Sketches of Beethoven and Minona

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4C3TIr2bBo0 – Barenboim’s noble rendering of the Appassionata Sonata

..

http://www.lvbeethoven.com/Famille/FamilyTree-Minona.html#Midi

..

Beethoven profile - xerox of a lost sketch

Beethoven profile – xerox of a lost sketch

In my earlier post, More Sketches of Beethoven, I described a dream I had many years ago, that I tried to draw his daughter, who lived with him somewhere underneath Vienna.  It seemed at the time to parallel his efforts at composition, a titanic process of inspirational song, rain-soaked notebooks and hours or months of cutting, shaping and refining – it did not come easy for him.

I brought from my dream’s dark-room an impression down the years, of a child with a wide face and a fringe.  She was his child, or she was his soul – he looked through her eyes.  I met him in my dream, and we made an agreement.  That is all I remember – and the heart breaking toil of trying to portray her.   In those days I drew many children, capturing their essence in sometimes half an hour or less.   Not so, with this one!

I decided to try to reconstruct the dream – particularly when “Edwardian Piano” informed me that there was a daughter – it is said her mother, Josephine Brunswick, raised her as Minona Stakelberg. Josephine’s sister Therese alone was in the secret, which she kept until her grave.  On the website (see top of page under the Barenboim video), you can hear a couple of Minona’s Ecossaises for the piano.  It is a pity that they are played in  ‘electronic’ style.  I can imagine their grace and humour on an old Broadwood.

With sepia photos or daguerrotypes, I guess my way along, like a palaeontologist.  The photo looked at once familiar.  Her face in it is broad, yet heart shaped;  she looks a determined young woman.  In the other photo, she is an older woman.  She probably lost her teeth, and her nose looks longer.  I began with Neidl’s likeness of Beethoven, nearest to the dark child I see in my mind:

Beethoven engraving by J.Neidl

Engraving of Beethoven by J.Neidl from a drawing by G.E.Stainhauser von Treuberg in 1800

The young Beethoven – after the Neidl engraving

Minona

Minona’s face is rather thin here, which draws on information from both the photos. In old photos, much of the bone structure detail is blurred.  It is said her looks were dark and “Spanish”, like Beethoven’s.  My drawing doesn’t show much family likeness, but an exploration of this kind might touch unknown factors;  I do not know!

Josephine Brunswick, her mother

..

Finally I began work on this:

Beethoven and his natural daughter

Beethoven and his natural daughter

 …  and it is not finished, and cannot be, but is starting to speak.

There are mysteries between ourselves as human beings and our hidden continents and the things we grieve and share and conceal and stumble with, which can only be recognised and touched upon … beyond words.  We touch the hem of the robe.  The story’s pressure through my dream was the character of Beethoven’s illegitimate daughter, and how this condition made her strong, made her hear him, and grow up beyond her years.  This, like tidal currents in the sea which enter one another, has resonance.

Grief is sharp and alive with colour as in a painting, and so is joy;  and life is born through dying, born through dying and letting go … again and again and again.

Minona Stakelberg

Photo of Minona Stakelberg

..

Anton Schindler’s Impression of Beethoven at the piano:
“What the Sonata Pathetique was in the hands of Beethoven (although he left something to be desired as regards clean playing) was something that one had to have heard and heard again, to be quite certain that it was the same already well known work.  Above all, every single thing became, in his hands, a new creation, wherein his always legato playing, one of the particular characteristics of his execution, formed an important part.

“In his lessons, Beethoven taught: always place the hands on the keyboard so that the fingers do not rise any more than is strictly necessary, for only with this method is it possible to create a tone and to learn how to ‘sing’.  He hated staccato playing, especially in the execution of passages; he called it ‘finger dance’ or ‘leading the hands into the air.’

“The pieces which I myself heard Beethoven execute were, with few exceptions, always quite free of tempo limitations:  a tempo rubato in the truest sense of the word, according to the demands of the contents and situation without, however, the slightest tendency to caricature.  It was the clearest and most comprehensible declamation … as perhaps can only be elicited from his works.

