Overview: A Call to the Mystery & Creative Power Within Your Libidinal Realm

“I think art is sublimated libido. You can’t be a eunuch priest and

you can’t be a eunuch artist.”

– Anthony Burgess

First For your Orientation to this work. I’ve been working on it for seven years of a dissertation. These are my personal notes not the official academic text.

To Begin:

What is the Alchemy of Sexual Healing About?

In its basic sense, Alchemy of Sexual Healing is a forty-year adventure I took to understand the disagreement between what my body told me was real and what my mind and culture shouted was a lie.

Taking the tools I found along the way through Western thought and Ancient aboriginal wisdom into my travels and daily practice, Alchemical Philosophy made itself apparent in my writings. I simply expand this work and share it as Actionable Steps in these jaunts through sexual transformation and the Reconfiguration of taboo into the Field of Potential. We’ll be guided by and utilize the 7 step process: Calcination, Dissolution, Separation, Conjunction, Fermentation, Dissolution, Coagulation.

How

Through the development of the Alchemy of Sexual Healing sensibilities ranging from enveloping storytelling to calls to action in the world, we take an adventure that begins to specify the stuck spots in our lives and alter the previously forbidden landscape by learning to give ourselves the permission required to obtain the golden prize, empowerment of our own bodies. This alchemical shift allows a remapping of our individual relationship to the creative source running through us which spreads into a social shift that we create around us seemingly without effort.

Why

Through changing ourselves, as quantum mechanics illustrates through mathematical equations and historians and professors share with us,

“Our daily routines influence the lives of people and animals halfway across the world….and with the women who shared their stories of sexual harassment and sparked the #MeToo movement.”

– Yuval Noah Harari

When

(Today’s Call Forward: Carve out a 15 or 20-minute slot in your day when you are able to take the adventure that will shift your life and the family and community around you. Push the Stone with Your Intention & Get Your Energy Rolling.)

Call To Action

Start Your Alchemy of Sexual Healing Adventure Now.

“Real liberation comes not from glossing over or repressing painful states of feeling but only experiencing them to the full. – Carl Jung

“We cannot change anything until we accept it. Condemnation does not liberate, it oppresses.” – Carl Jung

Preamble for Initiating Movement

Lesson One – Calcination: Opening to Libidinal Extremes

It begins with a taboo…and an ornery archetype.

This morning, pre-dawn, while the moon waxes gibbous outlined by an inky sea of muted starlight, I’m sitting in a cafe booth with my usual hot jasmine tea steeping in preparation for a writing session. I did what I usually do; I set up an enticing prompt on the blank Google doc for my muse. She yawned with bored amusement; I felt my gut clench a little. She’s a tough taskmaster demanding something that stirs her deep in her loins if I want her to serve my writing endeavors.

So, knowing her predilections I set out in earnest for a morsel she’ll bite into. In response to the shift in my demeanor I hear, According to Mr. Wilde, it is important to be earnest. Then I feel a smirk as she awaits my reply to the initiation of inner dialogue, itself a promising if not psychologically bizarre phenomenon. I bat a lob in her direction, You have a bizarre sense of humor, and I smile hesitantly sifting digital searches to waylay her potency with seductive muse candy. She glares an intimidatingly No fluff return of the volley and gives my fingers a light tap. I open the history setting of my browser posthaste.

While searching for a thread from something I’d read online yesterday and thought might be in my browser history, which is a lazy way of circumnavigating the effort of remembering said material, I blame this on the anxiety provoked by my demanding inner world, my PTSD chemically plastic, re-wirable, brain is fragile to taking a re-scrambling route instead of the clarifying route I beg it to adhere to as I sip its favorite drug, caffeine.

With each sniff of the floral delight that bursts from the essence of the green leaves, something delicious happens. An alchemical surprise unfolds and the moment I pray for when I am in creator mode appears before my four-eyed gaze; a road untaken, in American poetic vernacular or more specifically a path unplanned arises among the crowded row of tabs atop Firefox marking my early morning search, the jaws of the mystical terrain that is creativity parting the muses skirts, beckoning me within. I leap, nearly choking on the heat of the fluid flowing down my pipes into my belly.

