The ‘Brellas. Metro cover, 30 August 2012
When looking up something in my last-February’s journal the other day, I came across an entry – which I had forgotten all about. First there is a dream – an elder landscape, a valley crossing – and then a vision of the Games-to-be: the context is Time passing through the Mayan calender circle into the Aquarian age circle this year – and pictorially, the years fore and aft, around it: a Grand Crossing.
from Kabbalah 1991 series – the Kabbalah is by the way, but this is the general shape!
13 February 2012 THE VALLEY AND THE OLYMPIC RELAY
I dreamt last night a great and ancient moorland landscape, very old rocks. It was a long U-shaped valley with steep sheer sides, glacier carved, exposed. I walked along one edge of it, a path, noting the formations and striations of heather, rock and strata along the other side: vast – could be Scotland or Wales, but could be anywhere in the world.
I backtracked some way, and took a path (right-angle) which descended to cross it. Maybe I slid skillfully, or tobogganed. In the geological patterns up the other side, woods were hidden, as if in the textures of a painting, and little bushy lanes tarmac’d for cars, but almost too narrow to walk along; it was local but remote. Tucked away were houses, cottages and signposts, like the Chilterns; a small urban community took root.
Going up that hillside, as often happens, it turned into an interior labyrinth and I had to ask the workers the way. But the way was always quite clear to see, particularly when I turned a right angle corridor at the top; someone showed me a door leading out of doors, and I saw the cliffs of the valley’s other side again (where I was before), and the paths scratched and worn along them: the VIEW.
The path I was on, scarped the edge, but began to descend. It was sandy and reddish, and lost height. I met people and their dogs or children, and I looked for paths ascending back up.
The landscape had an elder brilliance of colour and tone: I think, an astral region. The two sides of the valley feel like the pillars of the Tree. Among the bare rocks, small thoughts of humanity take hold and flourish. There is an air of rediscovering basics. I cross the bare valley floor playfully. There is stability. There is a conversation, side to the other side.
Parent pentacle – Two sides of the Tree.
This dream-fragment came back to me in the kitchen, by the taps, while putting a jaycloth away. Yesterday I cleaned, dusted and polished my room at last, and bought a slow-cooker and some steak, veg and ale, and made a wonderful stew with an incredible flavour.
I said Chiltern – an echo – the valley is a dramatic version of the long land-furrows just west of Chesham and their paths and lanes: a corrugation like the lines in a fingerprint.
In my studies, I read about “the power which hangs the earth upon nothing. He who knows its presence at the centre of his being, and perfects its unobstructed transmission from that inner centre … knows the practical secret of the Lost Word.” (Paul Foster Case.)
The hebrew word for Imagination is RVCh, Ruach, the Life-Breath … … through the intricate pathways of veins, arteries, nerves and cellular thought streams. I like to think of those almost invisible fat cottages of village life tucked away among the steep bushy trees and hedges – samskaras and samsaras. The One Life creates all my ideas. They are tough like heather.
line dance 1987 – Crossing the valleys of each other
The potencies … are centred in the pituitary body behind the root of the nose. This is the point through which they enter the field. They put you in touch with the essential consciousness of everything, everywhere … the most distant star, millions of light years away, all mineral, plant, animal and human forms.
Behind the root of my nose is a visualising centre, which tastes and smells. Here is a little Tree. Here are bright white Seals of Solomon. The valley in my dream is like a bath. Sit in the bath like Archimedes, home in to the root behind my nose, and check out those distant stars and atoms closer than my breath, the intimate cosmic filaments … and pull out the bathplug with my toe. Like going to see my teacher to ask a question, the intention feels businesslike. Some clutter was removed.
The Valley is in a strange, living mode, a Face, a naked being.
I see through you, an ancient channel of light and knowledge, like a well, lain horizontally … well, that is a telescope, n’est ce pas? But you are more a landscape than a humanoid. The idea of a telescope brings the stars close. Your silence is as alive as when you speak. You are a channel for God. The telescope is a channel, a stick, a rod, a staff. When the valley of the shadow is cleared and open, I walk in it, I cross it, I admire the detail. There is a point of essence of you.
“Hear the nose on your face”. Listen to the breath. Waves swell, break and fade.
The god Neptune goes into his elemental salt, the Ocean, from the beach, then deeper and deeper. He IS the Ocean, being thus She, la mer, the mare, the mother. Essence is restored to itself … like sperm to egg dissolves back into embryonic femininity, from which the genders grow.
Leibniz, Kepler and Galileo were contemporaries – the invention of the telescope then? The dawn of the 17th century broke the caul of our world. It was called the Enlightenment. It contracted light years and brought in the universe. (Aquarian age). It invented calculus and measure. The Rosicrucean Manifesto satyrized the Church’s asinine pomp and tyranny. The stars broke into the cleric fantasy and toppled it.
Something like this is happening now. Where there were European wars, is now a perilous Euro-economy – another attention-capturing struggle, another situation beyond the save of linear savants. Listen to the root of my nose; the birds out there, and the cars going by. Listen with everything I am connected to – replacing thoughts. The mind can scan many things simultaneously, but only concentrate on One Thing.
Alchemical bas-relief in Notre-Dame Paris – Child baton
Neptune’s essence restored to his own element in Pisces – is the year’s basic scroll.
In the summer Olympics, the relay of the torch and relay races in general may be significant.
At this point we are a relay baton – (like a telescope) being handed from one temporal arc or era to another. Trust the cosmic athlete to accomplish this more smoothly than the human runners and swimmers. The Olympics is a baton held in hand, a relay.
magus equinox 1991
Yesterday I pondered: the London administration in England, undertook this responsibility, to relay, to bring all the nations together. This factor underwrites the extravagance and the security headache. London – with its alignment to the Grand Cross next summer – is crucially placed for a movement through the hour-glass – trained, record-breaking movement, a national concentration focusing the globe. It may or may not be a shambles. It was the British Empire. It is the Games. Deep deep down under all the hype, the racket, fear and froth, lurks the Greek archetype ideal, unbroken. The relay is unbroken.
Elder thoughts are the open valley when the glacier has shrunk to a little brook in its floor.
The relay is a point of exchange, unbroken. Time is the meeting of the crossing ways, the passing hand to hand. There is an Olympic flame. Did Britain begin this present Olympic cycle, was Britain the first host in the 19th century, or thereabouts? If nothing else, the London Olympic project reclaimed and regenerated a waste land.
7 September 2012 … and so it has!
I saw last night the relay of blind runners. The howling stadium is made to shush so the runners can hear each others’ feet. The precision with which they hand the baton to each other, is deft in the dark, and … deeply touching. Velocity: trusting: temporal velocity … the trysting trust untried.
My adventure invites fellow travellers. I am a poet, an artist and a seer. I welcome conversation among the PHILO SOFIA, the lovers of wisdom.
This blog is a vehicle to promote my published work – The Sacred India Tarot (with Rohit Arya, Yogi Impressions Books) and The Dreamer in the Dream – a collection of short stories (0 Books) – along with many other creations in house.
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