“His older friends, who carefully followed the evolution of his spirit in every aspect, assure me that he developed this style in the first years of the third period of his life, and that he turned completely away from his earlier manner of playing with fewer nuances.  From this, it is clear that his urge towards discovery had already found the ways and means to open up with confidence the portals of the mystery to both laity and initiated. 

“He wanted the Quartets to be performed in the same manner as the Sonatas, for they paint states of mind, as do the majority of his Sonatas.”

..

Allegri quartet rehearsing, 1988

Allegri quartet rehearsing, 1988

 shingle and shadow

minona 3_0001

..

..

..

**

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 also 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). Watch this space.

aquariel link

All art and creative writing in this blog is copyright © Janeadamsart 2012-2015. May not be used for commercial purposes. May be used and shared for non-commercial means with credit to Jane Adams and a link to the web address https://janeadamsart.wordpress.com/

Tales of the Watershed – Chinese Torch Prints

..

fish by Steven Szegedy Szuts

fish by Steven Szegedy Szuts

Dreams No.89   May 1975

IF YOU were Chinese …

If who was Chinese?   Me, you or history?

The dream is a scribe of “his” story.   The dream tells me with some authority, that if I was Chinese and wise like a mandarin, I would know very well that I make my own bed to sleep on. The floor on which I lie for the night to imprint “his” story in my fibre, should be roughened.   Otherwise it will have no “key”.   My pillow would then slip, and no message come to my hearing.

This seems to be an ancient Oriental tradition.   As you make your bed, so you live.   A page too smooth cannot take the ink from heaven and the underworld. The fibre holds the script.   The rationale for this insight comes to me with all the force of Chinese respect for ancestry, and with the revelation of a brush scribing pictures.

So far so good.

Am I a printing press?   And from which civilisation did Renaissance Europe take the idea?

They say to me in this dream, roughen a plank on the wooden floor with a flaming torch to char the grain.   Lay paper on the burnt patch, and your pillow on the paper.   And lo! when you raise your head from sleep the paper will be printed with the mark of your life.

old tao sage

This principle seems unfathomably relevant to living, creating and suffering. A wisdom within it glows – something to do with fire which heats, burns out old wood and hollows a primitive boat for voyaging.   In the spirit of fire are interwoven myriad patterns of incarnation.   I gaze into the embers of flame, red, yellow, blue, violet, sometimes even lucid green. In fragile castles of carbon, whole histories fall to ash.   A dreamer is a traveller on the spot with his or her ear to the ground.

Certain prints of life are stroked out into the crinkle of slow flame; they glow.   It is breaking my heart!   how some people can play with fire and create these without having to make beds to lie in, or go to sleep at all.   These people – like my sister – have wonderful ideas.   They conjure filigree landscape from random traceries of the wood’s charred grain, to the delight of all who behold.

..

..

B gave me some sheets of thick paper to experiment with.   And look, my sister and her friend Jemima at school are here in the room with me;   in their play, they made five or six colour pictures by holding the burning torch to the thick paper.   The sharp, incisive lines of their pictures have the glory of a Byzantine woodcut.   The flame crinkled or split lines or curves along the papery grain, along which they drew. I held those pictures in my hands.   I gazed at them envious, and humble, before such mastery.   B said my sister was an ordinary girl – so I never saw the power and clarity of her imagination, till now.   How does she do it?   Won’t she show me?   Then I could make a card like this, for his birthday next week.   I want him to value something from me, some taste and texture to delight in, like new brown bread, or an earthen pot with lapis lazuli glaze.   Then he couldn’t possibly tell me I’m a “spiritual desert”.

I was in his room later.   He went to get loo-paper for me to blow my nose.   We agreed to see each other less often for a while.   At least, our dialogue is not a wound.   Can we shake out the feathers, allow our own colours to grow, be less mutually invaded when we meet?   Hope broke shyly through into space.   The mood changed, and became sensitive to one another.   It could smile and laugh with our trouble.