The elusive shimmer of inspiration fills my lungs as I inhale to the tune of the muse’s ripe hum. I can’t make out the tune but I can feel the presence of Story entering the folds of her gown catching my boots mid-air. We are in flight and my beats like a drum to the rush of information meeting our search in, yes, earnest. Indeed.

“Self-awareness is probably the most important thing toward being a champion.”

-Billie Jean King

Discovering one’s link to their creative juices is a seductively simple journey but one to be balanced with humor or else the ego will wolf its way from the edges of the field of potential into the center of the existential elements of the process. Knowing we are naive and at risk when we open to the possibility the anthropomorphized energies of alchemy embodied in folk tales and cultural vernacular around the world will pick up the breadcrumbs we leave to ascertain our return to our origin not knowing this is essentially impossible. We are chemically altered when we search out the passion to realize a vision or an ideal.

However, there are entities that hover in the subconscious willing to ally with us because they are fed by the expression of that passion we hold in our hearts for a shift or transformation. To begin, to digest our own impressions of what it takes to travel the road of our calling takes courage, yes, but the fuel is curiosity.

However, curiosity, as the cat knows, my muse purrs like a feline at this reference has the dark skies at its back. That long tail trailing young kittens has dual affinities: it helps the cat maneuver the measurement of tight spaces and the likelihood of making it through a small portal but it also is a long piece of tender flesh that a butcher with a long-handled cleaver may chop off if crucial terrain like a sweet meat scented cutting block is stepped onto unaware of the foreboding context. The call once accepted according to the Campbellian theory of the heroine’s journey will test the initiated to the brim of tolerance and as suicide hotline attendants know, some will spill over the lip of the cave into the abyss of the unknowable not to return.

Risk is real and at the same time seen from a shamanic or quantum purview, not really deadly for we are but 3% or less third-dimensional matter. The other realms are continually present even when we cannot see them from our earthly walk through life. I liken these ephemerally initiated excursions through the relics of yesterday’s interests to walking through a forest I’ve traversed several times only to notice the particular way a tree branch I’ve undoubtedly walked right past many times now draws me in, almost gesturing anthropomorphically with its lacy green frond fingers. The moment may call my attention to the especially graceful trajectory of its sinewy limbs, the way the deciduous bark bumpily underlines the horizon or the pause mid-ruffle in the dance of the burnt umber September leaves breaks through the still juicy but slowly browning veins. This moment of inspiration shoots a lust for a cerebral adventure through my jolted-to-wakefulness morning mind.

Similarly, bypasses of the expected into the realm of the unfathomably relevant fall on a recurring neurological pattern, the strings of words, stanzas silent to the ear but singing to the nonphysical listener, the intuitive mechanism that carries me beyond the weight of linear meaning; metaphor cascades as the digital breadcrumbs of x and o decode the subtext of my intentions. A subversion of focus blurs into timelessness and underscores a proto-cinematic wide shot projecting thoughts thought in the past into a presence of recontextualized meaning.

Thus yesterday’s web-based excursion leads me to one of my favorite pre-internet writers and thinkers. Just as I am ending a two-year chapter of blogging and re-entering my birth country after 19 months of Andean quarantine in South America I enter a wholly different cultural vibration informing the development of my post-quarantine 2023’s return to North America as a citizen writer. I make subconscious inquiries as I get to know my country again. I adjust to our powerful grip on the commercialization of the creative impetus in Los Angeles and notice my film school training leads me toward a visualization of the muse as her long diaphanous skirts trail into the dust of the Mojave.

