All modern therapies which claim that action is more curative than words (Moreno) and which seek techniques other than talk (rather than in addition to it) are repressing the most human of all faculties-the telling of the tales of our souls. These therapies may be curative of the child in us who has not learned to speak or the animal who cannot, or a spirit-daimon that is beyond words because it is beyond soul. But only continued attempts at accurate soul-speech can cure our speech of its chatter and restore it to its first function, the communication of soul.
Soul of bulk and substance can be evoked by words and expressed in words; for myth and poetry, so altogether verbal and "fleshless," nonetheless resonate with the deepest intimacies of organic existence. A mark of imaginal man is the speech of his soul, and the range of this speech, its self-generative spontaneity, its precise subtlety and ambiguous suggestion, its capacity, as Hegel said, "to receive and reproduce every modification of our ideational faculty, “ can be supplanted neither by the technology of communication media, by contemplative spiritual silence, nor by physical gestures and signs. The more we hold back from the risk of speaking because of the semantic anxiety that keeps the soul in secret incommunicado, private and personal, the greater grows the credibility gap between what we are and what we say, splitting psyche and logos. The more we become tied by linguistic self-consciousness, the more we abdicate the ruling principle of psychological existence. That we then turn to the rats of Skinner and the dogs of Pavlov, the geese and wolves of Lorenz--tune into dolphins or consider man a naked ape-in order to find prototypes for human behavior, indicates to what extent we are losing our speech and with it our sense of a distinctly human nature. It is not animal prototypes we need for discovering our original patterns, but personified archetypes, each of whom speaks, has a name, 'I' and has its existence in the language world of myth. Without speech we lose soul, and human being assumes the fantasy being of animals. But man is half-angel because he can speak. The more we distrust speech in therapy or the capacity of speech to be therapeutic, the closer we are to an absorption into the fantasy of the archetypal subhuman, and the sooner the archetypal barbarian strides into the communication ruins of a culture that refused eloquence as a mirror of its soul.
🌟But the moment we realize body also as a subtle body–a fantasy system of complexes, symptoms, tastes, influences and relations, zones of delight, pathologized images, trapped insights–then body and soul lose their borders, neither more literal or metaphorical than the other. Remember: the enemy is the literal, and the literal is not the concrete flesh but negligence of the vision that concrete flesh is a magnificent citadel of metaphors.
Putting soul inside man also neglects that man, too, is a personified literalism- no more an actual real container than soul. In Chapter 1 the realization grew that a human life is actually a personification of the soul, a projection of it, contained by it. Although we readily accept the notion that human energy, and nature, life, and Gods are not specifically human privileges and that they exist “‘outside” human be- ings, we curiously balk over distinguishing soul from human being. Is this because we do not allow anima her independence? Is this the fundamental intolerance of human psychology: its inability to admit the distinct reality, the full reality, of soul, so that all our human struggle with imagination and its mad incursions, with the symptoms of com- plexes, with ideologies, theologies, and their systems, are in root and essence the unpredictable writhing movements of Psyche freeing herself from human imprisonment?
Our distinction between psyche and human has several important consequences. If we conceive each human being to be defined individually and differently by the soul, and we admit that the soul exists independently of human beings, then our essentially differing human individuality is really not human at all, but more the gift of an inhuman daimon who demands human service. It is not my individuation, but the daimon’s; not my fate that matters to the Gods, but how I care for the psychic persons entrusted to my stewardship during my life. It is not life that matters, but soul and how life is used to care for soul. This bears upon dreams. Dreams, we said earlier, are the best model of the actual psyche, for they show it personified, pathologized, and manifold. In them the ego is only one figure among many psychic persons. Nothing is literal; all is metaphor. Dreams are the best model also because they show the soul apart from life, reflecting it but just as often unconcerned with the life of the human being who dreams them. Their main concern seems not to be with living but with imagining.”
The old adage ‘with great power comes great responsibility’.
Having the ability to receive and Perceive anOthers feelings/thought/somatic undulations deeply is something that definitely varies between Bodies and Awarenesses.
