Watching Myself and Krishnamurti – Part One

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K at Brockwood gathering, 1974

K at Brockwood gathering, 1974

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This series of posts continues last year’s Krishnamurti and Coastal Path sequence –   which you will find under Catagories in the sidebar.   Krishnamurti is perhaps the deepest and most prevailing influence in my life.   I want to go on watching and walking with him in my blog.   Actually, these thoughts should be titled “Watching Myself and my Father and Krishnamurti.”  Peter went to K’s first UK gatherings in Wimbledon in the early 1960s, and returned to Somerset all fired up.  I was eleven or twelve at the time.  My teens were dominated by his teacher K, whose iconoclastic thoughts he practiced on his family at mealtimes.   Thus, my difficult windows to life were kept wide open – a love-hate paradox of awakening.   

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The Refugee with a Silver Spoon

I’ve been reading Lives in the Shadow with JK.  This book was lost for a year, then I found it in a cupboard.   K is my “spiritual thriller” again – next I can re-read the books by Lady Emily and Mary.   I wanted last year, to complete the Watching Krishnamurti series, with a post based around the shock of Lives when it plopped into our pond in 1991/2.  It was during the early days of Ramana Foundation UK.  I think the best raw material for this post, might be the letters my father and I wrote to each other about it.

It is a pity Radha Schloss doesn’t quote any of K’s letters to her mother directly – just relays what was in them.  Perhaps there was a legal knot there, which K or Rajagopal (her father) would have tied up tight in KWINC (Krishnamurti Writings Inc).

I just reached where the K/Rajagapol quarrel starts to be particularly distressing and breaks the heart.  How fragile and easily poisoned are peoples’ lives in the soul.   I feel scant sympathy for K during it.  He was being wagged by his Theosophical training, which he denied.   He talked all the time about Fear, and he couldn’t turn to face his own fear process, it was somehow barred to him.  He couldn’t face Amma Besant in his background.   He lied to Rosalind and to his loved ones.   The early training as the Vehicle, would fracture him into two or three continental particles without a communal nucleus to bond them.

K with his 'theosophy parents' Leadbeater and Mrs Besant

K with his ‘theosophy parents’ Leadbeater and Mrs Besant, late 1920s

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K experienced life so intensely, that the memory base for situations and countries he was not standing in right now, had no relevance.

It makes no difference to the wisdom he often spoke, and his tender observations on relationships which inspire me to this day.  I said to my father once that people want the icing on the cake without the currants, sugar and flour of the cake itself.   That is how people regard spirituality – anaemically.   Now I have the whole fruitcake!

Lives in the Shadow:  Lives in the Soul:  the bow-wave builds up an enormous contrary force, when there is denial somewhere.   I don’t mean just denial of the love affair with Rosalind Rajagopal, which in those days had to be handled discreetly.  I mean the denial and refusal – or inability – to face his friends and tell the truth about many things:  also the way he – or the compromised Avatar through him – manipulated the sugar icing.

It is the old story of power and everyone deferring to him, believing him to be beyond reproach.   What is the end result?   Henry VIII, Head of the Church, in some form or other!

K was a lonely man when he died.   He thought no one had understood what he said.  He cut himself off from hearing the truth with souls who were close to him.   It was his destiny, Maitreya trained; his hatred for Theosophy was understandable.   It made him unable to reconcile his revolutionary teaching with what the Vedas say eternally.   It cut the roots.   Wherever he went, he was a refugee with a silver spoon.  The silver spoon is the primordial and ageless wisdom.   He could not and would not cast it away.   He expected everyone else to cast it away, and to follow him.

Here follows my father’s poem –  Follow My Leader!

In childhood’s time
we form in a line
and love to play follow my leader. 

As youth comes on 
we sing the same song
and still play follow my leader. 

Sisters and brothers, 
fathers and mothers, 
all love to follow a leader.  

This fact in our life 
leads often to strife, 
for a wise man is seldom a leader 

and he who follows
knows only the shallows; 
his is the way of a pleader.