Firmly, she leads me into the phenomenological research I’ve done post grad and then a million years of magma are underfoot as we climb the Akashic boulders of the future. The work ahead passes frame by frame pressing me barefoot along the trajectory of the present moment, my vehicle looms, the driver’s door opens, and this blog page opens. I notice it’s a series and it has a familiar name, one I pitched to a university while in Peru, The Alchemy of Sexual Healing. I’m happy to see the familiar title as it arose and was baked in the oven of the mountain sunlight in my little Cusqueńa garden. For a year or so my work with my dissertation on the alchemy of sexual taboo made the rounds week after week in journal entries.

Then when my shamanic journeys took on a deeper investigation of the libidinal world and more potent discoveries were unearthed and painfully embodied through the alchemical processes my burgeoning body of guides and mystical acquaintances in the Jungian Red Book sense were met with determination albeit laced with a big dose of fear and loathing, a meta phase of quantum debris floated into production via the aforementioned process of anthropomorphization which takes its cue from the energy field around black holes and other esoteric obscurities.

Never mind the difficult passage that is experienced as a human from the metaphysical nonspace that cognitive psychologist Donald Hoffman offers up as an explanation of the new era of consciousness. I am only a singularity curved into infinity, and that’s where the grace of writing brings the past, the present, and the future into one fold at the libidinal center of what it means to love, a nonspace, nontime clarifier for my dance with the muse.

De Beauvoir’s writing turns out to be nourishing amidst academic masculinity. The word that comes to mind isn’t one I’ve seen connected to serious philosophy of which she said she didn’t belong even though others cast her in the role of female academic. Her husband didn’t see her that way and when I listen to her subtext in the interview which at this point is proving to be a defining characteristic. Here it begins today and for the near future.

“One must first be firmly set in oneself, one must stand securely on one’s own two legs, otherwise one cannot love at all.”

– Friedrich Nietzsche

On this morning’s mind trip, the writer I circle back to life in Paris, home of my maternal ancestors’ assertiveness. It’s the work of the French philosopher Simone de Beauvoir, quintessentially political but I’m not drawn to that aspect of her oeuvre in fact the interview I’ve landed on a second time speaks to a different aspect of her life.

Specifically, what draws me in is the breadth of her influence on women of my era, not her ability to coherently dissect the social and familial female plight in the 50s. I’m a sixties child and all that implies. I like change. I like long hair on men that frame the fiery curiosity that they ignited in the years of my early childhood. My concerns as a teen and adult have been based around my sexuality not gender specific, to the contrary, more of an a-gender hold on the purity of my experience in my six-year-old or ten-year-old biology. This is a topic in which she is particularly salient.

Therefore, the quality of “feminine” as it relates to “masculine” for me is Jungian, Carl Jungian, an experience more archetypal than directly libidinal since he expands the notion of the libido after Freud, and this shift informs my perception of sexuality for women but also in the context of living with the embodied masculine, in her case, the existentialist, Sartre.

As I reread de Beauvoir’s perspective on her writing and its cultural impact, the pervasiveness of binaries which usually gets the feminist treatment in terms of gender is still important and historically essential to my own 20th and 21st-century experience of freedom in a female body but what is even more interesting about her because it wears well in any era is the interaction of the imagination of a woman in response to her love for a man. It is evident that whatever love is, it is not gendered. We added all that chaos, necessarily of course because homo-sapiens are complicated.

“Quand le sol aura ete interroge, il repondra.

When the soil has been asked a question it will answer.”

L’ Abbe Jean Cochet

According to archaeological findings, the coupling of humans around the fires of intimacy is timeless. To see these meetings of the soul, bare of the body’s defining qualities and through de Beauvoir’s aging eyes as the two journalists did in 1970, thirty years after her pivotal work The Second Sex was published, but most notably while the matriarch of philosophy and French chic was still alive to explore the branches others had grown from the base of her work, weaves a seminal wreath of female wisdom, stabilized by decades of introspection around the eclectic tomes of essays and books she eventually will leave behind for others to interpret from their own milieu. It is this grounded sense of herself that de Beauvoir exudes into the timeless framework of gender and she does it in a singular voice that has been critiqued mostly by men with a negative paucity that is so obviously devoid of clarity as to inform its opposite effect. There is an elasticity around writing that speaks from both the heart and mind. It wears well as time goes on and doesn’t lose its bounce and effectiveness to elucidate what’s behind the foggy conformity of an academic era. De Beauvoir moves thought into the literary and this is what I suspect brings me ouraborically in alignment with her voice again and again.I don’t think you need French ancestors to understand the language of the feminine beyond the political where it roots into the core of what it means not only to be a woman but to be a human and in love.