One who truly Sees and feels and Innerstands must find their way to a place of Intentional non-intrusion into anOthers Space on whatever level. The ability to penetrate and invade on a deep level must be Let Go Of , in a Sense. Literally….inSenses we Separate our sovereignty of Self from OthersSelves to Play with boundaries and borders and blendings and bleedings and the blessings and Blissings that come from the Kissings that are made possible from that Sacred Solutio , this naked Coagula of souls inRatio Playing with tethers and teetering on the edge of WhetherOrNots and WhatIfs and WeDids.
To Choose ….in Love….SatChitAnanda…..to Allow anOther to GenerateOperateDestroy subtleties in their own fertileField without piercing the hymen to steal the diamond of their own alchemical elixir…. Is perhaps the greatest test……of ALL.
The mind points out it’s own precision The pen tip presses upon the page The blank sheets are washed and dried as bleeding crimes in tangled lines Are hung to dry with dripping rage
The mind draws lines with its own decisions The desperate drama of dreams debate The Carpet rolls out the curtains rise The Callosum opens its Myelin eyes As actors weave axioms upon the stage
The mind circles round its own confusion The neural nodes nap within the cage The fasciculus finds and hooks the hive The fissure formed from space and time Is stitched to heal with macrophage….
….the ritual bell, the wafting smell of Burning sages in prizm cells, Hanging from the dangling nous, The heart bares scars from tearing youth From the of searing truth of heaven and hell…
Neo keeps phyting But he never wins A young seed planted Stays right Where it is It’s all A game of poles n holes Seeds in Soils And sines in souls Aligned in Time And Min.e.d from molds Too loose for truth To blindly fold As Neos Phyte And Architects build The battleground Where Agents Will PreScriptZions into Being As Oracles play at seeing Through the Dream Or through the Codes As Bleeding Seams To implode the nodes As Neo Phytes for Trinity Inside the Womb of Destiny ImPlantAtIon FertileEyes Jesters Gestating In DisGuise Poking holes in ParaDise ReVersing poles as sacrifice Alchemy of space and Time The Lamed Smith goads the Mine Turning Metals into Mind……
Besides the muscles needed functionally to chew, kiss, sniff, blow, squint, blink, and twitch away A fly, most of the forty-five facial muscles serve only emotional expression. You don't need them to bring in food, to beat down an enemy, nurse an offspring, or perform sexual intercourse. The ventriloquist proves they are not needed for speaking. Nor are they essential to breathing, hearing, or sleeping. The extravagance of facial musculature is all for expression of major emotions, yes; but even more for such peculiar subtleties of civilization as supercilious contempt, wry irony, wide-eyed fawning, cool unconcern, smiling, and sneering. By means of these muscles, our faces make pictures. The psyche displays aesthetically its states of soul. Character traits become intelligible images; yet each expression is characteristically different, and the more complex the character, the more individual the expression. "There is nothing average about ex- pression. It is essentially individual. In so far as an average dominates, expression fades."
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~Faces need to be used~
A face is something that is incomplete; a work in progress….faces need to be used because they are not finished images, says the Chicago art historian James Elkins. Aging as a progress of the face. If you consider your face as one more part of the body, then it withers, crinkles, blotches, and falls away like other parts of the body. If youimagine your face as a phenomenon with a different significance, with its own destiny, then all that goes on there, after sixty especially, is a work in progress, building the image, preparing a face that has little to do with the faces that you meet. What's going on, rather, is the progress of a portrait, toward a memory.
"Faces need to be used." How? Out there, weathering and leathering, actively engaged with world? Should we engage in full-face confrontations, get in each other's faces? Another way to use the face is aging. Aging uses the face every day, and it is these traces of use that cosmetic surgery sets out to repair. Without any effort on our part, quite passively, even in the solitude of a monk's cell, even in an immune-protective bubble, the face is being used. "The aging process,” says Levinas, “probably the most perfect model of passive synthesis. " A face is being made, often against your will, as witness to your character.
~James Hillman, The force of character and the lasting life
Last time I saw Chaplin, all he said was, "Stay warm. Stay warm.”