They only are strong 
who break from the throng
and make life itself their teacher. 

So if you would 
be a real man alive, 
please listen to this, gentle reader: 

Stand on your own, 
face life alone 
and never play follow my leader.

Peter  Adams
North Devon, 1980s

There is “an independent science“.

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Peter & Jane  copy

And here, in 1992, is some correspondence.  Peter wrote to me:

“Have finished the Radha Schloss book.  It was quite a shock, but good to have read it.  Shock not in K’s affairs with women (I had guessed this, and was aware on an interchange between him and a lovely Indian girl sitting by me once in Wimbledon), but in his deceptions and fears and anger, and in that ridiculous and protracted and unseemly court case.  But if you look at some of the early and late photographs, you can see it all there – an arrogance in youth, and an old woman’s petulance in age.  So it was his Karma you might say, which he did not master. 

“I think Radha did not quite understand him about memory.  You cannot blot memory out, but by disregarding and not using it, it rusts, becomes dulled.  When K said he had no memory, he meant he did not pull it out, look at it, use it.  It was there, but quiet, and so in time very faded.  What he meant was that memories of childhood had for him no significance.  Sensitively written on the whole, and certainly a very just squaring of a very fancy picture.

“It is much to her credit that Radha made nothing of the late Mary Zimbalist affaire, of which she could have been very bitter, as Mrs Z took over her old home and re-vamped it in very expensive style.  Radha only refers to her as Mrs ——- which I thought was admirably restrained.   Love to you and all – Peter.”

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I wrote back:

“… re Radha Schloss and Krishnaji’s memory!  – Yes, he didn’t pull it out & look at it, also I feel that the dimension of Krishnaji as a whole outside Time, put forth pseudopodia or parts of K-self into time, and Time is a fragmenting situation.

“Consciousness (my view) has great difficulty in remaining integrated in the context of Time which is generated by the world (and which is so easily upset.)  Consciousness forgets parts of itself, as if those parts don’t exist, because Krishnaji-Consciousness cannot be wholly present in the temporal form.  So not only did he not use memory, but also symptomatically he appeared to deceive people, because he couldn’t remember or wasn’t interested in who they or others individually were, or had done on this or that side of the ocean.  The In-tense is HERE.  So this caused confusion and conflict around him.  Though – interestingly – he maintained a continuum of constant letter writing between different regions of the world, with the Lutyens, with Rosalind, with various others.  It reminds me a little of Jim Ede’s mania of correspondence – Jim and K born in the same year more or less, there were 4 planets in Gemini including Pluto – an awful lot of letter writing in the sign of the Twins! 

“The Consciousness generates local conflict as a sort of breaking of the water or molecular lattice of life.  K – most remarkably I feel – undertook to be in a relationship with conflict, and stayed in the thick of it all:  the dense Western mindset.  He didn’t retire off to a cave and loincloth, as he many times wished to do (romantically perhaps).

K dissolves the Order of the Star, late 1920s

K dissolves the Order of the Star, late 1920s – “I maintain that truth is a pathless land...”

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“The court case K v Rajagopal, agonizing and futile as it is to read about (it made me cry) is an instance of the discomfort of life and consciousness when mixed.  The pain pangs in the very long term, bring forth Fruit.  K had an enormous interest in conflict.  He stayed with and in it, as with a wild animal, looking into it.  I feel that everyone involved in the case was stretched to their own capacity.  I found it painful but very salutary to read this book.  It gave an added depth to my K picture.  It showed me how saintliness is forcibly projected onto people like K – and it limits them grotesquely.

“But the measure of greatness or truth is not success or being ‘totally pure’, for these are value judgments.  There is the whole impact of K –  his thereness – which made me feel much compassion with him, and with everyone who knew him – including myself by proxy, because I feel what happened in every life which contacted his.