Step Two:

Your INVITATION TO A LIMIT EXPERIENCE

ALCHEMIZE INNER DARKNESS INTO LIGHT.
YOUR SHADOW AWAITS TO BE ENGAGED WITH YOUR INTENTION.
GROUP & INDIVIDUAL OPPORTUNITIES TO ADDRESS THE DISSONANCE BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR CREATIVE DEPTHS.
TRANSFORM YOUR SOUL’S CALL INTO SUBLIMITY

Embark on an adventure of the light and dark aspects of sexuality.
Group Writing Sessions
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Private Sessions available.

Course Part A

Depth Dive: Realm One From the land of traumatic shadow to the light of sex positivity

Course Outline.

Key Words: (Calcination – Aries) Alchemical Philosophy as Actionable Steps to Sexual Reconfiguration

Calcination explored through the lens of sexuality: A sextet of video lessons 10-15 minute duration, option to attend live Alchemy of Group Writing sessions with Auguste; a focus on libidinal transfiguration individually and communally.
1. Quotes for series
  1. Carl G. Jung – “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”
    1. Section on Exploring the Tools to Bridge our consciousness with our Subconscious.
  2. Napoleon Hill – “The possibilities of creative effort connected to the subconscious mind are stupendous and imponderable. They inspire one with awe.
    1. Section on forming a vision for our creative future
  3. Reba McEntyre – “There’s a lot of power to putting it out in the Universe. It’s telling your subconscious mind: this is what’s going to happen.”
    1. Section of How to “put it out there”
  4. Bruce Lipton – “If we could get your subconscious mind to agree with your conscious mind about being happy, that’s when your positive thoughts work.”
    1. Section on Daily practices, morning and evening to develop a writing or painting or singing, etc creative practice that builds the connection and builds a step by step life of happy serendipities involving our libidinal energies.
2. Writing Sessions
  1. Dreamwork
    1. 3 essential
      1. Time in dream
      2. Space in dream
      3. Figures in dreams
        
        Animated people animalia
        
        Natural world
        
        Substances chairs, sandwiches, yada, yada
      4. Beyond time and space
        
        Living the dream beyond its narrative
        
        Find the connection between creativity & nonlinear direction of dream energies
        
        Containment
        
        Steps to living out the dream as superpower
  2. Alchemical
    1. Relationship to the elementals
      1. Lunar energies & timing
        
        Setting a fluid calendar of life choices by the moon & directions
        
        Shamanic practices with anthropomorphized energies
        
        Getting to know our guides

Lesson II – Congelation

Part Deux: The Raw, Sometimes Lascivious Ride Through Soul Retrieval

“Dead archaeology is the driest dust that blows.”

– Sir Mortimer Wheeler

Thank goodness for those who act on their curiosity and persevere with stealth.

Margaret A. Simons and Jessica Benjamin travelled to Paris to interview de Beauvoir in 1979 on the thirtieth anniversary of her book, The Second Sex. Celebrations were being held around the world that covered de Beauvoir’s career and social impact so they focused their questions on a much publicized but little understood aspect of her life, her relationship to her partner, the French existentialist, Jean-Paul Sartre.

Simons and Benjamin point toward the disinterest the male philosophical world has had of de Beauvoir’s work but also examine her own deflagration of her work based on its lack of systems building authority which she claims is germane to the power of philosophical discourse. This narrowing down distilling what is not up to snuff about what she does is indicative of the feminine psyche in a male dominated discipline as the interviewers point out but de Beauvoir is illustrating something much more troubling that how her canon of work is sifted through the world of ideas.

