Khimaira Manifesto

What if something came from beyond the sky and entered your deepest knowing, without asking, without explaining? For me, it was a beam of pink light, straight into the center of my forehead. 

I didn’t ask for it to be there. It just entered.

And in that shimmer of moving light, a vision unfurled—

tendrils alive and spiraling,

threads weaving themselves into a geometry beyond time and ordinary knowing.

I was being shown visions of the tapestry.

I was lifted, gaining a vantage from those higher geometric grounds, and from this height, more information flooded in. My body awoke into memory: We are all a part of the One-Great-Being, interconnected yet suspended in the tunnel of our self-imagining.

In that space, I saw clearly: relation is not just an idea we dream of. It is the very architecture of this existence, woven into the very fabric of our Being.

This reveals we are all Kings, because we are all crowned inheritors of the King.

The Kingdom is not just ours—it is us.

The land is a King.

The cats that sit at my feet are Kings.

The river. The ache. The stranger.

The sentences that catch themselves between my teeth;

All of it lives inside the One.

This vision became my pearl—
A living truth, small enough to carry, too holy to swallow.

And ever since that day, I have grieved how to tend it.

This truth meant that the agonizing divide between our inherent interconnection
and the way we've come to behave as alienated individuals wasn't just a problem,
but the ever-present manifestation of a wound I could no longer unsee in the world—bleeding
from the side of the shell that holds together the very body of who we are.

This is the insidious work of Empire: a pervasive force that aggressively
counters the foundational architecture of existence. It deliberately warps the true connectivity
of Being into systems of dis-relation, power-over, and extraction—a bleeding maw in the side of the One,
this crown of thorns. 

Grappling with a deep, persistent smell of blood,
this particular teaching from the Tewa Pueblo people
offered a diagnostic lens for what I already knew:
True health is right relation between self, other, and land.

Through this lens, Empire's distortion of our shared inheritance
on Earth demanded analysis in my own life.
Years of meditation and contemplation revealed a truth:
despite conscious efforts to live ethically—without wealth,
without chasing fame, rejecting capitalist structures that deny our shared connection—
I found myself still fundamentally 'out of relation' in inescapable ways:

The very ground beneath my feet, where I sought connection,
was colonized, paved over. This began to feel to me as a visceral disconnect—
I couldn't touch it as it was meant to be touched, could not participate in its natural cycles.
How could I be in true reciprocity with something so fundamentally altered from its intended state?

A kind of daily amnesia built into the material.
A direct consequence of Empire’s long war against the King that is the land-body itself.

My connection to Earth’s beauty is divided and cut into fixed maps of city-state,
rather than following her elongated, spiraling forms through changing moods and temperaments.
My relationship with time is similarly warped by the demands of labor,
which alienate me from a more organic experience of life,
forcing my very sense of perception into controllable, productive units.

Similarly, my relation with others, even within supposedly
'spiritual' or 'radical' communities, is also fractured. Here too,
Empire logic—the slime of neoliberalism—reproduces itself.
At its core, neoliberalism converts all relations into transactions,
thereby mirroring the fundamental economic operating system of Empire
and displacing the value of our shared inheritance.

And perhaps most painfully, my relation with myself is also compromised.
I find myself in a constant, brutal bind: forced to choose between the necessities of survival—
having a roof over my head, food on the table—and maintaining my core integrity by refusing
to participate in the very systems I fundamentally rejected. This wasn't a choice I wanted to make;
it is a forced compromise that obscures my internal wholeness,
making it impossible to fully embody the interdependent self I know myself to be,
the King that I inherently am within the One.

It was undeniable: all three foundational axes of relation—self, other, and land—
had been severely fractured, not by my individual choices,
but by the overwhelming, pervasive force of Empire, arranging a world through conquest and extraction.
And if health only resides in the harmonious relation among these three,
then the wound I am experiencing is indeed just as unhealable as its constant rivers of blood seem to be. 