I showed him three of those prints my clever sister made – the tension of her inner eye and the delicacy of her touch.   “Look!”   I said.   “My sister made those. What an artist she is.” Here’s a black and white one of a labyrinth, an immense industrial landscape somewhere in the North Country. To the left, a group of business magnates in top-hats and frock-coats, barter nineteenth-century expansion.   They haven’t refined the technology yet.   Smoke billows from chimneys, stove-pipes and flues, and to the right a black city opens to the foot, an intricate tangle of streets and sooty towers – a pool of life that is still a furnace.

So she too knew Liverpool!   And here’s a green one, the deft caricature of an earthy old man bent like a gnome.   The third one shows a field of long summer grass deep enough to wade in, rich with clover and wild garlic, active with the multi-level hierarchy of small creatures.   All her Tragic Stories are here, to walk with – the stories she tells to herself with chewed stems of grass for girls’ hair and bits of bent wire for boys’ legs. She is a sturdy, short-sighted child. She mumbles her song through field and farmyard, utterly absorbed in the drama at play in her hands.   I follow sometimes, and listen.

..

I am burning to do it too.   I want to release that vision heat-held in wood and paper.   I thirst for the water of life, that slow dew of remembering …

What is really happening is that a baby is sitting here in this room with the burnt patch on the floor, a baby with dark eyes.   And the drawing that he, she, I, am doing so carefully along the advice of the ageless sages collapsed, and broke into a wild infant scrawl.

..

child caught tasting pebbles - Art-Not-Doing 1987

..

..

..

**

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.

Gene Keys Golden Path Program
This blog is  a vehicle to promote also 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). Watch this space.

aquariel link

All art and creative writing in this blog is copyright © Janeadamsart 2012-2014. May not be used for commercial purposes. May be used and shared for non-commercial means with credit to Jane Adams and a link to the web address https://janeadamsart.wordpress.com/

Watershed Tale – A Drinking-Glass in the Sea

..

drinking glass on sea bed

Many years ago, I dreamed of a drinking-glass in the sea, on the sea-bed, deep down.  It is a “Watershed Tale”, and I was about five months pregnant at the time.

25 January 1977
There was a lone figure – a man – on a beach lit as if by sunset.   He stretched out his arms towards the sea, he was taking part in a ritual.   There were others on the beach.   I loved the pure water of the sea in its strong rough waves, and longed to be in it and of it.   I sat in the sea water, on a rock, with Cathy the little girl from next door.   The water of the tide coming in with bigger and bigger waves, was delicious, cold and pure.   I  didn’t mind getting wet.   The water was beautiful on my body.   The waves were bigger and more powerful, nearly drowning us;  little Cathy was frightened, so I swam the few yards back to shore,   carrying her.   The tide was coming in fast.  

“On the beach I found Cathy had dropped her drinking-glass into the sea.   I didn’t want to lose it, so I ran back and dived into the sea, already deep and surging.   I swam a couple of strokes and then dived under,  right to the bottom. 

“I looked all around.   The water was clear and still beneath the surface surging dangers and turbulence –  I was frightened of those big waves.   First of all I saw something else Cathy had dropped, and brought it up, but it was not the glass,  so I went down again and there, amazingly, was the glass, resting upright on the sands, where I could just reach it with the last breath I had.   So I brought it up triumphantly and to shore.

“Sea –  peace,  austere peace,  like in Beethoven’s quartet Opus 131.”

..

I have often thought of this image, and wondered at it, particularly recently.  The glass developed in my interior eye, to an elegant goblet:  but originally it was of green glass, and someone had made it from the bottom of a bottle, filing it smooth around the rim.

green glass and wood flow

..

So today I painted it.  It means so many things:  diving into the heart, for one.  The shapely glass is formed from fine sand, from the movement of waves, and by the breath and in fire, it melts and is blown.  How strange, for it to be …  Any human being turned inward, with only a little flower turned outwards, is a bottomless vessel, a drinking glass under the ocean.   I dived for something I lost I think, and I found not that thing, but this, standing on the sandy sea-bed under and in the sea … the outline cannot enclose.