De Beauvoir’s era is my mother’s era and this interview takes place while I am in high school. Of course,I’m interested in the lens of marginalized women in the rural areas of America during de Beauvoir’s career heights but from the lens of the creator Simone, as what she terms herself, a literary writer and what Sartre considers her, a critic of philosophy, not a philosopher. To have been a woman in the 60s and 70s in rural America was a different experience of social change than to live in the middle of the second wave of feminism while a city dweller. The performative cinema of the American and Parisian social structures during these years is romantically juxtaposed in my mind against the raw, domestic interactions I saw while hidden in our stairwell in the middle of the night during what woke me in its early volume escaping into a physical parental altercation.

My body is infinitely more intelligent than the mind; it keeps its own sanctity regardless of emotional, physical or spiritual violation; it is literate in this place of the unmentionable before I am and it will teach me how to re-member the things I have forgotten as a survival mechanism. It is where I lived the clash between feminism in a real woman’s life and the complexity of the foreboding masculine response. The confusion, I had to scramble what I saw into the brevity of the unknowable, that having one’s, a female that I still adored’s strained voice slammed past submission and into hatred against another one, a male’s rage response to primal fear of loss was juxtaposed in the emerging binary already enunciated along the skylines of big cities to the north but still an egg in the chicken coops of the rural American South, caught my teenage loins and what incubated in that space was a sense of the sado-masochistic nature of insurrection.

Tinged with the war cries of gender, the battle for the trailblazing Billie Jean’s equality on our black and white Tennessee TV screen was Iliadic in proportion. My own sexuality rewired that night and I understood that what the feminine world really wanted was creative imperative not the euphemisms of bras burned that the media played into heaving bosoms Barbarella style images cut in with Margaret Bourkean dread and dismay intoning the frivolity of equality against the backdrop of American homespun puritan reality. It was as McClure pronounced a message of the female body made media against a backdrop of misogyny,

Decades later I would bear a male infant through the slit of my thighs and instantly upon holding him the context of love and gender would be annihilated, the past traumas paling in comparison to what I could now see through the lid of the placenta coated newborn; nothing that words can conjure is ever enough to explain the cave of the human heart.

Thus, the paradox of my call to writing intoxicated with language as a young girl reading rain soaked racy novels I found in a clandestine blackberry bush camouflage dumpsite while walking into our deer infested meadows or the biology texts which reframed my barely teen world spiraled my developing brain into the establishment as a romantic nihilist. I found a way to connect, though, and it precipitated a fondness for taboo books. I started at 14 with The Happy Hooker. I would leave the newly paved high school parking lot on foot if my mother had taken the car to her newspaper job that day.

Embarrassed to be seen as a pedestrian in our town, which like LA was not fond of walkers, my after school forays quickly led me into the dark, cool corners of the public library about a mile down the town’s also newly paved two-lane highway. It was a time of growth for the post farmer era of America and L_______burg was positioned along a fertile vein of crops but also for the many who sold their small farms at a time of blue collar repositioning. Men like my father became entrepreneurs.

Thanks to the financial success of the shift from seed planter of the soil to seeder of ideas my father became a wealthy man and the tension in the family decreased not because of money per se but because of the status that American men are afford if they succeed with currencies that their culture prizes like gold, money, stocks, cars and successful children. I fit into the latter but my mother’s success as a writer threatened to break our family at the seams.

Soon after I have bailed on a pre-law bachelor’s degree and have dissociated from being date raped by a member of the university’s football team my mother began to blossom in the newspaper business and her handsome boss, the purveyor of opinion at that time in the town of L______burg had become renowned for her work as an interviewer. She even interviewed me after I’d modeled in Japan and was on TV commercials, all other success eclipsed by an appearance in an award winning Superbowl commercial. I even signed autographs and my agent got letters from men wanting to make contact. How do you single out a girl in those blips on the screen, TV ads? You must watch a lot of TV which people did in the 80s and only a few channels were available.