(Groucho Marx in conversation with Woody Allen)
Last chance, last minute, last round, last inning, last exit, last ditch. Last rites, Last Supper, last days, Last Judgment. Last words, last breath. Last word, last laugh, last dance, last rose of summer, last good-bye. What an enormously weighty word! Why does it give such importance to the words it qualifies? And how does "last" bear on character? We shall have to find out.
Already I can tell you this: Our inquiry will aim deeper than the evident meaning of "the last time" " as the end and therefore death. If that were all, the inquiry could stop here, satisfied with this banal result. Remember, we are eluding death all through this book, trying to prevent death from swallowing into its im- penetrable darkness the light of intelligent inquiry. Death is a single stupefying generality that puts an end to our thinking about life. The idea of death robs inquiry of its passionate vi lality and empties our efforts of their purpose by coming to the predestined conclusion, death. Why inquire if you already know the answer?
If a pair of socks helped us in the previous chapter, the fic- ton of a couple may help in this one.
“She just got into her car and drove off. That was the last time I saw her." How casually the moment slips by, blurring into the everyday. But when the simple action is marked by "last." the event becomes an indelible image. "Last" makes an event eventful, elevates it beyond the everyday, leaves a lasting impression. Last words become "famous," " last moments enig- matic emblems to ponder for years to come.
Why? Because what happens at the end of a sequence stamps its closure, gives it finality. Reverberations of fate. The events that composed the marriage, the love affair, the life together be- come essentialized into the last scene. She gets into her car and drives off. To her death in an accident? To another city and a new start? To another lover? Home to Mother? Back to her husband and children? Where she drives to belongs more to the next story than to the last scene of this fiction of a jointly at- tempted life.
Had she returned later as on any other day, the image of her getting into her car would have no significance and therefore would not last. But now it tells of character: the abiding char- acter of the relationship- -its commitment to casualness; its apparent openness, which conceals truth. Or it reveals her re- bellious independence; or her adventurous courage; or her fail- ure of nerve; or her diffident coldness. .. . It says something about his character, too. the unspoken feelings; the dulled sensitivity that cannot perceive and does not foresee. Their character together, his, hers- last, as she drives off.
So the last time is more than information for a detective's re- port. "Just the facts." She does, in fact, just get into her car and drive away. But the last time transforms the facts into an image. The impression of her at the curb as the ignition catches lasts because it is compressed into a significant image, a poetic mo- ment. Other times are held captive by the last time and ever- lastingly signified.
Poetry depends on compression for its impact. The word for poet in German is Dichter, one who makes things dicht (thick, dense, compact). A poetic image compresses into a snapshot a particular moment characteristic of a larger whole, capturing its depth, complexity, and importance. By putting closure to a se- ries of events that otherwise could run on and on, the last time is outside serial time, transcendent.
This kind of moment is hard to bear and hard to relinquish. It feeds nostalgia, coming back to mind, a refrain that will not let go. Older age makes room for what T. S. Eliot refers to as "the evening with the photograph album," snapshots that bring back a world. ' Gerontology names these evenings "life review" and claims that they are the main calling of later years. Since anyone at any age can slip into nostalgic reverie, "later years" can be taken less literally, to mean a poetic state of soul favored by the old but not exclusive to them.
The last time turns love, pain, despair, and habit into poetry. It puts a stop to, arrests forward motion, and lifts life out of it- self. This is transcendence. We feel shaken to the bones, as if the gods had stepped into the middle of our lives.
Transcendence of the daily does not occur until the epiphany of the last time. She got into her car every day. The last time be- comes utterly different. In no succession of events do we imag- in any one moment to be the last. We can always come back another time, do this again. "The last time" says there is no "again." The last time is unique, singular, fateful. Pop lyrics play on this poetic moment: "The days dwindle down to a pre- cious few, September. .. " (Maxwell Anderson); "The last time we saw you . " (Leonard Cohen); "The last time I saw Paris" (Oscar Hammerstein), "Last time I saw him" (Pamela Sawyer); "This could be the last time ..." (Jagger and Richards), "The last time I saw George alive • (Rod Stewart). "Again, this couldn't happen again. "; etc. Each scene of life may be a last time, like the morning she drove off in her car.
To call the last time unique, singular, and fateful makes it sound inevitable and necessary, as if she drove off because it was determined by her character. If character is fate, as Heraclitus sald, then this was her day to die. Or she had to cut out, because *that's just the kind of freewheeling person she was; we should have expected it " Yet it might have been a spontancous impulse to which her character gave in: "Enough is enough; I'm out of here.” A whim, seemingly out of character. We can't know. For us the story stops as the car pulls away.
Right here, we have to be careful. Character could become an iron law, permitting only those acts that are "in character."In that case, the idea of character engenders little waves of repres- sion. "It's not my nature to do this, think that, want those, be- have like this." Is there no room for the spontaneous, for moments of speaking, thinking, and feeling quite "out of char. acter"? The answer depends on how we think about character.
I would claim that nothing is out of character. Character is inescapable; if anything were truly out of character, what would its source be? What stands behind a whim? Who pushes the urge and ignites an impulse? Whence do stray thoughts arise? Whims emerge from the same soul as choices and are as much part of your character as any habit. That last time belonged to her just as all the other times did. Belonged to her? Which "her"?
Her character must consist in several characters- "partial personalities," as psychology calls these figures who stir your impulses and enter your dreams, figures who would dare what you would not, who push and pull you off the beaten track, whose truth breaks through after a carafe of wine in a strange town. Character is characters; our nature is a plural complexity, a multiphasic polysemous weave, a bundle, a tangle, a sleeve. That's why we need a long old age: to ravel out the snarls and set things straight.
I like to imagine a person's psyche to be like a boardinghouse full of characters. The ones who show up regularly and who habitually follow the house rules may not have met other long- term residents who stay behind closed doors, or who only ap- pear at night. An adequate theory of character must make room for character actors, for the stuntmen and animal handlers, for all the figures who play bit parts and produce unexpected acts. They often make the show fateful, or tragic, or farcically ab- surd.
Fitting them in is called by Jungian psychologists integration of the shadow personalities. Fitting them in, however, means first of all finding them fitting, suitable to your idea of your character. The Jungian ideal calls for a more integrated charac- ter, for the full boardinghouse with no exclusions. This may re- quire conversion of the more disreputable and obstreperous to the morals of the majorin, an integration leading to the in tegrity of the matured character.
These noble ideals are better in the recipe than on the table. for old people, as Yeats wrote and Pound demonstrated, are often disheveled, intemperate, whimsical, and closer to chaos than to the sober well-honed wisdom that the idea of integra- ton suggests. The integrity of character is probably not so unitary , rather, the full company is onstage as at the end of the opera, when the chorus, the dancers, the leads, and the con ductor take their uncoordinated bows. Life wants the whole ensemble. in fagrante delicto. Even the cover-ups belong to the character.
The study of how each of these characters belongs is a main activity of later years, when "life review' consumes more and more of our hours. Whether going through piles of papers and closets of things, or regaling grandchildren with stories, or at- tempting to write autobiography, obituary, and history, we try to compress life's meanders and accidents into a "character study. That's why we need so many later years and why, as the days shorten, more and more evenings are absorbed in the photo- graph album. Regardless of whether contrition, nostalgia, or vindictiveness marks our feeling as we turn the pages, we are as engrossed in study as if for a final exam.
We study our character and others' for revelation of essence, and we read actions such as her driving away as compressed ex- pressions of this essence. She, at the curb, opening the car door, getting in and going off for the last time has become an in- delible image, an objective shot corresponding to her character. We study this poetic particular for descriptive predicates that might lead to predictions about her behavior. Other images come to mind--other times when her eyes shone with a wild light while she sat behind the wheel; casual words of envy at a friend's freedom; her collection of lightweight, thin-soled shoes; a girlhood story of a dangerous hike. This cluster of im- ages shows qualities that constitute her character: freedom, danger, movement, surprise. As these belong to her character so they can be predicted. Her driving off should be no surprise- providing we compact her character into only these compatible images, arrange them into a coherent story, and omit all that does not fit in.
What does not fit in demands all the more scrutiny and a widening notion of character. All we need to do is stick with the image, allow its complications to puzzle us, and abandon such superficial ideas of character as habits, virtues, vices, ideals. Ac- cess to character comes through the study of images, not the examination of morals.
The daily world is notoriously poor in this kind of study. The little schoolboy killer was such a quiet nice kid; the serial murderer was hardly noticeable and seemed like anybody else; the baby-sitter who abused her charges was so prompt and tidy and polite. Our restricted notion of character restricts what we are able to see in people. If people are prompt and polite, nice and quiet; if they lack noticeable quirks, we expect them to be tidy in character. Unless we have a trained eye for the signifi- cant discrepancy, our predictions will invariably be wrong. The crime comes as a shocking surprise, an act altogether out of character. A culture blind to the complexities of character al- lows the psychopath his heyday of mayhem. No one noticed any oddity because no one had an eye for it. So after the horror he is sent to be "seen" by the psychologists who now, post facto, know what to look for and will, of course, find it.
We are as we appear, yes, but only when appearances are read imaginatively, only when the perceiving eye studies what it sees as a lasting image. This eye looks at the facts for the significant gesture, the characteristic style, the verbal phrasings and rhythms. This eye is trained by the visibilities of human nature. It learns from "people-watching, " from movie close-ups, dance postures and dinner parties, body language, and the street. It sees an image, which Ezra Pound defined as "that which pre- sents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time."2 Especially, I would add, in that instant we see as "the last time." The older we get the longer we look, and want to look.
A woman of one hundred and three, living in Nevada, de- scribed her desire:
I want to start a wedding chapel. ……. I would just sit in a nice chair and let ... whoever I hire do the strenuous work. The reason I'd like a wedding chapel is that I could study the peo- ple. I could see what kind of man she's going to marry, and what kind of woman or girl she is. I can tell, I can tell.
Al Hirschfeld, artist and caricaturist, at ninety-five declares:
What's a man to do? Sit around some sun-soaked beach all day? Watching the waves? Or playing golf? Human beings fascinate me. People. I used to love just sitting in the window of the Howard Johnson's at Forty-sixth and Broadway, draw- ing the constant parade of people passing by. . .. Ill draw a bow tie, or a cane, or jot down one word or make a sketch that brings back an entire scene.
The eye for the image cuts to the essential.
In our overpsychologized culture, psychological testing sub- stitutes for this seasoned eye and prevents its development. In- stead of looking, we test; instead of imaginative insight, we read write-ups; instead of interviews, inventories; instead of stories, scores. Psychology assumes it can get at character by probing motivations, reaction responses, choices, and projections. It uses concepts and numbers to assess the soul, rather than rely- ing on the anomalous eye of a practiced observer.
The anomalous eye is the old eye. The older soul, aged into its own peculiarity, cannot, in fact, see straight at all; it favors the odd. Love of the odd may appear early in life, with the af fectionate nicknames children give one another and that single Out a particular feature or trait of character. But usually youth prefers conformity, trying to adjust or smother what does not fit in. In late life, having now become studies in uniqueness, we look for companions as odd in their ways as we are in ours. Similarities in daily routines, similar past experiences, parallel symptoms, common backgrounds are not comforting enough The fun, the love comes with companions in uniqueness. The odd couple: a couple of oddball characters.
The term "gerontology" should more rightly refer to the kind of study we do with our old eye than to the study of old age by young psychologists. Our studying does not aim to un- cover why she got in the car and drove off. The cause is already given: It was necessary because it was in her character. No use laying out the reason--she felt trapped; she had a secret; it was her time; she went schizoid and fled from love, or was a para- noid and fled from demons, or a sociopath and took the money and ran. We have little interest in exculpatory causes, such as her mother, her childhood, her horoscope, her awakened femi- nism. Conventional generalities explain nothing to the old ob- server. The anomalous eye just likes to watch, to sink deeper into the puzzle of human character which increases tolerance for human oddity.