“There is some strange, long-term alchemy in K being dropped into the waters of the dark century – this era.  How could he not generate upheaval and white waters?  What do people want, the icing on the cake?  In myself, it was (with difficulty) to hold simultaneously the treasure-distillation of K, with the monstrous pain of that litigation … as TRUE.

“So I’m very glad to have shared this book with you, because it seems many people flung up their hands in dismay – just as they did when he cut the theosophical umbilicus.   They wanted to see only one side of the cube – But there are 6 sides …

“Have you noticed that K’s head shape bears a remarkable resemblance (type) to representations of Siva and Buddha?   Much love from Jane.”

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K at Rishi Valley

K at Rishi Valley

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Peter replied,

“Interesting is what you say about only parts of a total consciousness precipitating in time, and therefore never a whole functioning.  This would suggest considerable discomfort and tension, even conflict.  I have not your fascination for reincarnation or other lives of being conscious, being too pre-occupied with somehow trying to live accurately now, and to come to grips with the facts;  but I would love to know.  

“Perhaps I left an important part up there or down there, and am finding it difficult to manage.  As I said to Mary when she mentioned I seemed to be making some progress –  I really need to, because I started much further down the ladder than most!

“Yes – you could say Peter is an alchemist, in that realising that everything is the expression in different ways of the same energy, he is basically given to trying to transmute base energy into higher energy.  That is the human task.

“I like very much what you write about K.  Very perceptive, although I never gathered from anything that he ever wanted to retire to a cave and a loin-cloth.  Quite the reverse.  His dialogues with people were meat and drink to him, and speaking/teaching was life or living for him. 

“Yes he was interested in conflict as a human problem, but I am still astonished how easily he seems to have become involved himself.  I do not follow this.  Was it an attempt at a crucifixion?  an experiment?  a mistake?  Or did it just happen?  He does seem to have ridden on a very wobbly bicycle a lot of the time.

“I really like your challenge – ‘what do people want, the icing on the cake?’ – that is good.  Few people can stomach real cake, they have not the digestion. 

“Yes – there is a resemblance to the portrayals of Gautama.  Large, finely shaped ears with prominent lobes are one of the body marks of a Buddha, as are the finely chiselled features and the rounded limbs – the rather effeminate body.  I was interested in the photograph in the Radha book of K at the sea holding a sunhat behind his head – breasted and rounded, he might almost be woman.  And like most men with much woman in them, he craved the company of women – not just physically, but because woman is profounder, more direct, more in contact with fundamental energy. 

“Yes – I am pleased to have read the book, which has given me a plateful of cake with the icing I have always carried about.   

“By the way, somewhere I think in one of the Commentaries, he just mentions that he is walking on that path that was once trodden by ‘the greatest teacher of them all.’  I believe K was much influenced in his early studies, by the teaching of the Buddha – his teaching fundamentally is Zen Buddhism, and I have wondered (I am sure he wondered) if he was an incarnation of the Buddha.  This frequent talk of his being the vehicle for a tremendous energy sent down to earth, puts him in line with the Gurdjieff teaching of Higher Beings trying to direct and influence humans, which all links up with the Catholic speaking of angels and spirits.   In fact, quite a lot of my discarded – but still there – early (Catholic) teaching I find turns up in one form or another in quite astonishing places.  Wouldn’t K be surprised!

“The last book of dialogues I bought, and am just launched into, is terrific stuff.  A great deal of very direct, punchy talk, right from the centre.  It is as good as anything.  You must read it. 

“Have just done 3 days sitting quite successfully (vipassana).  Some interesting things came up.  They don’t stay with me, but the affect does.  It is significant.  The legs protested and were often an agony.  The body is a mixed blessing, but is here to be loved.  I do not find we are anything without it.”