Media & Madness – A Brain Stuffed with Cotton

The cycles of media consumption and its aftereffects on the lives of the hapless, uninformed consumer as most of us still were in the 80s explains the day the agent called me in with a serious concern. She said a man had contacted her several times, she had tried to ignore his early pleas but as I appeared in more of the consumer-centric punctuations between his entertainment the mystery father, he identified as Texan, “became more certain” he said to my talent agent, that I was his “long lost daughter”. I tried not to laugh or “catch flies” with my open mouthed astonishment as I sat on the client side of her Beverly hills desk taking her pained expression into consideration while I deflated from what I thought might be news of my new status as leading ingenue in the latest film I’d auditioned for down the hill in Burbank. Ahhh, the let down, I had an additional father, not a lucrative job.

Fortuitously, this conflation of reality is what the media does well and I learned it from that bizarre assault on my identity. I had no idea what was coming for us. The internet burst onto the scene soon thereafter. I was in art school by that time in the thick of media production but at least McClure’s warning was integrated into my creative impulse so the many ways we all are now contacted by strangers that claim to have cloud based videos of us in compromising lack of attire or moments of brand shaming hubris, I have learned that more than anything we are all looking for someone to love us. It might be a girl exponentially blown up by a sports screen into a blurry connotation of a goddess that our primitive brains recognize as a saving grace or the male equivalent, a gladiator’s ferocious ability to conquer the energy from our mobile devices that will rescue us from the clutches of our demons. Regardless of the screen upon which we are focused or the size of our imaginations, we still spend sleepless hours in our beds wishing for a savior.

“Why shouldn’t a mystical theology be possible? ‘I want to touch God

or become God.’ I declared in my journal. All through that year I abandoned

myself intermittently to these deliriums.”

– Simone de Beauvoir, Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter

As Friedrich Nietzsche pointed out way back in 1882, our religious figures don’t figure much into the post-postmodern dictates of survival. Like the old joke goes about the farmer and his son’s broken leg, good or bad, we don’t know what value an action will evolve into eventually. The man who complicated my familial dynamics for the gullible agent prepared me for the blatantly sexualized digital violations that women encounter all these years later on platforms only futurists were imagining back when I appeared on TV screens that only carried a handful of channels of diversion.

Additionally, organized patriarchy subsumed systems like education in rural schools. Of course, all over the world women have been struggling with equality as is projected in American movies of the second wave time frame but something more akin to personal freedom reigned supremely in the tensions of our Tennessee home. A calcination was being performed through the bodies of the men and women of our farm town. Certainly not given a voice, the undercurrent of female empowerment was projected into obscurity by passing the responsibilities of the heart into center field through religious dogma.

As a pre-teen I watched at a distance as my mother, inspired by my newspaper reporter “job” in middle school, stood up from her assigned sewing machine in the town’s denim factory and marched into the local news office to apply for a job as a reporter for the local newspaper. That it took my school experience to inspire my mother’s vision of her possibilities was indicative of her domestic environment just as de Beauvoir’s surroundings of “phallocratic prejudice” led her to the much challenged conclusion she reached about her impact in the world.

Now in the 21st century we know how severely an oppressive domestic partner can affect their more vulnerable partner, but in the 70s, even though common sense since Homer’s battle reflective, Odyssey has been aware that volatility expresses its fallout as trauma, my mother’s sense of herself was infected along a more insidious ancestral pathway that might have been more accepted in the rural parts of the world but was alive and well in Paris intellectual circles. Subtlety veils impact in a sophisticated milieu such as the French existentialist circles of the early 20th century. Foucault later would be cast out in a similar fashion revolving around similar concerns, intellectual prowess amidst a sexual identity outside the male circle of influence.