PLEROMA is the empty which is full, and was and is and ever shall be:  the Pleroma where all words fail, you feel it in the heart and in your bones – gnosis:  the gnosis of Carl Jung’s Seven Sermons to the Dead.

Jung as hermit

Jung as hermit

I have been working on this portrait since the weekend.  I had run out of my usual drawing paper, so I used the darker shade.

I am walking with the Red Book, and with the Seven Sermons to the Dead.  A wonderful edition of the Seven Sermons is available to buy online.  It is called The Gnostic Jung, and it is presented by Stephan A.Hoeller.  When he was a very young man in 1949, on a frozen day in Innsbruck he was lent one of the rare copies then in circulation.  All night long he transcribed and translated it, handing the book back to its owner the following day.

The Jungian Gnosis is a creative conjunction of therapeutic discipline with ancient spirituality, which is far more than the sum of its parts.   It is non-academic.   It activates.   It becomes the MEDICINE of the ages.  It heals.

Alchemy through the Red Sea - 2000

Alchemy through the Red Sea – 2000

Deep down there is always peace.  On the surface, a wild weather or a struggle or a crust.   Inside of a tree is like the sea bed.

Be transparent.

Chronically distressed at human poison on its habitat, these days – do we rush to our extinction?   TV ads, idiocy and smartphone media addictions are that.  They are the ragged holes of the nothing, which ate up the living world in Michael Ende’s “The Never Ending Story”.  So many hold this view – should I add to it?   Or reinforce the sap from inside the Tree, a parallel Reality?   We know so little, and the measuring sciences know even less:  just a few tones on the spectrum.

Be happy, do service, die consciously.

Wood bird Yantra

Wood bird Yantra

..

The Septus Sermones began when the dead came back from Jerusalem and haunted Jung’s house and upset his family.  The dead had gone to Jerusalem (in his inner journey) in 1914 to pray at the holy graves, and now they were back, and dissatisfied.  The holy graves of religion did not yield fruit.  In three winter evenings, the Seven Sermons were written.

In the Seven Sermons, Jung united the Christian God with Satan, gnostically:  Abraxas.  Abraxas seems to be the blind Will, as in Schopenhauer, which is both dark and light: the parodox of our growth.  Jung elaborated this theme in 1952, in Answer to Job.  He was already familiar with Gnostic literature, and circulated the black book script of the Sermons in a private publication for friends.  The name of the author, Basilides, “fell unexpectedly into my lap like a ripe fruit at a time of great stress, and has kindled a light of hope and comfort for me in my bad hours.”

This was at the beginning of 1916, and at the same time, Jung sketched the first mandala of his Systema Munditotius;  then painted it, later.   (January 16).

Mandalas are the pattern of time across the tree:  the seabed of the soul;  the instrument of wholeness and of healing;  the guardian.  Jung’s first pencil sketch is a classic interior four-gated Mandala: the key to gnosis. See my earlier post.

Continued in Aquariel: Mandala, Abraxas and Angel

..

..

..

**

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 also 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). Watch this space.

aquariel link

All art and creative writing in this blog is copyright © Janeadamsart 2012-2013. May not be used for commercial purposes. May be used and shared for non-commercial means with credit to Jane Adams and a link to the web address https://janeadamsart.wordpress.com/

Tales from the Watershed: “House Life”

Another old wives’ Watershed Tale – (See under Categories in sidebar)…

daffodils in Alex Pollock

But first …

Celebrating Easter, last week’s equinoctial Full Moon, Pesach?  My secret of the golden flower is buried somewhere in the grim weather here – a biting cold, sad wind, grey like a gravestone, the trees have nothing on, and are shivering, little birds are huddled under their wings.   Holy things are shrouded.

My ingredients are basic:  visualise fluffy yellow chicks and daffodils:  the full Moon radiance through my window.  In London, she blushed silvery pink.  Symbolically unleavened bread suggests its opposite:  the Presence, the yeast:  Ascension, timelessly.   The bread of life is pounded down to wait, to rise.  The spores are stars.   In Hebrew, Bethlehem was the House of Bread.