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Peter at Ventonwyn - 1956

Peter at Ventonwyn – 1956

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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/

Tales of the Watershed: A House of Hundreds of Rooms

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wave break

The Watershed stories were written down long ago, around events which are more or less done and dusted.  But as they were dreamed, they have a tendency to reverberate, and they come to me as teachers, past, present and even future.   This tale underlies my emotional landscape of the last week or two – somewhat bumpy, but beginning to settle; to acknowledge, and let go.  It is another tale of incarnation or birth, the parental mystery from womb through tomb.   Mastery of any art is again, a spell-thing.

sphere

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“The Witch” – Dreams,  No.270   October 1976

I SAW a great roll of sea race into the bay and up the beach.   My father dived into this witchy wave as it turned to race back out to sea, and I saw him rapidly carried by the current very far out from the rocky beach.   He swam and shouted in the distance, his head could hardly be seen.   “He’s too far out!”  my mother shouted  “The current’s got him, he can’t swim back to us against it.  Oh!  He can’t get back.   We’ve lost him …”

But I began to get ready.   For yes, I am going after him,  to follow him out into the wondrous wild grandeur of that surging grey sea.   It pulls every fibre of my body, I must be there in that music,  else my life ends in envy.   There is no more after that in my memory.   There is only the tug of the boundless white element, the wave.

But there is also a huge house in which I lived for a time.

In this house were hundreds of rooms.   Many of them were bedrooms, as in a hotel,  but they also were clustered to form large apartments loosely interconnected by corridors, kitchens and utilities.   The living spaces communicated with each other like a grapevine.   The bedrooms were large, the beds in them wide and neatly made:  sometimes there were two or more beds to a room.   They were extraordinarily inviting.

Cupid & Psyche 1973

Cupid & Psyche 1973

They tugged my body.   I wanted to sleep in them all.   I couldn’t make up my mind.   I felt also intensely sad and deprived, because none of the rooms, beds or clusters belonged to me.   Others lived in and occupied them.   The rooms were redolent of the warmth, the pain, the sensual expectancy of those lives, sweet poignancy, my heart filled with an anguished longing and envy.   I wanted to be with a man on those beds, to have sex, to have affairs.   Dark, close, divinely rotting is the fruit, so thick the air, and intense the waiting.   How to possess any of those rooms?   They were allotted to people there, haphazardly by the management;   to my sister and to my brother;   both of them were in this place.   They knew their place in the music of adult providence.

In the kitchen a stout jovial woman cooked meals and looked after people.  Is she the owner,  or the mother of them all?

Cooking - 1987

Cooking – 1987

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Within the walls were a musty honeycomb of dark staircases and passages.   I went quite often to the kitchen to talk to or watch Queen Bee the jovial woman, to blur for a few minutes the sharp edge of my anxious loneliness.   Her kitchen had, I think, no windows.   She was always busy there, and she was not a tidy cook.   The electric light was strong, and her stoves, airing cupboards and hand-me-down furniture were massive.   Dishes piled up briskly by the sink and vegetables upon the table and newspapers on the chairs.   She kept her recipes on scraps of paper within the leaves of the great philosophers, and lost them from year to year.   She strode on large legs, voluminously aproned, and tied her dark hair in a knot.   The walls of her kitchen were painted an old fashioned yellow, and the wainscoting was chocolate brown.

The Tale of Samuel Whiskers by Beatrix Potter

The Tale of Samuel Whiskers by Beatrix Potter

In the walls were yielding places.  By the broom-cupboard, a small area yielded to deep channels of shadow in the “fruit” beyond the wall;   yielded to an ancient breath of corruption.

This very small aperture in the kitchen wall frightened me.   It was stifling and rather hot.  I might get stuck.  A thick flap or curtain covers it almost to the bottom.   It is uncomfortable to submit my body to the slanted twisting plane of this confined space.   There might be claustrophobia, cannot breathe.   But I crawled through it into a passage that led upwards for some way, like the chimneys in Tom Kitten,  and then down a steep flight of stairs, narrow and murky, to the door of a closed room which was a witch’s  hole.

dragon eats tail

A cloth hung over this door.   I removed the hanging cloth and pushed up the screen to open it.   An appalling square of darkness rushed out at me, paralyzing my memory.   I took the body of the witch in my arms – it was hanging on the door mummified, long preserved and undisturbed, wearing a petrified cap encrusted with jewels – switched on the electric light into the room and walked across it.   I think I laid the witch down on a box bed at the other side and in the corner.   The room was empty, fusty and full of dust.   It was redolent of petrified spells and latent powers.

scorpio force spiral

spell-thing

scorpio glyph

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Having opened the door,  I have returned many times to that room.

