes into gold on the altar of Orgasm.

How did I not know this is Holy?  Why was I never told in those Ladybird children’s books?  I have never been exalted like this.  It is always been I who would exalt, in my fucked up Base metal way for that alchemical gold.

Words to emotions.

Emotions to feelings.

Feelings to words.

Sacrifices on the furnace of Orgasm. Sacrifices to the  Base metal colour of her dress.

I say this again.  For clarity.  For repetition.  For poignancy.  It is not she.  She is the vessel.  In the same way Ghandi is the vessel, in the same way Christ is the vessel, in the same way Mary Mother of God is the vessel.

Are you still with me?  Do you still love me?  Will you still be my friend?  When I surrender to that which is rightfully mine?

On the altar of my vagina.


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