Instead of coming up with reasons and diagnoses, we study the image. Our curiosity focuses upon the image of the last time, on her behavior as a phenomenon, on the image as an epiphany, for it is the image that lasts and can be reflected again and again in a variety of stories, exhibiting character in action. She was performing a drama, in which, as Aristotle said, char- acter is revealed through action.
Her last scene is also dreamlike, a tableau: the curb, the car, the key in the switch. In a dream we never know the motive for anyone's action or the diagnosis of anyone's problem. Psychol- ogy begins in the morning. We do not know the reasons for what dream people do, how they were treated in childhood, or even why they are there at all. The more the dream strikes us as an image- and each dream is a one-and-only, last-time dream- the less we can formulate it, yet the more we can re- turn to it and draw from it. Everything we look upon seems odd, as if seen for the first time, or the last. Something re- demptive happens. "We are blest by everything, / Everything we look upon is blest," writes Yeats- the last, and lasting, lines of one of his reflective poems on aging published when he was sixty-eight.
Blessing is the one gift we want from the old, and the one great gift only they can bestow. Anyone can applaud above- average achievements and award the outstanding. The old, however, are able to recognize the beauty that is hidden from usual sight, not because they have seen so much through the vears, but because the years have forced them to see so oddly. What one needs blessed are the oddities of character specific to our solitary uniqueness and therefore so hard to bear. I can bless my own virtues, but I need a well-trained, long-suffering eye to bless the virtues concealed in my vices.
A culture is preserved by the old. This cliché usually means that they guard the old ways, the old knowledge, the old stories; they are wise and give prudent counsel. Rather, I think, culture is preserved by the old because they enjoy the odd, study oth- ers for it, and locate the essence of character in what is peculiar to each phenomenon. A culture that does not appreciate the character of anything eccentric to its model tends to homoge- nize and to standardize its definition of the good citizen. The old preserve culture by means of the stubborn sameness of their unsuitable peculiarities.
The increasing importance of oddity as we age shifts the idea of character from the constitutive center of a human being out to the edges. The character truest to itself becomes eccentric rather than immovably centered, as Emerson defined the noble character of the hero. At the edge, the certainty of borders gives way. We are more subject to invasion, less able to mobilize de- fenses, less sure of who we really are, even as we may be per- ceived by others as a person of character. This dislocation of self trom center to indefinite edge merges us more with the world, so that we can feel "blest by everything."
C. G. Jung spent his more than eighty years following the Delphic maxim Know thyself" Self-examination and inquiry into the self of others was his lifework and formed his theory. Yet, amazingly, this is what he writes on the very last page of his autobiographical memoir:
I am astonished, disappointed, pleased with myself. I am dis- tressed, depressed, rapturous. I am all these things at once, and cannot add up the sum. I am incapable of determining ultimate worth or worthlessness; I have no judgment about my- self and my life. There is nothing I am quite sure about. When Lao-tzu says: "All are clear, I alone am clouded," he is expressing what I now feel in advanced old age. ... Yet there is so much that fills me: plants, animals, clouds, day and night. and the eternal in man. The more uncertain I have felt about myself, the more there has grown up in me a feeling of kinship with all things. In fact it seems to me as if that alienation which so long separated me from the world has become transferred into my own inner world, and has revealed to me an unex- pected unfamiliarity with myself.
Let us review for the last time her departure. That image offers one more allegory for imagining character. Her move exposed a dimension that he at the door had never been able to perceive, owing to the assumptions he made about her charac- ter. What he could not see before, he sees only too clearly now, in his imagination. Perhaps, until she turned the key, she, too, was ignorant of this depth of potential, this eccentricity. Nor had either of them a foreboding of sudden death--if that is where she went.
We come to realize that character dissolves into stories about character. We become characters in these fictions; this implies that the very idea of character also becomes a fiction--and therefore vastly important, for it generates imagination much as her image in this chapter provoked our imagination to invent fictions about her character and about the idea of character.