Many times I crawled through that disagreeably small aperture into the passage and the murky flight of stairs.   The woman in the kitchen did not prevent me from doing so.   But in her genial way she was anxious.   She warned me to be careful, making almost a joke of it.   I was a little afraid she might become severe and forbid my access.

During my visits to the room, its atmosphere became tangibly charged with ions (condensed from aeons)  of purpose.   Awakened feelings and influence throbbed up from the bare worm-eaten floorboards,  making me wish to do strange things with my body, to burst out of it, to abuse, to copulate with the air,  to leap around, to fly upside down.   These things however I did not do.   For I must not dissipate the serpent force.   I am playing in this place with an ancient danger.   I am very frightened, but I do not think my fear will overcome me.

 floor-boards

What did I set out to do?   I cannot quite see.   To the limits that I’m allowed, I am an observer of the ancient danger.   I am its explorer.   I renew the life-force of the witch and the spell that she herself placed under seals in time gone past.

Water flows from rock, from life and thought, from fossilized bone.   The seals were cryptic diagrams and stars to trace with my body in the dust of the floor.   And I am their release.   They in that room had no speech, no form.   They were perhaps evil.   Their current was an increase of power from fancy to substance, getting hotter.

I am the serpent that awakens in the shivering land.   I am uncoiling from sleep, and the room is a solid flying creature like a rainbow, earth broke open.   Night is devouring light.   Every tree under the moon is a vipers nest of lights whip-lashing earth.   They penetrate my body like severed conduits of current.   They spark, they writhe.   I can’t get back, I’ve lost them, I the spectrum of all precious stones, I a prism for pure light into the rainbow, into coloured fog, night to devour the light,  go back, go back, pour the oscillating pulse back into the trembling equipoise of stillness, yes, stop it moving, stop the circling thought.   Pour its iridescence back into the floor-boards, mischief is the excess of things.

Baphomet sigils

Again and again I would leave the room and creep through the little opening back into the kitchen where the jovial woman reigns among her kitchen stove, sink, steamer-pots, pans, peas and parsnips which she baked in sesame oil.   She – her sympathy with me is cooling.   I am beginning to lose her alliance, she turns her back on me, she looks perturbed, she’s bending over the oven, its heat is all around.   “Wait, can’t you,” she snaps   “It isn’t ready.   In this house are hundreds of lives to feed …”

And then I must return again to do whatever it was that I was doing.   “What are you stirring up?”   she asked suddenly.

Shepherdess, 1988

Shepherdess, 1988

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A time came for final retreat from the room where my body lay.   It was full now of elementars, and of vaccuums of a viscous grey entity whose force was stronger than I,  and frightened me very much.   Last time I went in, a shrill twittering and shrieking greeted me.   I saw a live horned bat hovering outside one of the windows.   There are windows to this room, windows to some further degree of night that cannot be uttered.   This bat was hungry. It was attracted by the light.  It would come in and sweep its dubious soul through every dark dream in the house at the other side of the aperture.   But into light the bat flies blind.   The light makes it stupid, it cannot see.   So I left the Light on in that room.   I closed the door and pulled the green cloth screen down over it and escaped back to the kitchen and to the company of the genial Queen Bee.