This immediately brings forth a pressing question: "What does one do with a wound, if it can’t be healed?" There is no 'moving on' here, as if individual therapy alone could mend a fractured world. To truly heal this kind of wound would require the world itself to fundamentally change, not just my own nervous system to adapt.

Given this perpetual bleeding, I feel a fierce urgency to respond,
to bear witness to its enduring flow and presence.
This means choosing to keep the wound visible,
even in a world desperate to erase it, to gaslight me into believing it isn’t there,
or to spiritually betray my reality that the web of inter-relation is real. Empire thrives
by upholding a constant bleeding of the One, often through active denial of the harm it causes.
My response is to become a kind of living testament to what has been broken:
a refusal to let the fundamental sorrow of living with death and change disappear as resigned despair.
This, to me, is akin to drinking this feral, sacred blood as one would the blood of saints—
to ingest the unbridled force of life in all its experiential flavors.

This very refusal to let the wound disappear became a container for my deep grief,
and within my broken heart a desire for transubstantiation began to occur.
I realized that if the wound cannot be erased, perhaps the substance can be transformed
through the fierce act of fashioning it into a new, more sustainable form.
From here, another revelation occurred.

I remembered: The Holy Grail is, at its heart, a relational vessel—a communion of water
passed between people, designed to move and receive care, memory,
and the genuine life flow of Eros. It embodies the essence of mutuality and shared vulnerability,
a living testament to the very interdependence Empire seeks to obliterate. 

This Grail, born of sorrow and sustained by defiance,
is an active counter-architecture to Empire.
It is the living, breathing container of interdependence,
fashioned stitch by agonizing stitch,
to witness and hold the blood of the One
and bring about a form that breeds grace. For me,
the Grail carries the very blood of my brothers,
ingested as balm for my own bleeding heart.

Tending grief desires a shared ceremony,
a womb transfixed by the molten sorrow we all share.
And from these contemplations,
I began to dream up how to gestate the Grail itself.
This is the art of alchemy: carrying the crushing weight
of systematic brokenness, refusing its erasure,
and in that steadfast bearing, shaping a vessel
capable of helping myself and others
mend a wound we can only together transform.

This is an art of refusal, turning grief into a tangible container—
the fruit of my labor—to hold the unquantifiable sorrow Empire wants to sweep away,
to keep what was lost from vanishing, and to help navigate a reality stained by loss.

It is from this ontological orientation that the fertilizer
holding the seed of my new podcast, Khimaira, is cultivated.
If the wound of dis-relation is truly 'unhealable' in the conventional sense,
if it demands to be fashioned with,  rather than erased,
then let this podcast be a seed that blooms as the very Grail I described:
a vessel forged to help us all carry the grief, to Suffer Better—
a tree to shade and feed others in lands of sparse communion. 

In this container, we can stand amazed at the strange things humans do—
and the strange ways Empire warps our reach for knowledge and relational connection.
It is a shared container for this wound caused by falling from the One,
transforming what might be isolating pain into a fierce act of enduring love,
and thereby sustaining a revolt against the enclosing of Empire stitch by stitch.

My desire is that through sharing the waters held within this Grail,
all who participate in this project may begin to become Khimaira—
a testament to radical re-integration. Fashioned in the tenderness
of our shared stories and sustained by the grace of mutual correspondence,
we may find ourselves embodying a paradox: becoming new composite beings,
simultaneously One-but-Many. This is the shape of my dreamings:
to hold both the ache and the connection intricately woven within us,
birthing new forms to carry the truth of interconnected Being.

Khimaira is the pot I fashion into this vessel.
Meant to be filled with what myself and others are brave enough to put inside.
It’s an invitation to step into those shared corner spaces, to bring your own grief and your own pearl,
and to join in the difficult, necessary work of holding ourselves to the limit of all life’s experiences without turning away. 

Through essays, dialogue, and mythic remembrance,
Khimaira opens a space for the kind of storytelling Empire tries to silence—
each one a stamp of gold in the Grail we mold together.