This is why the idea of character is so needed in a culture: It nourishes imagination. Without the idea we have no perplex= ing, comprehensive, and long-lasting framework to ponder; In= stead we have mere collections of people whose quirks have no depth, whose images have no resonance, and who are distin- guishable only in terms of collective categories: occupation, age, gender, religion, nationality, income, IQ, diagnosis. The sum of these adds up to a faceless Nobody, not a qualified Each. Without the idea of character, no single person has a lasting value. If each is replaceable, each is also disposable. The social order becomes like a battalion under fire; we are all replace- ments, filler for empty slots.
Character itself dissolves into fiction, as she does in our imaginings about her character, but the idea of character makes the fiction lasting. The idea keeps us inquiring, makes us look more closely at the snapshots. Her image spurs our imagina- tions. We want to know her better, see who she really is. Yet "who she really is, " her literal character, is only literary, only a figure in the stories in which she is the main character, and that is what lasts even when she has gone.
We, too, last as fictional images, whether in the reminis- cences of family, the gossip of detractors, or the reports of obituarists. Our character becomes the fertile source of fictions that add another dimension of life to our lives even as we fade as actualities. Jung realized this truth in his very late years, find- ing that he had become unfamiliar with the character he had as- sumed himself to be. His self-same reality became porous, indefinite, susceptible. As he wholly loosens into the world of "plants, animals, clouds" and is assimilated by the natural World, his character in the imagination of the human world continues to last, and goes on generating stories of who he really was.
Whenever a person of unveiling sees a form which communicates to him gnosis which he did not have and which he had not been able to grasp before, that form is from his own source, no other. From the tree of himself he gathers the fruits of his cultivation, as his outer form opposite the reflected body is nothing other than himself, even though the place of the presence in which he sees the form of himself presents him with an aspect of the reality of that presence through transformation. The large appears small in the small mirror and tall in the tall, and the moving as movement. It can reverse its form from a special presence, and it can reflect things exactly as they appear, so the right side of the viewer is his right side, while the right side can be on the left. This is generally the normal state in mirrors, and it is a break in the norm when the right side is seen as the right and inversion occurs. All this is from the gifts of the reality of the Presence in which it is manifested and which we have compared to the mirror.
We come from the land of dimpled smiles, the bridge between worlds, the tethers that tear at scar tissue and rip open wounds, so the tribe can be fed with the stories that wake their Souls. We talked often of this role, the single handed need to make everyone else’s Pain go away, be all things to all people, be the shoulder that bears the weight of all grief and fear. We made the journey over and over, from one world to the next. Your now my ally in the unseen. You’ve told me the nature of the twisted web, from your perspective at the fountainhead…. And I give my word that I shall speak it so that the demons can be free.
There is no monopoly on grief, we all carry a piece of each other, different than anyone else has, a part of a mystery, a magical thread, that no one else can see. In Life, you were pulled and unraveled by all The grasping fingers that rip at the covers, skinned by kith and kin over and over….in Death, the Same ……the same fragmentation , no one can live up to that projection, no one can carry that , not even Saturn or The sweet soul of Capricornian love of Other. I’ll meet you there, where there is no tugging. Where nothing is wanted from you, needed from you, asked of you, blamed on you, taken from you, or hidden from you…/ I’ll meet you there in the Nether, and we will tell The story as seen from inside the center of the Web. My friend, my Soul Brother, we’ve traipsed thru time together, for aeons, and I thank you for what you have blessed me with, by your sweet smile and the kindness and love you poured out. No strings attached, was our love and care, and perhaps that is the only place where real Sight can dare to stare into the eyes of Truth.
We all Matter into Mother Measured by Maats Tether Twisted Sines Waving bravely In the maze of Ether All ways Always riding Nows And nursing from the Sacred Cow ……….but some.in.Time Rewind the Bloodlines And find the WideOpenSee And Enter Consciously Into the LivingDream No longer Trapped In mapped Out mirrors No longer wrapped in Fears and Tears…. Tangled in whethers And whithers and whence Blaming the Game And shaming All Sense For the Terrors that rip choice from voice as Moistened lips Part The Red Seams of this Begotten Reality. To be Sovereign Is to Reign Free From Root to Crown As Seed to Tree Becomes What Is And Always Will Be… Adventures In Seaming And Dreaming I and We Between Games of Waking And Falling A Sleep.
BlissNinja 