comes just before revelation.
When everything is lost,
and all seems darkness,
then comes the new life
and all that is needed.
I couldn't sleep last night. I've got a lot on my mind these days. My very soul aches.
So I picked up the Campell book and read the following:
Yoga consists in the intentional stopping of the spontaneous activity of the mind-stuff
Ah! thought I, that's what I do to sleep every night! (I used to suffer from insomnia.)
Of course, having thought that, I couldn't sleep at all. So I read on.
Only birth can conquer death-- the birth, not of the old thing again, but of something new. Within the soul, within the body social, there must be-- if we are to experience long survival-- a continuous "recurrence of birth" (palingenesia) to nullify the unremitting recurrences of death. For it is by means of our own victories, if we are not regenerated, that the work of Nemesis is wrought: doom breaks from the shell of our very virtue. Peace is then a snare; war is a snare, change is a snare, permanence is a snare. When our day is come for the victory of death, death closes in; there is nothing we can do except be crucified and resurrected; dismembered totally, and then reborn.
When I did finally sleep, I was consumed by nightmares.
An enormous satyr, but seen as a singularity: from head to torso, he appeared as a man, but the rest of him was composed of one single equine leg ending in an enormous hoof. I would have thought I'd have imagined it as cloven, but it had a horseshoe.
It trampled me. Completely destroyed my corporeal being.
The satyr then rebuilt me from the pieces that remained.
That dream was vivid, and remains clear in my mind, even now.
Nothing retains its own form; but Nature, the greater renewer, ever makes up forms from forms. Be sure there's nothing perishes in the whole universe; it does but vary and renew its form.
The second dream was longer, and more disturbing. However, I can't say any of it is true in the sense that original images are unclear, and my brain has already sorted through it and tried to make sense of it. Pity.
The demons (oh, but were they really demons?) were everywhere, destroying everything in their path. Me, in particular. And those I love. Death at their hands was brutal, violent and not immediate enough for comfort. I tried everything to stop dying-- hiding, fighting, running; protecting myself, protecting my friends-- but they always prevailed. Again. And again. And again.
They say you can't die in your dreams. I beg to differ.
I finally (and this is where my memory's footing becomes uncertain) realized that avoidance was not the answer. I calmly walked to my death with a smile on my face. I'm not sure if this led to their not destroying me, or if the result were a perceptual paradigm shift in that the eternal me lived on beyond the physical me, or whether the demons, like the satyr, recreated me anew... but I continued on and the dream finally ended.
does not point to a fiery Armageddon
but to our ignorance and complacency
coming to an end
I'm usually a lucid dreamer. I rarely have nightmares. This dream was terrible in the old-fashioned sense of the word, in that it was terrifying. I was also very much not in control of the events that transpired.
I'm exhausted from fighting my demons all night in my dreams. And I'm beginning to realize that I'm tired from fighting all day with myself.
The dream is a little hidden door in the innermost and most secret recesses of the soul, opening into that cosmic night which was psyche long before there was any ego consciousness, and which will remain psyche no matter how far our ego-consciousness extends. For all ego-consciousness is isolated; because it separates and discriminates, it knows only particulars, and it sees only those that can be related to the ego. Its essence is limitation, even though it reach to the farthest nebulae among the stars. All consciousness separates; but in dreams we put on the likeness of that more universal, truer, more eternal man dwelling in the darkness of primordial night. There he is still the whole, and the whole is in him, indistinguishable from nature and bare of all egohood.
It is from these all-uniting depths that the dream arises, be it ever so childish, grotesque or immoral. So flowerlike is it in its candor and veracity that it makes us blush for the deceitfulness of our lives.
It's going to be a long day. A very long day.
Then we come to the highest order of love, the fifth, and that is uncontrollable, illicit love, where there is nothing but love and you are totally ripped out of yourself in relation to God. You are le feu, the crazed one who's gone mad with love.
My heart aches, my mind aches, and there are tears coming even now. I have to conduct a recorded seminar this afternoon, and rehearse this evening. I don't see any way that I can handle going to karaoke, but I did say I'd go. And eventually, I need to get my shit together to head to Florida this weekend.
Which causes more ache.
Love is not only a life experience
but also a mystical experience
In courtly love, the pain of love,
the impossibility of fulfillment
was considered the essence of life.
If I didn't have so many responsibilities, I'd run away today. Run away for a week or three. Lose myself in the immensity of the ocean. Wonder at those things far larger and more eternal than my small self. Breathe again.
Why must some people treat love as a complex abstract, a goal they'll never reach, a knot they'll never successfully untie? What makes them want but not do, dream but never wake, believe but never realize?
It's right in front of you, my love. Right. In. Front. Of. YOU.
Good God Almighty, I need a rest.