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Chapter Fourteen
Through the previous Procedures I extracted and purified the essence of the Prima Materia. In form, this is still vague and amorphous. I now need to dry it, bake it, utterly dry it out into a more solid form. Only in this way will it survive and serve.
I use various intensities of heat to drive out the remaining solvents, both the remaining fluidity in the physical and the soggy emotions. This defines and stabilizes the resulting shape. This Process changes the Materia's physical nature: thickening if it is a liquid, baking it if a paste. If the heat is intense enough, I can turn solids to powder.
The implements I use for this are the furnace, various fuels, bellows and dampers. Abstract critical thinking can create a drying out from over-reactions and feelings and reveal the de- emotionalized essentials. My driving off the last of the solvents used in the original Prima Materia broth brings each individual substance and aspect to develop its own proper thirst for resolution later.
My mystical use of heat is called:
CALCINATION or BAKING
I walk across the field and down the crumbly steps. What am I to do?, I wonder as I walk towards the bench. Trying, and at times succeeding, to take the place as it is, at its face value. There are moments when I have no past, that I am in some way New Born. But my confusion about the real nature of the Valley itself is constantly jostled. I sit on the bench, lean back against the Valley's wall, and close my eyes. These are the teachers here to help me, the embodiments of acceptance and perseverance Plang claims. I laugh. If anything, Turo and Fars increase my doubts about the real meaning of such capacities. And, if the old man really can offer me a key to changing my life, why would he trouble to lie about such silly things as the quantity of crops they grow. I was bound to find out, sooner or later, about people going outside for food as well as water and wood. Or is he trying to protect me, thinking it would be easier for me to deal with the Valley as a separate and unique reality. I do want what the Dreamer promises. More than anything. But I can't make any sense of his teachings. They just don't digest. Like cold, greasy lumps in my mind. As bad as the way this food sits in my gut. I crave just one certainty to hold on to. Beyond this turmoil. It's there, I'm certain, beyond my continual reactions of fear and defensiveness. I struggle to shake loose from the delusions, determined to realize the truth of my situation. Now! I plant my feet on the ground and press my back to the wall. I look around, straining to pierce through the slightest hint of unreality. The Valley's enclosing wall and the Serpent inscribed there; the Tree looming over me, leaves rippling in some unfelt breeze; Turo herding the whining ubus, petting and prodding; Fars and the others wearily working in the fields; women gathering dry ubu droppings, humorously chattering or humming to themselves; the sound of the Dreamer chanting in his hut. The women's chatter that echoes and jars, the stomach twisting welter of smells, the rough stone at my back. Everything is so convincingly real and confirm that this is a reality being inflicted on me. I close my eyes and earnestly examine my mind, my thoughts, feelings, fantasies, hoping to find a clue to help identify the fictionality, some hint of inner origin for all this around me, some taint of delusion. But there's just the usual inner scenery. Me and the inner other I'm always talking with. The dialogue for one voice. Mine. I'm disappointed, betrayed. I'd hoped to find some gap in this enclosing torment that would let me tear it from me, to awaken myself back to that reality I'd always known and identified with. The only new awareness of value from my inner inventory, and this in a shadowy, refracted way, is that I miss mirrors. Up there, outside, whatever to call that other realm, mirrors were a source of opening for me, so that I wouldn't get trapped in my inner picture of myself. A glance in one, and I had a view of myself that wasn't drowning in some inner turmoil. I'd love to see what I look like now, to see who I am in these tattered rags and dirt-streaked skin. I expect I must look very different in this bewildering place and state of mind. Maybe I'm as unrecognizable as this reality is in comparison to the other one. I try to imagine what I could use as a reflecting surface that would mirror for me. The only thing that comes to mind is water. That would mean pouring it from the skin bag into a bowl to give a broad enough surface to reflect myself in. With the fantasy of doing that, I feel the