Alchemy Step 3: Application

Become A Member of The AoSH Collective today. Be involved in beyond the pale philosophical and psychological explorations of sexual identity, forging new libidinal paths, and the transformation of taboos’ impact on yourself and your community.

Take the Alchemical Adventure: A 12 Part Guide to Sexual Transformation

Simons, Margaret A., et al. “Simone de Beauvoir: An Interview.” Feminist Studies, vol. 5, no. 2, 1979, pp. 330–45. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/3177599. Accessed 24 Jan. 2023.

Course Part B

Congelation Alchemy of Sexual healing Realm Two

(Taurus)

Curriculum Lesson Four: Getting Unstuck

Alchemical Step Fixation; Refusal of the Call

“What is it, at this moment, in this individual, that

represents the natural urge of life. That is the question.”

– Carl Jung, CW7 par. 488

What rolls into reality comes from absolutely nothing, or so it seems. Have you noticed the weeks are spinning by faster and faster? It’s already the fifth week of the new year, half full, or half empty depending on your outlook, but I am learning that waxing toward fullness is gibbous, and so a word for what it means when my heart is half full perhaps. I first noticed time in great detail when my son was little in the embryo stage. The technician at the hospital put that clear jelly on my belly which learned suspiciously like the substance that once inside my belly had procured fertility for my close to middled body. The first miracle included the fact that my body hadn’t seen fit to produce a baby before I accidentally met a healer whose touched instantly cleared any block psychologically or physically I had to bearing a child.

According to the quantum philosophy of human procreation the individual mechanism of an organic birth is the ultimate serendipity. Carl Jung’s term for those moments in life when the body shirks the mind’s interpretations of the experiences it meets along the time continuum ofr the deeper wisdom that comes from our atomic relationship to the stars, the clouds, and a field of sunflowers all at the same time because we are a mixture of all that has existed, an exhalation of Galileo’s now meets my lungs, these precise collisions of our movements through time and space, both illusions feed through the body and its presence in the now.

From this place it knows and communicates that knowledge to the aspects of our being that will listen. We cannot hear its language with the ears but beyond the physical mechanism attached to our heads sourced at the apex of our ears and eyes, inside the theatre of the brain brought to consciousness through the mind, a trained mind not the train of cultural indoctrination that seamlessly streams through our awareness as contiguous though patterning, no, beyond that in a place we have begun calling mindfulness in the 21st century, but a connection of nothingness and the will to be, born the moment homo sapien configured a bridge between the animal brain which we still have tucked away at the backs of heads and the new frontier of the prefrontal cortex.

Born on the backs of organisms like the sea squirt who carry their brains on the external carcass of its body eating it when it no longer needs to move forward but has attached itself like a barnacle on the surface of the sea’s lungs, our brains developed a chamber for critical thinking, we could want beyond need for food, for sex, we could plan, scheme, strategize, cajole and berate the universe to give us more. That sense of more is what metaphysician’s call manifesting but more colorfully it is our attempts at attaching ourselves to something, someone, or some experience that increases our sense of being real. It’s a vain attempt at empowerment but as I watched my son take his first breath once outside his barnacle, my womb, and the gooey cord sliced from his belly, separating us for the first time since he’d hovered as a spirit over my body years before he was incarnate, a parasitic organism bolstering itself with the nutrients I, the host supplied to his exponentially blossoming body through a diet that would have appalled me pre-motherhood, my adherence to veganism was challenged and released by the second trimester, his growing bones and brain and organs demanded hardcore protein like calf’s liver, luckily my mother’s Southern onion fried version made it edible, chicken, but not egg drop soup, the only food that triggered morning sickness, I felt a power that I’d only surreptitiously entertained as a child of fundamentalist religiosity.

“A true artist is someone who gives birth to

a new reality.”

– Plato

My parents’ passion for The Word which had early on in my life known no bounds, suddenly crumbled under the weight of death. My baby brother lay blueish purple in his crib and the familial spurning of metaphysical faith followed the funeral procession on that post Christmas icy winter morning. