spirit

“The unfolding of the unexpected becomes the energy that drives you. You discover how thirsty you are for exploration without analysis. You feel strangely at home in a place you can’t define. You are truly creating.”

– Michell Lassou and Stewart Cubbley

“As we create the life of our dreams, we often reach a crossroads where the choices seem to involve the risk of facing the unknown versus the safety and comfort of all that we have come to trust. We may feel like a tightrope walker, carefully teetering along the narrow path to our goals, sometimes feeling that we are doing so without a net. Knowing we have some backup may help us work up the courage to take those first steps, until we are secure in knowing that we have the skills to work without one. But when we live our lives from a place of balance and trust in the universe, we may not see our source of support, but we can know that it is there.

“If we refuse to act only if we can see the safety net, we may be allowing the net to become a trap as it creates a barrier between us and the freedom to pursue our goals. Change is inherent in life, so even what we have learned to trust can surprise us at any moment. Remove fear from the equation and then, without even wondering what is going on below, we can devote our full attention to the dream that awaits us.

“We attract support into our lives when we are willing to make those first tentative steps, trusting that the universe will provide exactly what we need. In that process we can decide that whatever comes from our actions is only for our highest and best experience of growth. It may come in the form of a soft landing, an unexpected rescue or an eye-opening experience gleaned only from the process of falling. So rather than allowing our lives to be dictated by fear of the unknown, or trying to avoid falling, we can appreciate that sometimes we experience life fully when we are willing to trust and fall. And in doing so, we may just find that we have the wings to fly.

“When we believe that there is a reason for everything, we are stepping out with the safety net of the universe, and we know we will make the best from whatever comes our way.”  (via DailyOm)

I can thoroughly attest to this being true. In fact, I have been working late on a fraternal book to The Beginning of an Inexplicable Journey which explores this very topic, or what I like to call The Art of Invocation: “a conversation of intuitions.” Having witnessed my personal dreams come true after retiring as general manager of the universe, letting go, feeling my way forwards and after trying, trying and trying again, I am confident that there is an incredible force in the universe that thrives on the energy of our visions and propels them forward with personally inspired action.

Perhaps it is simple neuroscience, perhaps it is neutrinos (“the most ridiculous particle you could imagine”) perhaps it is a God, perhaps it is me, and perhaps, as I suspect, it is all of these things, which are in the end, only words for different processes of shifting life. Still, there are mysteries that even scientists cannot describe with words. I will do my best to share what I have learnt in this lifetime, for my life is priceless to me, as I know yours is to you. Love is one of the most healing and incredible forces, and my experience of invoking it is something I feel powerfully called to share. But now to another perhaps similar mystery…

“A neutrino is the most ridiculous particle you can imagine. A billion neutrinos went through my nose as we were talking. A trillion went through my nose just now. And they did nothing to me. They pass through all of the matter around us continuously in a huge, huge blast that does nothing at all.

“They almost exist in a separate universe. But we know as physicists that we can measure them, we can make precision predictions, but we can’t get our hands on them, because they seem to just exist in another place. Yet, without neutrinos, the beginning of the universe wouldn’t have worked. We wouldn’t have the matter that we have today because you couldn’t create the elements without the neutrinos. In the very very earliest few seconds of the Big Bang, the neutrinos were the dominant particle. And they actually determined much of the kinetics of the production of the elements we know. So, the universe can’t exist the way it is without the neutrinos, but they seem to be in their own separate universe. And we’re trying to actually make contact with that otherworldly universe of neutrinos.

“And, as a physicist, even though I understand it mathematically, and I understand it intellectually, it still hits me in the gut. That there’s something here surrounding me, almost like some kind of spirit or God, that I can’t touch and… but I can measure it. I can make a measurement. It’s like measuring the spirit world or something like that. You can go out and touch these things,” – Doctor Gorham of the University of Hawaii, Physicist and leader of the Neutrino Experiment in Werner Herzog’s documentary “Encounters At The End of the World.”

The Neutrino Project is very exciting, and I adore Doctor Gorham’s entheos for the discoveries he aims to make and is making. While I watched this last night under the eaves of my home beneath a starry sky in the Northern Hemisphere, I became amazed by our ability as human beings – just another life form on this whirling planet – to use an evocative language with which to describe the most complex and fascinating processes observed upon this Earth. How is it that Gorham, using a few words like ‘kinetic’ ‘production’ ‘elements’ and ‘neutrinos’ – can describe a complex and very distant process, the genesis of life itself, which I understand through another complex process of sound waves hitting my ear drums, connecting to my synapses and forming a mental map?  This is the beauty of storytelling, of language, of technology, of the human brain.

“There is a beautiful saying by an American philosopher Alan Watts, and he used to say that through our eyes, the universe is perceiving itself, and through our ears the Universe is listening to it’s cosmic harmonies. And we are the witness through which the universe becomes conscious of its glory, of its magnificence.” – ibid.

Come to the edge, he said
No, we’re afraid, they said
Come to the edge, he said
No, we’re afraid
Come to the edge, he said
So they came
And he pushed them
And they flew.
 – Guillaume Apollinaire
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“The open road still softly calls. Our little terraqueous globe is the madhouse of those hundred thousand millions of worlds. We who cannot even put our own planetary home in order, riven with rivalries and hatreds, are we to venture out into space?”

– Carl Sagan in video, below, or seen in HD here.

There is a cosmogony in which we dwell which I have regard for and yet the modern world disappoints me. The modern world with its air-conditioning and invoices and checks and balances. I am frustrated with this modern world and still more with the detritus it leaves in the inner world. I am angry and illuminated at the same time. I am hardened and soft boiled too. I see nothing and see segments; the green of tree leaves in southern sunshine, the effluvient withering leaves in the rushing winds that speed out of the ocean onto this wide and red land.

Yes, the edge of the Western world, and yes, a global existence is ours: we are ever more Eastern in the West and it seems the East is ever more Westerly. The ends of this I perceive to be a benefit, for the sooner we are One and united, ironed out, the better we shall rise to our challenges as human entities on Earth.

My writing frustrates me and the modern world dictates me. I refuse to be dictated. I yearn for simpler times, albeit, simplicity bores me. What is this hatred ingrowing? I yearn for golden complexity, for some greater kind of illuminating anger, for my tasks to be handed to me, for the work to pour through me. I am an artist and a creator – of what I have no clue. I don’t know where I’m headed, really, I’m just going. In what am I interested? In the flames, in the flames of the roman candles, blazing, I am interested in the passions of men, in the beauty of old, in the objects of this world. This is why I am here, this is why I choose Earth – for the spiritual world is empty of objects. I like objects. I lust for beauty, I lust for magnificence. I strive to achieve a fraction of what the masters might have achieved, had they the time for immortality, which they do.

I yearn to do away with all unnecessary distractions and objects, I yearn to mobilize and magnetize myself so as to become a conduit, metallic chamber of essential truths and objects, beauty and quality. I yearn for concentration and concentration of the self. I am aware of the dangers of the spiritual path, I have tasted them now. I see that all quests are by nature both benevolent and malevolent: violent indeed, in all ways.

I am frustrated, incomplete, marooned in the futility of exhaustion and delirious rest. I am surrounded by books and journals, Rimbaud, Baudelauire, Verlaine, Henry Miller and his friend and muse, Cendrars.

I want to paint delicate, intense watercolors. Yes, I will do this. Where? I have paper. I have paints. I have brushes. I have many tools. The essence? The inspiration? Emotion, potency, passing beauty, the disappearing sands of time which I cry over. This too shall pass indeed, as shall I. To put it down and capture moments is my urge, the artistic freeze frame of time and love and joy and lust.

And still old memories call to me, those of friends and fellow strangers to the modern world. How can I closen myself to those people who are similarly locked in technology and yet stranger to its web? You are who I’m talking to. Time spent together creating: How can I capture that time? I want (and will) write about the times that have passed – I want to write a book on this ‘moving to America’, about my passionate friends, my mystical love, and the quest for self-creation and self-destruction. Yes, to write is to remember, to recapture, to relive and to immortalize. I shall create such a document, for myself and my friends (for you), a monument to our collectively wonderful spirit. A testament to friends. Yes.

The testaments to the road, the testament to crossings, to the conflict of spirit and body, the paintings and watercolors, the poems, plays (plays? Tragi-comedic plays, Prince Henri) and my collages will all form corners of my life’s work and become the work I cherish and revere. Fill the well Sophia Lou-Salome, fill the well with wonder and depth. The waters have become dry. Water colour. Blaze the bland imperium! Blaze the modern ills and mediocre habits and skills. Fulfill the feelings of your soul. Blaze on individual. Blaze forth and meet your compatriots, the dreamers above. Worry not: Exist fully.

How. How? Perhaps just existing is enough. A close friend wrote to me with answers to questions I was not privvy to, yet they were eternal answers. Her friend had written that to exist is enough. We don’t have to do any more. But I feel it. I feel the calling, I feel some strings reaching down from above and attaching to my limbs like the golden gossamer of the Nephila spider. And yet I have no idea what these strings are attached to, nor where they are leading me. Perhaps we are indeed like puppets and the energies – or as my friend DBC Pierre would say, the Enthusiasms – do play a part in directing us and leading us onward.

I admit I am drawn to John Lennon, to Patti Smith, and Bob Dylan, and then to the quieter artists, the silent angels, the steady magi who seek no fame nor fortunes but who do the work. These are the poets, poets of life. It is indeed enough to sculpt a life, and having never been an artist of fame, become the creator of your own existence. I now sense my voice buried deep beneath my sternum, in the heart region, the heart region I saw torn up during open heart surgery last week, here in Australia. I saw behind my face mask and my hair net and my blue scrubs, wearing the surgeons’ shoes (I was), a woman dissected and opened and her heart beat before me. I saw veins and arteries, the yellow fat and ochre rubbed body completely clean with iodine. Through my nostrils the ineffable singed-hair smell of skin being cauterized, sealed: smoke rising from flesh. I saw that heart, right there, in an operating room of machines like ELECTRA and FREEFLEX, DATEX OHMEDA, in a room full of living humans, in a room full of multidimensionality, right there beneath 4 inches of bone and flesh layering. Within.

My voice is in there. In that dimension beneath our skins and sternum plates. For whatever reason, it is gathering strength.

(Indeed I once had the sense and vision that I had been pierced in past lives by a silver sword there: In a past life I may have been a soldier, a rebel, some part of some resistance, speaking the truth and standing a lot taller than I probably knew myself to be. In the psyche of the soul I sense I was however killed through this heart center and that my family was alone, or taken from me prior to this – that I was alienated and my freest voice was imprisoned. Perhaps I have been reincarnated and must learn this lesson: that catharsis is the medium for spirit to carry its flame. That I need to forgive those who have slain me and realize that I am not in any danger today. What comes next? This is why I seek you, outsiders and insiders, beings of the moon and the dark nights, beings of the sun and the light, poets and scribes and carriers on. My one duty is to carry on the message, to carry on the teachings that have so illuminated me.)

I have burnt with much fuel, and yet now, realignment is necessary. I have carried the flame alone, and yet I am to be thrown into my creation and destruction. I do not care which, they seem to be both the same thing: Whatever is destroyed is the weaker, more flammable offshoots, the steel and stone and gold survive. Alchemy is wordless. I am just waiting. Watching, watching the wheels – my wheels – since the wheels of society and modernity and technology bore me, and yet adore me: See? They all want your attention. Facebook wants your attention. Your friends and family want your attention. Conan O’Brien and Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert and Academy Award winners and English comedians all want your attention. What about you and your attention? Yes, the world today is an entertaining place to live, but to what end? Are we just entertaining ourselves for the sake of it, to pass time? Am I writing this blog to pass time? Am I breathing to pass time?

No. But I don’t know who this blog reaches nor who my book and future books will reach, nor what they will really be about. We are so in flux and yet the steadiness and unthreading of these thoughts in the now is key. I want to write songs for my beloved, carry the John and Yoko story: I want to sing kirtans in the Village in New York and collect old LIFE magazines, keep painting, the painter and the painted. I am looking for honest to god creators, and creators who will relive the aura Anais Nin was looking for when she came to America from Paris. Anais herself Moved to America, and yet she found the writers all lived around the country, and that cafe life is non-existent there. Nobody really wants to sit and talk, not even in Australia. What happened to the stimulation of discussion and limericks, to debating, to the rehabilitation of soul through being in communion as such?

As such I don’t know what I’m looking for, although I sense it doesn’t have much to do with intellectualism nor talking for talking’s sake, but passion – the edges of life. I am interested in the edges, in the unknowns and the precipices of faith and thought. I have to keep looking, going further, and my fear is that I will leave you all behind. I already have, I sense, in many ways: I don’t write nearly as much material as I feel is in me. Poor Da Vinci soul, who lay on his deathbed mourning that he had offended mankind and God for his work not nearing the quality ‘it could have been’. I am no Da Vinci, but I feel his pain and so take his lament as a challenge to carry on the painstaking work of doing work for works sake. For joy. For generosity. For beauty. For peace.

Again I quote the passage I will soon come to know by heart, that beating heart, that voiceful heart full of fear and hope and service. I sense this inner soul wanting only to be of service. To what, I’m not entirely sure, although John and Patti and Bob are counseling me, whispering to me, beating a rhythm to me in my sleep.

“Don’t ask (it’s forbidden to know) what end the gods will grant to me or you, Leuconoe. Don’t play with Babylonian fortune-telling either. It is better to endure whatever will be. Whether Jupiter has allotted to you many more winters or this final one which even now wears out the Tyrrhenian sea on the rocks placed opposite – be wise, strain the wine, and scale back your long hopes to a short period. While we speak, envious time will have (already) fled. Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future.”

Repeated from last post, translation from Latin of Odes 1.11 by Homer. However, I now have a question. “Endure whatever will be?” Endure? What about embracing, or at least generating, creating whatever will be? If we just endured global warming, endless warring, inner hatred, nothing would be done about it. Your thoughts, Sophocles?

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