anger of everyone in the place for my wasteful, frivolous use of the "heavenly liquid." Maybe, somehow, I could find a way of seeing my reflection in their eyes. Meriflur's eyes are so open, so warmly moist when she looks at me. Maybe, even if only partially, I could catch a glimpse... But no. I realize that when I look into her eyes, all I want to see is her caring for me and her soul beaming through. I'd never remember to look for my reflection in them. It seems that I've been sitting here, lost in thought only a few moments, when the Dreamer is suddenly standing before me, scolding in a berating tone, "...and not only do you miss the Noon Ceremony, a very important one that I asked you to definitely come to, but I come back to find you sleeping outside. Really, such actions are for children. Didn't you see everyone going to the Ceremony? And next time, please, go to your house for sleep." The grouchy Dreamer frowns and nods disapprovingly. I shake my head. Maybe I had been dozing. Not surprising, after last night's torment. But there no reason for all this fuss. As if the old bastard is trying to make things as difficult as possible. He roughly motions me to follow, a gesture I'm starting to dislike. He leads me back towards the huts. The old man is silent and I'm too upset to let myself talk. There aren't many people about, probably napping after lunch,.. Noon Feast, I correct myself sarcastically. Up ahead, between rows of huts, Fars is laughing and frisking about in play with a familiar looking young man. "I never imagined Fars being so jovial," I comment to the Dreamer. "Ah yes, he and Jemin have always been so with each other. Jemin was Fars ' father, and when he was old and died, Fars broke his bowl and slept above the grave in the field. Then, after some time, Jemin came back to the Valley by the jungle-way, as you did. They knew each other right away. Even though he is a young person now, still Fars and his father get on so happily." It is Bapu, it strikes me, the Royal Coffee Maker. The one who was used American know-how in his trade. I smile remembering his narrative. But his face has a bright aliveness I can't imagine him having either. I try to grasp what the old man says about their relationship but my reaction to Bapu's sudden appearance here throws me into another swirl of bewilderment. But my caution over setting the old man into another tantrum makes me offer at least a weak, "Oh, I see," Some people are leaving the Dreamer's hut as we arrive. Last of the Ceremony crowd, I assume. Inside, the walls are spiked with lit tapers giving an unexpected, other worldly light. The Dreamer blows them out one by one and puts them in the storage corner as we talk, darkening the room from luminescence to dusk. "Why did you lie to me?" I demand. "Lie?..." he responds with mild interest and continues his task. . "What you told me about people never leaving the Valley. Fars assured me that wasn't true. He said you'd starve otherwise" " Fars lives in his own dream," the Dreamer answers with irony. "He is the wisest of us all. He has sacrificed even his mind for his power to do. So, you see, whatever he says must be understood in a special way. We will do as we have done since First Times, and the stored harvest will last until the next one grows. Want little and all will be supplied," he drops into his sermonizing tone. "When the Imagos created the Valley, all these concerns were taken into account to make it the ideal place. Here we are able to satisfy all our needs. The crops, the ubus, all the skills we need. It all fits together perfectly. I picture the scant fields, dirt brought down from the prairie generations ago, by the tired, gray look of it. Even with the herd of ubus, I don't see how it's enough food for twenty or so people to survive. I look at him disheartened. "Listen, this is really a difficult way for me. Maybe it would be easier if you could teach me in my dreams, the way you taught Fars music." "Taught him music," he laughs, wiggling all over. "He is an inspired drummer, but, as far as I know, he found the instrument in an abandoned house and taught himself to play. Although... maybe Jamin brought it back with him and taught Fars . I don't remember..." Distrustful, but needing him to hear my misgivings, I continue. "Dreamer, this constant confusion really gets to me. It's frightening. Everyone gives me a different story. How can I trust you. Everything I see of you is duplicity and questionable. How can I hand myself over to someone everyone thinks differently about." "Yes, the Work sharpens our responses by preparing us to expect the opposite." His relentless claiming everything to his focus makes me hopeless that he will ever hear me. "This suffering is useful," he nods to reassure and encourage me. "It brings your attention to what you might otherwise miss." "But, in this fog of confusion, its like everything happening to me is a dream. Even my own thoughts and words strike me strangely." "Was it any more real for you out there, in the other place?" He looks at me sideways. "No," I answer after some thought. "I guess it wasn't. But it wasn't so... so painful for me either." "You could sleep through it there. You have always been asleep. This discomfort is a sign that you are awakening. At the beginning, it is often that way. You're beginning to cook." "But it doesn't feel like a beginning for me. It feels like I'm being torn apart, that something in me is dying." "It doesn't matter that you are compelled to go towards what seems an ending. If you are certain in your heart..." "I know. I know," I snap to cut him short. "You told me that already." "These are the anxieties of the sleeping one preparing to wake up. Have faith." "That's just it. That's what I'm trying to tell you," I say despondently. "I don't feel any trust at all, in myself, or in any of you. I'm just too confused by all this." "True trust comes in carrying out the Work whether we feel faith or not. Try to accept. That mind is of the outer self, the one formed in that other place. To find that rebirth you seek, you must awaken from the dream of that outer man, all of his feelings and attitudes. Then this inner man is free to be fully known. But that is a long way off, perhaps. You are just beginning to see that your inner man exists at all. He's realer to me than you are," the old man giggles. "Inner man, outer man, the Valley and the other place. How can I do anything when it's all such a welter of bewildering opposites?" "Each is to go his own way. Walk it as you find it. It may be bewildering, dangerous, calling you to make sacrifices. But you are here," he reassures me. "Your feet are on the way. Follow it to the end." "If I could know one thing for sure in all this, that would be enough. That would give me faith," I try to exclaim what I've been feeling. "It is a state of knowing. Do not try to learn, simply stop forgetting. The answer appears with the question, the satisfaction with the need." The Dreamer finishes with the tapers, leaving just two lit, and comes to sit next to me. "Tell me, in this journey, when have you been closest to certainty?" he asks gently. The image comes to mind and the answer to my tongue before his question is finished. But I hesitate, about to make a deep personal revelation. I decide its needed and share my experiences in the Inch-Square Kingdom . I recount the plane ride, floating down into the five-sided city and through the Temple 's hallways. I describe my enthralling confrontation with the Jewel of Paradox. I even tell him about my feelings of self-failure and shame at having run from it, not being able to hold the power of that Truth. That swirl of astounding luminescence and darkest dark in an egg of emptiness. "So, you have come that close already. It should give you courage," the Dreamer comments kindly. "But I see. You are troubled that you could go no further." I nod. Yes, it is far heavier on my mind than I'd thought. All my life I'd longed for such an opportunity. "Would you like another visit to that Kingdom, perhaps to that Temple ?" His voice is still light, conversational. I study him. Then study myself. A sense of jeopardy plays at me. But the only way I can go, stumbling and directionless as I am, is the way that is offered. Otherwise I'll suffocate under my own desperation. My doubt and worry weaken before the hope of some clarity. I nod my ascent. A sparkle comes into the old man's voice. "Good, it sounds that we are readied to take the next step." He grunts to his feet, shuffles through a pile in a corner, and plops back down, the blue and gold embroidered Omen-bag in hand. When he gets his breath back he says, "Don't expect the knowing to come in the same way. Truth can never be what you expect of it. Not even by accident. It is always wonderous, befiting the unique moment. Don't search for what you can do. Simply be. Give yourself over to it in innocence. Let what happens have your full attention. The seeing alone will be enough." I listen carefully, aware that he's describing something vital to me. But it's beyond my grasp. It's founded in a counsciousness where all time and dimensions co-exist. And I have only this linear mind to think with. So far.
"Oh, Jewel of Paradox, praise be, praise be, In you is summoned and solved All that is or could be. Jewel of Paradox, praise be, praise be."
