Delving into personal intimacy
that weaves in and out of a poem
written in 250 BCE.
that weaves in and out of a poem
written in 250 BCE.
Before Knowing You
I yearn to write lines of love
of you adoring something
so simple
as how I clean my teeth:
beholding me through the mirror,
my back resting on your fortress
chest
my spare hand stroking
the warm forest arm slanting up
through the valley
of my well explored breasts;
a funny smile,
obstructed by the drawbridge of
my toothbrush,
becomes four
as we marvel at how
we both see reflected
in the other’s eyes
the flecks of life
glistening in our own.
Beautiful thoughts
bringing empty, stony echoes
into this chasm of lonely
wilderness.
I walk through the valley of death, poetically, internally. You did it for real, in California, with your ceremony in the desert, allowing your beautiful high, your deep connection. Sunrise sees you drinking in the red of the sky after taking medicine. You. All alone. Beautiful you, young you, walking, lithe like, through the desert. Slithering snake. I bet you were naked. I imagine you in a space where god becomes like man for the sake of man and man becomes like god for the sake of god. In my mind you are a moving Greek myth bending to become a flower, to dance your minute delicacy around its giant stem as it grows dancing light into your heart.
And then eventually the come down, back to the
tent, the winds picking up. Zipping up, coming in from all that expanse, faced
with the confines of canvas, forced to go within in a different way, alone now,
disconnected from that other world.
I remember being startled when Prof. Amador
Vega said that the pain of being a god for a moment of eternity is in the
return and realising we are not god: the pain of our humanity. I can see you,
through time and space, sat back in your flayed human skin, raw rubbed by sand
and sun, feeling denser now, separated from humanity. Feeling small now after
the ever expansiveness of space, feeling the terrifying immensity of the skies
suddenly so far away, sensing the beating heart of the world that had been so
tangible before, now dimmed, hiding back behind the flowers. Brutally forced
out of power, out of the expansion of being everything, to return to small.
I feel you aching for people not present. You
are left only with You. Nothing but you and your beating heart, getting faster,
and your drained energy seeping into a hard desert floor under a flimsy, dog-eared
camping mattress, accompanied by nothing but your breath; wondering how long it
will continue. When will it stop? How long is a night? Where will you go? The
desolate desert winds mirroring your soul. Whirlwinds of thoughts bringing
ramshackle fears into your dream world.
The void slowly opens her devouring orifice.
Under the twilight skies you desperately pack
up, wind whirling sand into the crevasses of your skin, your gear, your soul,
and you hike back to your little, fragile car. To drive. To calm the mind.
Drive. Looking for friends. Drive. Looking for company, looking for anything
but this emptiness. Drive. Hours of long straight highways, the dotted lines on
the dusty road coming into the windscreen like stars in a space ship.
Zip
Zip
Zip
Zip
Zip
Zip
Hypnotising yourself out of that dark fear,
running, running, running away. Wanting to know what it is all about, too
afraid to find out.
—
You
tell me years later, two decades later, mid forties,
that you understood something more. Before going into the desert you’d asked to
know direction, you’d asked to be shown what to do, who to be. You’d asked for
guidance and it had been given to you, if only you could have heard it: allow
yourself to be vulnerable, allow yourself to sit in nothingness, to be alone in
meaninglessness. Be brave and walk through the valley of death, alone in the
dark of the deepest night, without even the stars to guide your way; to have
the courage to be alone within yourself, to sit in the confines of that tent,
to sit in yourself, and face the screams, face the gargoyles of your fears and
walk through them to the other side; to withstand aloneness and the fear of
being alive, to know that you can, so as to never have to run away – ever again
- so as to not base a lifetime on running from fears, running from the
nothingness, from crazily grasping onto sands of meaning as they slip through
your fingers and you scream for time to stop running through your being.
But you didn’t.
—
You tell me all this as I cry down the phone.
I have been alone for so long; so long I have been forced to make company only
with myself: years of meaninglessness, of non-producing, of waking day by day
with nothing to do, with no reason, drowning in the fear of worthlessness. How
many hour-long moments have I gazed through the glazed over glass of my
windowed eyes, blank walls my mirror, the aspects of my mind my only
companions, forced into conversations with the within?
I have developed relationships with trees,
taking me to a place where seconds take years, yet I am invisible because I
move a billion times too fast. I move at the speed of human, where I cannot see
the immense beauty of their dance, for a step takes one of my lifetimes. I have
been dragged down, kicking and screaming, into the beauty of presence, into my
own beauty that comes up from the presence of the world.
In the Beginning of Beginnings was the
Void of Void, the Nameless.1
I scream holding onto my name, which dislodges
off its hook. I want it to fit; I want my name for myself. I scream, a child
clinging to a broken toy. Irreparable, this distance cannot be returned. I have
stepped too far and seen too much to claim ignorance. I must continue.
Into Nameless, without body, without form,
into where this one Being gives all the power to exist. The flower is my
cousin, the moon my mother, in this loneliness I become all of humanity,
leaving behind all that I am not.