Both faiths – Hebraic and Christian – combine great loss, grief, rebirth and joy, within the elder pagan Spring Festival … the Passion of the Passover and of the Cross.  For every woman, childbirth is her Passion and Renewal.

The symbolism in the Hebrew Names for the Moon, including Levanah, is for me, breathtaking: see the above link.  But I might add a more Kabbalistic one later.

..

sunshine boy with house 1954

sunshine boy with house 1954

..

Part One:  “House Life” – Dreams No 275    November 1976

IN THE kitchens of this large house, we romp about and slide down chutes of dry mud.  Many people live here among great rooms and staircases, and the place is semi ruined.   In the spacious warmth of its untidy mysteries, great chunks of life are lived and games are played, as in the womb.

parties in gathertegen 1954

parties in gathertegen 1954

..

Once it was a house I wanted to rent.   It had then a large clean kitchen.   I rode my bicycle very fast up the road and back again to talk to a priest about it – to Father William, whom I asked to instruct me in the catholic Faith – a stout, red-cheeked Jesuit at Farm Street.   He is jovial, for he knows he’s on the Rolls Royce escalator to Heaven.   He strolled with one of his wealthy Mayfair parishioners to and fro along the road by the trees, in his smart black cassock and heavy gold watch.  He told me, alas he could not receive me into the church, unless I promised not to have sex with my unborn baby’s father occasionally – to whom of course, I was not married.   My logic to try and keep the relationship stable for my child to grow up in, went further than the Jesuits’, and I’m afraid I was angry, and very rude to him.   The J’s were touchingly kind, however.   They passed the hat around.  They gave me a pram, two dozen terry nappies, a pile of babygros and two big boxes of groceries from Sainsburys, so I didn’t have to spend a penny.   That is logic!

house lit up and the moon

house lit up and the moon 1954

..

Father William changed his job. He now belonged to a church next door to the house, which was both Catholic and Anglican, and more permissive.

And in other dreams, the house belonged to an elderly Jewish gynaecologist whom I have painted portraits for.   He is a wealthy gnome, performs abortions safely for very distressed ladies, and loves to keep a woman on his arm.  I had bad dreams about him being a terrible dentist – all my teeth shouted and hurt.   He is a bright magpie with his possessions; every treasure he owns must be of great market value, and he was sure that I would be, one day.   He showed me and some other visitors around his lusciously furnished domain.   The property was vast.   It covered the area of many streets.   It was a great field.   It was busily inhabited by anxiety, hope and drama.

It is easy to get lost in this house.   It has staircases, galleries and big musty rooms at different levels.   The opulence is tarnished, it developed a patina of neglect.   It is rather  warm because the windows are not often opened, even in summer.

chimneys and balloon 1954

chimneys and balloon 1954

..

Then it became another house.   I entered it several times through the garden gate.   In the sultry night both indoors and outdoors, the house stood four-square and Georgian in its garden or space.   It had large windows, some of which were lit up from within.   Like the kind of house and garden which children draw, it had a fence around it.   It was also very stately.   It was alive, big and heavy, and shadows lay with oppressive sensitivity in the worn and flaking stone.   On some nights that I went there, there would be only one light on upstairs.   My baby’s father lived there.   But the night that I remember, three or four windows were lit up, and I could hear the sombre sound of his typewriter upstairs.

fragmenting house & dreamer, 1987

fragmenting house & dreamer, 1987

I went up the path to the front door.   I opened this door, inserting my key into the delicate chambers of the lock and turning it with great deliberation.   I could feel the shape and teeth of the key probing inward.   It was a Yale, the same as the ones that I keep outside my Greencroft Gardens flat, in the garden wall, and which he asked me to move to a different hiding-place so he wouldn’t know where they were.

The keys to this house were given to me in trust.   How long would I be permitted this privilege?   As I went in I said to someone boldly,  “What a barn this place is.”   Some parts or sections of it were not fitted up and lined with a skin of plaster and damp-proofing as a house for people is.  They were like the farmyard, with walls of mud.   I knew my way.  I was fond of the different textures and moods of this house.   I never knew what to expect, because the walls within it were porous and unsealed.