He sings, off-key, but the melody is recognizable. "That's it. That's what they were chanting in the Temple , I exclaim." "That is the praise we offer when we unveil the Jewel of Paradox." He smiles and pats the Omen-bag resting in his lap. I close my eyes to be with this astounding thing that's happening. Just beyond reach, slipping away at the touch of my mind is the possibility that this imponderable is happening. What I'd thought was hallucination he knows was truth. I open my eyes to see his look of deep knowing. Breath held, he holds my fixed attention with his soft, wise eyes as he reaches into his Omen-bag. He pauses some heart beats while I picture what I tremblingly hope must be there. He takes out a hand-sized, smooth gray beach- stone and holds it out to me with a grand smile. The shape, admittedly, is similar. But the Jewel was resplendent. There's no vibrancy in this stone. Its just a beach-stone. He laughs at my long-faced disappointment. I'd hoped for the real thing. The one I was shown in that vision. He points to the center of his forehead and chortles. "Too soon. Not awake enough yet to see. Sorry.." He shrugs The belittling bastard set me up again. "It will all come clear of itself soon enough. Be wary!" he chuckles. He enjoys his private humor so much. He expains with some intention of being gentle. "It's not usual that such vision-knowing stays permanent all at once. It is enough that you have glimpsed. That is good!" He promises illumination and gives me another torment, a parody answer to my plea for some certainty? "But come now, we might be late," he instructs and shakes himself with readiness. "Late?" I repeat. So recently grappling with the timeless, the word sounds strange. "Late, yes, late," he affirms impatiently. "Late for the Evening Feast." I try to stand and brace myself, hand over hand up the rough wall. He claws at me to help him rise, forces me out into the evening twilight and walks off ahead down the lane. "But aren't you going to help me understand what happened, or didn't happen that should have?" I call out after him. "Be ready to learn, whatever the form. The vision will teach of itself," he blithely calls and beckons till I catch up with him. Then he walks on with a firm, heavy clasp on my elbow. "It is a special Feast, you see. Fars has invited us to share it at his house. He said that you two had such a good talk earlier, he wants you for his guest. He has called our friend Turo and his Beloved, too." He smiles and nods towards the hut we approach. Fars and Jemin stand nearby, engrossed in conversation that seems more animated gesture than word. The old man stops with them. I stagger on into the but, praying for a little respite in order to gather myself. Meriflur and another woman are at some cooking chores in clay pots over the fire. I nod mutely to both and drop against a wail, legs bent, and cushion my head on my knees. Meriflur comes to my side and crouches by me. "I am sorry to see it goes heavily for you. But you need not worry. You are called, and we will do what we can to ease things." I look up at her, grateful for her warm concern. "From what Granddaddy says, the Work goes well. Only still a little too soggy. He asked that you sit near the fire so you can dry outsome" Her eyes smile into mine. She rests a light hand on my arm and leads me near the little mound of flames. Through the doorway, I see Turo and the Dreamer coming towards the hut. The splayfooted, jangle-armed walk of Turo and the laborious rolling gate of the Dreamer reminds me of a third-rate comedy team. Behind come Fars and Jemin, and soon after, a very heavy, very dark woman, her breasts swinging from elbow to elbow. Turo comes and leads this heavy woman over to us. He subjects me to another torturously elaborate greeting. The others watch with amused complacency. "This person, this lady, I mean, is my Beloved. Named Yssara." She merely meets my eyes and nods once. The Dreamer brings the other woman to introduce, the thin, demure woman helping Meriflur with the meal's preparations. "This is Bizil, Fars ' Beloved. "So she is daughter-in-law to Jemin," he confusingly explains. I'd seen both women during the day -Bizil usually working or helping someone else, Yssara lounging by the Tree, often playing with the ubus. After we settle in around the fire, Bizil does the ritual of serving with a shyness I find touching. She presents each person's bowl in both hands held before her lowered head, in silence and with closed eyes. When she's finished serving everyone she sits at Fars ' back with her bowl. Yssara, on the other hand, seems to take several people's space and manages to talk and eat simultaneously. Her match with Turo seems archetypal, or out of a comic book. The meal is a similar kind of mush again, warmed and laced with a few shreds of dark, gamy meat. A large bowl of what I take to be curdled ubu bitch- milk is passed around. I take a generous glob before the Dreamer gets to stirring it with his finger. I watch us eat with glum amusement. Completely independent conversations go on. Turo and the Dreamer energetically discuss the proper way to tie up an ubu for slaughter. Yssara has placed herself between them and keeps up her flow of chatter throughout the meal, so they talk around her. As they do, the Dreamer keeps his bowl in a constant twirling motion in one hand while the other plucks bits from it. Turo gives full attention to his food's presentation. First he rolls it into little blobs which he carefully places in concentric circles in the bowl before he takes his first bite. Jemin and Fars carry on with their interchange with a great deal of laughing and enthusiastic gestures. Fars eats as if performing a dull necessity. He puts his bowl on the ground between each huge bite as if discarding it. Bizil and Meriflur rise often and go round offering more mush and tea. Meriflur looks over to smile, calm in herself, watching from a distance, as I do. When Bizil returns to her place, her gaze rests in gentle kindness on Fars . Ubus and children wander in and out, sample the food pots and join in the gathering for as long as it pleases them. So the night goes on. Obviously these times are their diversion, their entertainment, their way of sharing and caring for each other. A double image comes up. I watch them here, and also see them swirling around in the Cosmic Whirlpool. Meriflur comes to sit between Turo and me. She turns her smile to me with pleasure. "You seem very pleased to be with them," I comment. "They are all the people in my world," she answers, nodding in affirmation. "It is the same fire that is put in each of us," the Dreamer interrupts to explain. "Turo, why, don't you tell Yason what you do to guard the fire in you," he suggests in a humoring way, which irritates me. "Oh yes. Oh yes," Turo responds seriously. "This is something very, very important to know. I would say the most, well, maybe one of the most important things. "First," Turo continues in earnest instruction and demonstration. "First you must sit as I do." I'd thought his sitting all doubled up like that was because of some deformity. "It is best even if your elbows rest on the ground next to your knees." He cranes his gaze up to meet mine. "That is to trap the fire from above in the belly. When you stand," he leaps to his feet," the belly must be way out in front, and the shoulders back, tight. Show everyone your belly full of fire," he laughs, and pats his own with pleasure. "Throw your legs away when you walk. With fire in the belly, you don't need them. You can fly. When it is time for lying down," he says and lies down, "curl up tight, with your knees right up to your nose. That is because... Oh, everybody must know why that is," he concludes bashfully and covers himself with silence. "You see, you see, Yason," the Dreamer tells me. "That is how we all honor our personal fire. That is how we care for it. Another fire in the Valley would bring misfortune." He looks at me with a raised eyebrow. He's haranguing me about the lighter again. If he keeps it up, he's liable to get it used on him yet. As I think this, I'm struck with how really old be is, how near to senility, how close death hovers about him. "Yes, Dreamer," I mutter. "I see that you are right. The one fire, the true fire from the First Time is the only one that belongs in the Valley. Now, since our Feast is over, if everyone will excuse me, I think I'll go for some fresh air." His harping on the lighter is a pain. As I stand to leave, Meriflur places her hand on my arm for a moment. "I'm glad you can accept his reasons. Maybe sitting near the fire has helped." I look at her and notice the streaks along her face and body where the sweat has left its mark. "Yes, I guess it did help dry me out some," I answer her, but too disgruntled to try to hide it. Weariness overcomes me. I bid everyone a good night's rest, take a lit taper and go to my hut to see if I can find any rest for myself. Full, deep night. Its cold, not biting, but in these rags it's much like being naked. I huddle to myself and am grateful to find someone has left another blanket of ubu skins for me. The rags and skins are gathered for my bedding and, gratefully, without reflections or questioning, I'm soon in deep and dreamless sleep.
Click on the chapters from the list on top left. Copyright Nathaniel Schwartz 2010 |
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