My presence becomes unwrapped from its covers
of meaningless meaning; my presence is allowed to breathe.
I am in the first breath. Is this a second
awakening?
A baby breathes her first breath and timed
with the stars, with the moon’s gravitational pull, with the energy of the sun,
becomes unique. When did I first breathe a second time? Who have I left to
become who I always was?
Dionysus was born a second time out of a
thigh.
Outside in the far distance I still have my
body. I recognise the hand, but not the sensations. They are constantly
birthing. Eternally anew. I think about all those times I do not recognise the
details of my face in the bathroom mirror, new lines, my eyes constantly
changing their vision. They staring into me, asking me to open as I cling
still, afraid of presence. Why afraid?
I remember bliss. How many people have
experienced it? Do the flowers live in it? Are we unaware of it like fish
cannot see water? Would the flowers be shocked to feel what we humans want to
feel, as we endlessly repeat fears, anger, jealousy in some vain attempt to
control life and keep everything still. We seem to do anything but allow
ourselves to see presence in the void of our hearts. Why do we struggle so hard
to push away from all this meaninglessness and so blind ourselves to our true
beauty, our own true selves? Why are we so unable to let go even as we are
dragged through life backwards, clinging desperately onto the monstrous shapes
of ignorant fears?
—
‘I should have stayed in the tent’, you say.
He who obeys Nature returns through Form
and Formless to the Living,
And in the Living
Joins the unbegun Beginning.
I awaken to my presence, sat in this nothingness of a day, beside these white painted walls,
behind the pane of glass, watching rain pour, watching trees dance; too still
for any thoughts, emotionally exhausted, unable to feel, to think. I lie, my
body a stone, as if on medicine. Movement zero.
I shudder. Is this death?
I shudder. Is this death?
—
I shudder, panic, feel strangled by the close
confines of the meaninglessness of my life. My mind screams suicidal thoughts
in silence. I have no place to go. Birds soar; I feel my inescapable heaviness.
I can no more. I unzip this tent of self
constriction. I leave my room and go walk in the rain.
—
The woods find me. Their boughs are the
embrace that keeps me from madness. These are my family. I slink to their feet,
feel wrapped in the curves of their trunk. In the out-breath I feel their green
soothing. I slow down again, back into the rhythm of life.
I gaze.
This is beauty. Far away from an art gallery,
I am surrounded by true art. I think of fairies. Moss green curves in the
interplay of trunks and earth, the intricate work in the strokes of branches,
interweaving patterns of delicate vision. My head is supported by a loving
trunk, my body by sub-stance, by the mother of all. Matter matters. It is
meaninglessness that is meaningless.
The joining is Sameness. The sameness is
Void. The Void is infinitive.
The bird opens its beak and sings its note
And then the beat comes together again in Silence.
I hear my breath, a river of calm, caressing
my body, allowing air that was not me, to come in, what was not mine, to be
touched by me, to be changed, to be warmed by my presence, to become me. I
cannot hold onto this gift, but return it, return myself, to the one breath
that moves the patterns between the branches.
At the end of one breath, a slight pause: I hear
silence.
The next is quieter. Each breath dying down
into a deeper place, softer, harmonious.
Until it would seem my body is so relaxed it
is not breathing. I hear it from a distance. A complete openness in my belly to
all that is, digesting silently as my presence plays communion with Presence.
I realise I am:
alive.
My body is vibrating, the heavy solidity
lifting away.
My breath circulating freely, silently,
lovingly.
I am balancing on the edge, becoming fully
alive. All that I was only moments ago is dead.
I tingle. I am Joy.
I feel the tree, breathing into me. It kisses
me.
I would stay here forever.
Nature and the Living meet together in
Void.
Like the closing of the bird’s beak
After its song.
Imagine if every human felt this…how life
would change…I feel myself slinking down, opening.
I fall into a womb. Above I feel my body
taking on all responsibility. I surrender. Once I get out of the way, my
muscles unspring returning to their natural state. In this deeper relaxation,
Peace flows.
It knows.
The psyche knows to heal itself.
When ‘I’ am not.
—
My lips smile
down here all makes sense.
A still sense of a soft diffused light called
Love.
Why would I ever block this out?
Is this my presence? The presence nourishes
me, gives me strength to show myself, to grow into my own, to shed my bark and
become a supple nymph in the river of breath.
Peace seeps into my body, bones relax.
—
I sink further,
on the edge of being able to stay awake as I
awaken to this:
nameless.
I let myself become one with it.
All is foolishness, all is unknown, all
is like
The lights of an idiot, all is without mind!
Fears push on my bladder. I know that old
trick. It is not real.
To obey is to close the beak and fall
into Unbeginning.
I fall into myself. Soft velvet.
Time dissolves, meaningless.
This is all there is, this is all I am.
As I become smaller, going further and further
within to who I am, I expand out into all that Is.
Blissful nothingness.