A vague, oppressive fear also kept me on my toes.   Life in it could change as rapidly as the weather over the moor.  Bruised and broken soldiers in the walls, awake and bleed.  I reached the upstairs landing.   Here several doors opened off a wide balcony or gallery to other rooms.   I could still hear him writing.   I didn’t want him to stop.   I didn’t want to disturb him.   He did not live alone here.   Other people inhabited this house as well.   But he heard me arrive, heard my voice say “What a barn this place is”  and he appeared on the landing and might be very angry.

My memory of what next happens is vague.

We were in a room.   It was an upstairs dining room, bare, with a long table.   I lay on my back along a bench.   This house is inhabited by a group of people governed by a matriarch and a patriarch.   The old lady wears lace and musty-smelling clothes, the sort you might find in a Victorian fancy dress box in an attic,  and she is very powerful.   In long Saturnine waves, her dominion increases, because the patriarch, the old man, is now dying.   He has a long white beard.   He visibly fades and wanes.   Lv – my baby’s father –  tells me I must, for his sake, and with all my loyalty, concentrate every atom of my strength to resist the persuasive authority of the old matriarch and her mockery.   An intense battle of will is developing between him and Her.   I try to stay on his side.   It is very hard to fight off the dominance of the old lady, which is ascendent in myself; for the old man, moribund, is failing fast.  I need to be neutral, but do not dare.  If I am neutral, Lv will feel abandoned and betrayed, and abandon me:  so I play the old game.

What of the relationship, this three-fold tension between us  – the grandmother, Lv and myself?   She and he are absolutely opposing forces, yet they work together.   He is not shouting now.   Centred, quietly decisive, refined, he survives minute by minute, a cataclysm in his soul, which we struggle to protect with conscious spells.  He is himself, an unborn child.  I might lose the thread, any moment, and fail.  He needs me to fight, and not  succumb to the old woman, he tests my metal with his fate.   If I lose the fight, I forfeit my right to those keys.   Because of her very great age, She is stronger than he, but he holds one card :  to be beyond the law.  To answer to no one.

I have wondered who these unknown people are, in the magician’s house.   Are they anima and animus, or are they his parents?   His father is dying, is mortally ill in Hungary.   He hates  his mother,  he hates all mothers.  He hates Her.   The old people and the archetypal miasma that surrounds them, come from a place where I was not.   I don’t know whether or not I came clear from this battle, whether it happened in my soul, or in his house.   Some of the spaces in that house are not lined, and they are not contained, either.   In the extreme difficulty of combating the astral magick power of the old matriarch, I was what she was becoming.

 ..

16th C midwives & astrologers

16th Century:  midwives & astrologers – womens’ work and mens’ work, back to back:  practical feminine and romantic male – Our human nature both sides!   I’m glad I drew/copied this, rather than just paste the original engraving.  It gave me a direct insight. I am moved to draw something when I wish to embody it.

“De Conceptu et Generatione Hominus 1587” by Jacob Rueff (copy)

..

After this, I began to have dreams about a pregnant lady, as I always do when my bladder fills.   The growing womb presses on it.   I have to get up two and sometimes three times in the night.   She was overdue, poor thing.   I transferred to her my discomfort, so that it was she who ran around lonely in the night, though she always found helpers in streets and on country lanes near Taunton.  She seemed to have been pregnant for years.   This was all very well, but I was still looking for a lavatory.   I found at long last a row of them in one of the barn-like scruffy areas of the house – I was desperate for relief –  a great big open place of hard earth and timber props like the pigsties of derelict Rome.

a minim on the stave

Then I found myself in the kitchens – still wanting to go –  by the fuel burners and the chimneys.   I sat at the table and looked at a book.  It was a picture story, like a strip cartoon.  The rows of pictures came to life as I turned the pages, so it was no longer a book but happened to me, as botanically described:  the story of a penis.  He was shown in every state of arousal and repose.  He glistened red like a rare flower, he lived and grew within two loamy darknesses of many hues, in a garden.  I forgot I needed to pee.  “A rose in dark soil is penis love.  The penis is a seed.  Children grow up,” it said, under the pictures.   What a tender, strange thing!  I was moved almost to tears.  It first repelled, then I rode it.  I didn’t know anything at all about sex.  I had never heard of it.  This was a plant, a botanical process in the garden:  my education.  I was at primary school – a biology lesson.

lovers 2 j&d6

I recognised it is his.  I began to grow up.  In each successive picture, it curled and grew like a serpent.  I saw the whole genitalia, in a secret earth among the roots, like an illumined manuscript.  He was a sperm, with two “heads” like fishes, one at the growing tip, and one about half way down, like a branch.  The long sperm grew some more, and moved its glowing crimson flower in my garden soil.  As I learned, it penetrated, the bud grew up, right up my spine to the back of my throat to speak, I desired – pain, pleasure, bad girl, heart’s desire – what if I wet the bed?  I need to pee.  The occult work is such a LABOUR.  But I have no choice.  He carries me like a flood.  I bore down as it came, I didn’t care if I wet the bed, I pushed out the newborn child to him, the child he conceived from so deep inside.  Love.

IMG_0822 - Version 2

In the garden, conception, orgasm, childbirth, are One and the same.  Fused with heaven and all human history, the One indivisible moment outshone everything I knew.  It blew the fuse.  I was a child.

To receive is simultaneously to give.  It doesn’t matter, if the linear world pulls time apart into different times, and does not see the eros Rose, or if we see for the time being, only our fantasies, and suffer.  She washes out for ever deep down, those sad soapy sexual beliefs that rocked us to sleep.   A Rose is the risen:  the law is for giving.

..

I woke with it, but slept again and dreamed I bled.   The blood came in thick drops,  brown in colour.   Had it made me miscarry?  I looked and willed the blood not to be there.   But it was.   I made up my mind that this is a dream, and woke at once.

Finally I dreamed again about the house.   It was now enormous, of many many storeys.   I lived very high up in it, in Greencroft Gardens.   I went visiting down the road, and lent my spare keys (the ones I keep outside in the garden wall) to my best friend’s husband the Architect, who wanted to fetch something from my flat.   He came back.  The keys were sometimes of metal and sometimes of soft balsa wood (for building model boats), and so frail they might break in the lock.

balsa boat

Next, Lv visited me and I gave the keys to him.   I was glad he wouldn’t find the Architect inside.   In all innocence it is not right that these keys be passed around, for whatever reason.  He said the whole building gave him the creeps.   He was feeling rather jumpy.

A “Watershed” Dream – November 1976

..

..

Jung with pipe

“Jung looked up at me and said, “When a man’s anima meets a woman’s animus, it is bound to be A HELL OF A BUSINESS.”   (Joseph Campbell)

..

Part Two: Sacred Geometry

The following Easter-bunny reflection is based on Nassim Haramein’s seminar “Crossing the Event Horizon” (2005, published by The Resonance Project), which I just began to watch.

Kabbalah 1989 pentagramic pattern

A rose is a rose is the risen:  the law is for giving.  The “House Life” dream telescoped everything I would later study of Kabbalah and the Tree of Life.  It was stored in my cellular memory.

How borderline we are!  The language we use is a projectile interface.  It moves with light and shadow:  easily the Veil is imagined as evil:  lived as devil:  eve, the level responsible for it all.  Indeed she is:  She is the subconscious – God’s own womb, no less – the oven to bake the bread;  the house of life.

Archetypal forms of the soul, are sacred geometry. Sacred geometry opens the understanding, visually, with less need for explanation.  As we can browse beautiful tetrahedrons, blueprints and isotropic vector metrics online, to our hearts content, here are mostly, my old doodles of discovery and photos of nature – of water, wood and sky.

Nature - the bottomless

Nature – the bottomless

..

balloon

My “House Life” dream gestates  the point.   A single point – like a full stop –  is said to have zero dimension:  yet its geometry is of the sphere. It contracts or expands infinitely, according to magnification.   No balloon is inflated – the cosmic Doppler shift – without an emptying lung.