Lovers & their History

Lovers & their History

“There’s a bat there now,”  I told her, trying not to shake too much.   “I left the light on in the room.   For a creature of darkness, light is a Black Hole.   It extinguishes the night vision.   It makes the creature’s sight collapse in on itself, it is gravity sort of, in reverse, so it’s alright isn’t it? to stop the bat at the window?   Otherwise it’d just go on and on, find all the dark that is in the world …”

But the jovial woman was very alarmed.   “On no account must you go back there!” said she.   “Yes, it is well that you left light there.   That bat is eternity.   Eternity is looking in.   Eternity is wanting to belong in,  to own just one little room of time.   Eternity is you and your curiosity, you foolish child.”

“But,”  I said  “I made a barrier of light,  the illumined room of the witch.   It bars the bat from flitting through the room and the door and –  and into where people are living in all the bedrooms –  oh –  what if I left a crack,  an opening?    I’ve got to – go back,  haven’t I?”

The woman said,  “Yes,  you’d better.   To be sure within yourself.”

Crevassemoth Ally - Sketch

Crevassemoth Ally – Sketch

I went back.   One more time,  to make sure all is safe and secure.   I had forgotten one thing in my haste,  which is to cover the door and the green screen with the cloth.

So I crawl again through the stuffy aperture in the skirting-board, up through the passage of night and down the murky stairs.   The staircase now is full of horror.   Hesitating at the top, I steeled myself.   Now I am plunging into an abyss, entangled in a grotesque cobweb from the bannisters, ropes that grope to strangle me.   At the bottom I pull the cloth covering right down over the door, over the green screen that covers the door, tucking the edges of the cloth closely in all round to leave no gaps.   The screen yields to my touch as if it hangs free and is alive.   I pull it down closer to the ground, hoping there is no way through for the bat.   The Light will stay on always, as a lure to the whole force of the bat.   It will curve its particles of will inward, how can it go anywhere else?

Then I escaped up the stairs.   I looked back.   The cloth hung still, quiet and pale over the door, with a great rose coloured cross designed upon it, which reached to its height and breadth.  And when I looked back again, there hung upon the rose-coloured cross the witch, who has apparently been put back in place.   But this time no cap hides her head.   It is a human head, sorrowful with drooping eyelids and long brown hair combed as if for some ceremony.

rose cross seeds of light

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In this house are hundreds of rooms.

They are the honeycomb of my sad soul,  soul of the world,  for “being” is transcendent,  measureless through all the rooms.   “Being” is you and I and the fields that we know and the seas that we don’t.   In infinite depth or series of transparency, I look out through every  window of history.   There is no floor.   The gleam of light that is realised in consciousness within, through  and beyond this house of hundreds of rooms deeper than the Universe, is a key to the world.

103 World compass

The passage back to the key-hole – aperture to the kitchen of the jovial woman who reigns in and feeds a house of hundreds of rooms – intersected another passage on the way.   I discovered this passage opening out to the left.   It is a big and open flight of stairs descending towards the basement, to the nether regions of the house.   I can hear people, the voices of men down there.   Perhaps they are working,  or repairing something.   I seem to hear the percussive ring of tools.

I have been down that great staircase a little way, but not to the bottom.

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ramana & annamalai brick laying

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Here is a song of the Earth and Sea.  I painted it many years later, while listening to Cesar Franck’s joyous Symphonic Variations.  “Crevassemoth” is a meeting of the elements in my soul, where waves break into Earth, atoms interact and shadow spills Light.   It is an alchemical transmutation.  The sun glints my golden path in the waters’ embrace.

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Crevassemoth Alchemy 1987

Crevassemoth Alchemy 1987

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More dream stories in this series, are in the Watershed Tales Category on the sidebar.

WordPress make it great fun to insert a mosaic gallery and wonder what order they will show up in.  This post was intended to be “pictorially restrained” with a small gallery at the end – even so, a surprising number of ideas popped up from my files;  I discarded about half of them, so this is what is left.

GALLERY

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/

Tales from The Watershed – “The Violet Crystal”

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theatre at Tintagel

Theatre in Tintagel, Cornwall. 