—
Jaw softens
I feel myself as one
Swimming in the see-through-ness between inside
and out, I remember myself.
I sink in my own simplicity.
How could I ever have forgotten?
—
Gentle.
Open.
Empty.
Time slows into the Eternal.
I am filled.
—
Through the silences I hear car, wind, birds,
the rustle of animals. There is another world.
I don’t want to return.
I feel the father, my thoughts, coming to pick
me up from school…coming to take me back to the land of the living dead, to
the meaninglessness, to words and ideas and the projections of mind.
I feel the bark of the mother softly push me
onwards, telling me that I am. I can deal with living in her, in her material,
I can deal with the hard flakes of deathful unconsciousness gnawing on the
edges of words, I can deal with demons that fling themselves at me, my own or
others. I can deal with it all.
I can separate with my sword of discernment, I
have the protection of the father now, of feeling my presence, of the Spirit.
All I need do is return and allow myself to be met, allow myself to be seen,
only my own dragons can be dominated by me, only my own world can be healed by
me.
I cannot heal anywhere else but in myself.
Thoughts are coming in faster now. Are they
insight or poison?
I think of the minute doses of poison that can
heal. I think of my responsibility to experiment into the right dose that is
healing for me, that will open me up within and without, and also know the dose
that will bring me down, into a world of depression, of becoming closed down,
lost in self-referencing mind-stuff, of being closed in the circle. In-firm.
I am coming out of this deep wellness of
being, back up to the dreaded surface.
I open my eyes. Breathe out deeply. Am greeted
by green beauty. A balm for this deep wound I have again come out of. Seeking
the healing, far within.
I stand shakily. Head rush. Knees ache from
inactivity, I take a tentative step and continue onwards.
—
Cocoon
Inside
there is a place
full of light.
It strokes me back
into comfort
heals me.
Embalmed
in trust
I float in hope.
Too soon the ephemeral eternity
turns to dust in my hands;
I am left only with me.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Dedication
By Way of Introduction
PART I
Chapter 1: In the End in my Beginning
Chapter 2: Time Travel
Chapter 3: Holograms and Pool Tables
Chapter 4: PMT and Ovulation
PART II: MAKING THE PATH BY WALKING IT - FINDING OUR OWN WAY THROUGH THE WILDS OF RELATING
By Way of Introduction
PART I
Chapter 1: In the End in my Beginning
Chapter 2: Time Travel
Chapter 3: Holograms and Pool Tables
Chapter 4: PMT and Ovulation
PART II: MAKING THE PATH BY WALKING IT - FINDING OUR OWN WAY THROUGH THE WILDS OF RELATING
Chapter 5: The Boundaries
Chapter 6: To Love
Chapter 7: Maps
Chapter 8: Vague is Vague
PART III: REALISING THE POWER OF CHOICE AND LETTING GO
Chapter 9: Defining The Prince Within
Chapter 10: In a Nutshell
Chapter 11: Cinderella and the Animus
PART IV: GOING IN - SEX AND LOVE AND ALL IT SPEWS UP
Chapter 12: Awakening
Chapter 13: The Mystic and the Logic Experience
Chapter 14: Being Burnt by the Light of the Sun
Chapter 15: Hand in Glove
Chapter 16: Not Too Much
PART V: RAW LIFE-GIVING VULNERABILITY
Chapter 17: Moving Points of Balance
A Crack Into: Raw Exposure
Chapter 18: A Dizzying Mix of Power and Impotence
Chapter 19: Freedom and Sex
Chapter 20: Walking the Knife Edge (Part one)
Chapter 21: Walking the Knife Edge (Part two)
PART VI: REAL INTIMACY
Chapter 22: This is It
Not Quite a Chapter at All: ‘Who I Really Am’
Chapter 23: Real Intimacy
Chapter 24: Dropping the Potato
PART VII: UNDOING
Chapter 25: Ego Death
Chapter 26: Meaninglessness
Chapter 27: The Eternal is Ephemeral
PART VIII: ETERNAL BECOMING
Chapter 28: Moonrise in the World of Slow
Chapter 29: Enthusiasm - the Rainbow between Heaven and Earth
Chapter 30: Cars and Seeds
Chapter 31: Will you Marry this Moment?
About the Author
List of Illustrations
Footnotes
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
About the Author
Author photograph copyright. John D.C. Masters, all rights reserved, 2013 |
Julia Robinson has spent her life out of the
box, hitchhiking around the world, floating down the Amazon in a self-made raft,
selling roasted chickens in Argentina, working at an orphanage in Nepal,
studying Jungian psychology in Catalonia, going to art school in Greece,
writing and dancing in Colorado. Now back in her native England, she expresses
the breadth of her experience in her poetry and writings. She has written this
book around her poems to give them context and accessibility.
She presently lives in Totnes, Devon and is
gently, slowly, allowing a new adventure to enter into her heart. Who knows
where it will lead…?
For further information or to buy the book please go to:
For further information or to buy the book please go to:
on-intimacy.com