Who is the blower?   Who blows a black hole into a widening star?

Every law arises from its opposite.  We are not nouns but verbs – the transition.   Respiration in and out, is the law of Kalpa aeons:  cosmic speech and stars.

..

We are fluid points of transmission, the stars are not fixed.   A point, or dot contains in infinite series,  EVERYTHING.  A circle is a magnified point.   When we begin in the womb, we are nothing.  But as the interior process unfolds, we are everything!  Every thing is ensphered by its boundary which is No thing!  A boundary – a circle or sphere – contains the potential of Infinite interior division.  This is our union.  Each of us centres no thing:   the tiny mustard seed when opened, is empty.

“In a painting, as in life, keep the centre empty, for light to flow into it.”

..

When we are illumined, the dots join up.   The relevance of this to everyday life, nature and each other, is love.  I am empty for You.  I am built open.   It becomes intuitive:  the natural state.   As some of us begin to see things in this way, it tinctures homeopathically the fantastic off-centre slavery of today’s world.  Oasis develops, and is gradually contagious,  like evening stars one by one coming out:  shalom – peace.

Does peace then, emerge from its opposite? – the tension we see around?

Consciousness, and therefore All, begins from one place only:  HERE.
This point, which is All.

soul tetrahedrons

soul tetrahedrons

“The most stable structure in Nature is the tetrahedron.”  The nesting of infinitely decreasing Tetrahedrons inside themselves, is identical to the human mind’s manner of mental invention, pastime, panic and creation.  Absolutely ANYTHING when focused, creates its own expanding rationale – the menu on your screen.   So practice peace!

(This lifetime, I have a private leitmotif – it dropped into my mind when I was twenty.  I had a job at a second hand bookshop in Charing Cross Road, and scribbled my thoughts on brown paper bags:  “Turn it round.  To forgive, I must give way to the force.”   It felt very profound. There was a house in a storm. This Karmic theme which reaches a long way back, concludes or bears fruit, now.)

Justice is done, but not in a place where I can see it.  Trust is the unbroken love of life, the Underbeing:  sur-render.  Render unto heaven’s law and rejoice in the fresh clean air.  The Point is subtle, and fills everything.   Tifareth:  beauty.

parent tetrahedrons

..

I meant to write just one para about the Point circumscribed by nothing: the point being everything tucked up inside it, a sleeping child. In India it is called the bindhu, and on it the entire cosmic lattice depends. Today I ran aground in slack water, low tide, I needed to curl up and doze for the day – holy black bare Saturday:  tomorrow the little fluffy sunshine chicks come out.

bumble bee 1954

bumble bee 1954

So I awaken through a sleepy bumble bee – black and yellow stripes.   Easter Sunday is the last day of March.  The clocks change to summer time, with the Risen Bread.  That is a beautiful alignment!  even with wind-chill frost on the ground.

Remember the Sun’s golden semi-circle, the arc of the day:  the secret of the Golden Flower.

This year is a bardo of endings through beginnings.  My festival, my true worship, is the Unknown:  the no thing:  and like the mustard seed, fulfilled.

..

The full blown Eros Rose is also FOR … GIVE.  As you see in the photo above, of the rose in an egg, it spirals to petal from the centre sensory point.   Nothing matters or happens, but this.  The Chymical wedding is deeper than the human veil.  The human veils Shekhinah.

..

floweroflifeheader: Nassim Haramein: davidicke.com

floweroflifeheader: Nassim Haramein: davidicke.com

Sperm, fertilization, vesica pisces, gestation of the embryo, earth,
Sol, Star, sacred geometry cycle, you and me

..

GALLERY

..

Ready to post this, at last.  Happy Easter !  The Sun is having another go, this morning.

Daffodils in Douglas Hardingdaffodils in Douglas Harding

..

..

**

 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 also 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). Watch this space.

 

Aquariel Link

All art and creative writing in this blog is copyright © Janeadamsart 2012. May not be used for commercial purposes. May be used and shared for non-commercial means with credit to Jane Adams and a link to the web address https://janeadamsart.wordpress.com/