This is an experiment.  I have a collection of “Tales from the Watershed”.  These are short stories written down from my dreams recorded in 1974-1977.  I call that period The Watershed, because from its stress and upheaval, as from a mountain range, my life flows a mandala, past, future and all around.  It formed the bedrock geology of my (later) Kabbalist and Hermetic “re-discoveries”.   I shall include the tales in this blog, from time to time, as they were my raw material.  There are already a few, embedded in their respective posts – you can find them in the “Search” box or in the Watershed Tales category.  The stories so far, are “Foal”, “Sunflowers”, “The Man in the Ravine”, a mention of “Jupiter & Rosa”, and episodes from “The Rain Check Dream”.

The Violet Crystal is a bardo of interconnective relationship essences: a state of becoming. Years later, I did a sequence of paintings inspired by it.  (See also, Gallery below this post.)

Einstein and a centre pillar

Einstein and a centre pillar

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“The Violet Crystal” – (Dreams No.227,  21 January 1976)

I WAS NOT sure whether this was really my home or not.   It seems to be my flat, but I may have inherited it,  or be there on sufferance.   I spent the night there.   It’s a long place divided into two sections.  One area which I do not remember well, is rather cramped and crowded;  the other part is a big, very spacious room with a double bed in it,  and not much else.   Somewhere in the centre of this room was a pillar from floor to ceiling, and resting against this slender column was a big crystal or rock of uncut precious stone.   The crystal glinted peculiar hues of violet, pink and purple light in relation to some other similar object nearer the ceiling, and according to the way these two harmonised in their relationship.   It was very unfamiliar, as if not of this world, and of a shape that I found sometimes displeasing and clumsy, it was a rock,  it was very strange;  and I grew to value it very much.

It became, in relation to the few other things in the room, extraordinarily beautiful.   This was to do with the way that I saw it, or juxtaposed its relation to other things by moving it or them a little, so that they caught the light in a particular and deeply satisfying way,  like a marriage.

The formation,  though not large,  dominated the place with its atmosphere and the violet light within it.

The place did not “belong” to me, even though I lived here, and was visited here.   It was a treasure entrusted to my keeping which awed me a little.   There was nothing recognisable of mine here, no pictures.   It was almost bare.   It had so powerful an essence or personality of its own, that it needed no decoration.   It seemed to contain almost too much already.   At the end I touched and arranged two windowless curtains at the far wall of the room, so that their pink-violet colour lent its own intensity, moved by an unseen wind;  there may have been windows behind them.

A man stayed the night a day or two ago.   He was a stranger, he was not Louis.   I remember nothing of him, except that I wrote down his name twice in thick black writing in my address book and I wondered why; and crossed out the second entry of his name and address.

houses by the sea

Houses of soul along the sea

The other visitor was my sister.   I think she also stayed a night here.   She wrote in a diary, just like me, and she kept leaving it open so that furtively I could look at the page and what she had written.   In it she revealed herself.   I thought she wouldn’t like me to see it and read it, yet I was determined to do so if possible – and she kept leaving it around lying open, and I saw scraps of it,  tried to read it.   There was anger in it.   She seemed to be having problems with her husband.   She was angry with him, they were sexually incompatible and this was a source of terrible shame, like mine with Louis.   I longed to read more of her inner wealth and honesty, but I couldn’t trust that she would allow me to;   I did it behind her back.   She wrote also about the riding stable where I used to work when I was twelve years old, about the field with its trees,  the mud and the horses;   this place was essential to her revelations.

Amethyst 1a

She lives just up the road along a terrace of seaside houses; I know that she lives there in her actual Bishops Lydeard house in Somerset, and when I went to visit her there a little later,  I found that she had pasted her open diary to the window of her kitchen so it could be read by all who passed by.   I began to realise that she actually wanted it to be read, she wanted me to read it, like a call for help.   But I never had time to read more than a snatch of it at a time, for I was always waking up, or worried in my travels up and down this street, lest I oversleep, forget to write down the dream, not get up when I should,  or get to where I ought to be;   and all my teeth were hurting again;  something seemed to be happening to them, just as in my dream last week.   I tested and felt them with my finger, they were all in place, and not clenched or jumbled up, yet the muscles along my gums and the roof of my mouth were tense with some memory,  with pain.   The pain was not as bad as last time,  but I couldn’t work it out.   I wondered at its source.   Was it self pity?   a calling for attention?    identity problem?   All my teeth were in their usual places, though exhausted and sore.

