Sinéad / Shuhada Sadaqat

I’ve always had a true regard for the Madame Sadaqat’s fierce courage & intensity of vision. And her non compromising stance towards her Art was never not galvanizing. One of those instances where a woman has neon painted balls much bigger than the great majority of us men, who are largely gesticulating posers weak of brine & short of spine.

But even in her own culture, a culture of which she was understandably proud, she felt like an outsider. As would perhaps anyone abused as wantonly as were she by the prevailing consciousness that dominated her youth in the time & place she inhabited.

Her great Anger inherited from her tribulations fueled so much of her Art. Anger is a Great Beast of a Horse, & properly harnessed, can be bade to pull a mighty plow through very fertile fields of productive soil. Though that same beast, chewing upon a bitter bridle & unleashed upon the ruins, can be just as destructive, can tatter our lives, & scatter our tortured tears.

They are very few in number amongst the millions of us that shoulder the weight of existence, who can bear the supremely heavy karmic cross of having shed the name by which one were met by fate & known, & it entails a Massive Sacrifice.

It is never a decision borne lightly, but of the instinctive awareness that it may be the only way forward towards the eventual aim of having released vibrations attached to an identity so formidably toxic, so corrupted & tainted by the taxing torment of toil, that one is willing to trade in THE DEVIL ONE KNOWS for the less insufferable promise of new Earth upon which to cast one’s stones, that a fresh foundation may be laid to house a new lease, as well as to store what memories cannot be left behind in the fetid moldy humidity of trauma’s moth eaten garments of mockery & shame.

SHUHADA SADAQAT, born to our short circuited, mind controlled attention spans as Sinéad O’ Connor, was a fighter to the very end. With a Voice as haunting as that of a Wet Wind Howling through the Crippled, Neglected Trees of a Graveyard in the Deep Blue Dark of Midnight, in which even the Headstones wince & wobble, their library of stories buried beneath the nitrogen of our contempt.

She bowed to no man or person she didn’t respect, nor performed favors where none were earned. And I’m not sure that she ‘considered’ herself as a ‘Feminist’, because she was much too busy LIVING THE EXAMPLE, as opposed to wasting too much time pontificating about it, for she was never too fond of labels, SHE JUST GOT ON WITH IT. Unafraid, even at her own cost, to call out whatever bullshit she smelled gathered near her feet. I’m not sure that she was ever a ‘Hero’ of mine, she would’ve told me upon that confession to go & fuck myself.

But she WAS, & so shall REMAIN A WARRIOR, who I’m very proud to say that I shared a time with, an era of initiation. And by WHATEVER NAME SHE CALLED HERSELF, it only further illustrated, nor could hide, that she was very simply A BAD ASS, & not a damn thing less. NOR WAS SHE REQUIRED TO BE ANYTHING MORE. She bore our sins, & we are fucked, which even WE WILL NOT ADMIT OUT LOUD, for fear that our captors will continue to beat us for overstating the obvious. She arrived with a Halo, & those bitches strangled her with it.

And if ever a Middle Finger to a poisoned & possessed society could be dressed in the singular figure of a woman’s unapologetic frame, she was its SUPERMODEL.

A Wise Messiah Once Invited Us to ‘Take Up Your Cross & Follow Me’.

And she Carried a Cross for Us, while the rest of us were Gazing at our Crutches & Playing with our Crotches. She’s now in a Much Better Place, A Place that She Deserves, A Place Worthy of Her, & with A Vista that She Earned & Paid for in Blood.

Sananda Maitreya !

Thursday 27 July ‘23

Milano, Italia.