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Tides

At the school playground by the sea, a large fat boy or man put on huge inflated white shoes which should enable him to walk on the water like Jesus.   He started off, walking backwards over the incoming waves.   His movement was clumsy and he soon fell.   I thought he was rather stupid to do it this way.   The shoes were so ungainly, and why go backwards with the waves pushing him forwards?  What could he be getting out of it?   It was as if he should be water-ski-ing but had opted for this laborious and unrewarding sport instead.   He got into the sea confidently, walked backwards with difficulty, fell in and tried again and again.

It looks easy from outside, for Louis to write short stories,  to dip into source,  to allow the sea to flow into him by travelling back into it,  his hinterland …   but then we are not doing it.  He is.   And the incoming waves just overturn his progress, and process as they must, to break upon the shore, the seaside town, the world.   Why is he facing the wrong way?

I found a better way for myself, while playing with some people over the massed bulges of inflated rubber that the sea had now become.   I jumped and played on these,  and learnt to keep my balance.   I too wore special shoes, but they were of a better design.   It was good to be in company –  I do not know who they were – doing our tumbling acts together,  and attaining a certain skill and dexterity.

(Postscript … the way treads the tides of panic, receiving them in full so that clarity dispels them.    Now I see the waves on the shoreward sea, and how it felt in my violet crystal room;  I was so lonely here.  Out there on the sea and beach, the world was playing.  I want to go out there and try to join in and do it too.)

All of this took place in a greyness like twilight, early morning,  the still heat of summer midnight or the greyness of the mind.   The air was slightly oppressive.

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the sea subconscious 2

Back in the flat with the violet crystal, I discovered something else.   I could hear the sound of the sea,  and I went to an unexplored side of the room and found a window;  and when I opened this window I found it looked out onto a wall and bushes leading away from me at a right-angle, so that I could probably climb out and along it.   And here indeed was the sea!   deep and grey in thick mist.   The waves were rushing along the very walls of the house.  The sea was just outside my window, and yet there was this wall also, like an L- extension of the roof, which I could at a pinch climb along, so as to be nearer still.

The sea seemed to be thus enclosed in a big back yard;  yet it was not enclosed.  It heaved with all its power and cold grey quiescent menace, and I could not see from where it came.   The waves appeared out of a dense mist.    It was fairly calm now, but there would be storms.   And already I wanted to climb out along the wall to sit in a place where the waves would be coming right at me;  for perhaps the wall marked the shoreline, a beach of rocks.   I looked forward to the storms, to the thunder of it.    And at some point, Peter my father joined me and stood in the window also with me, and shared my delight in this discovery.   I was  pleased and so satisfied that he should have cause to envy me, a room with such a view!

Amethyst 3

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I knew by now that the subconscious sea washed the whole terrace on which I lived, right beyond me and up the road, to my sister’s house and further,  though she would be higher above it than I,  being on a hill.   We lived on the same seaside terrace then, and the incongruity of this L-shape wall from my house, with its bushes, was an extension of reality which I didn’t even try to explain.

There was a whole condition of things which irritated her.   It was an opening, a window into her, a rare offering of herself to me.   She wrote clear, large and black in her big diary, that her husband didn’t satisfy her, that she was angry with him,  he came too soon;  and about the field with mud and horses.   I didn’t feel particularly sad for her.   We are sisters.   I was glad that she too, doesn’t find life to be all roses.

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The beyond within appearance

The beyond within appearance

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GALLERY  – paintings 1988.  With photos of the sea by Marisa – Cornwall 2011

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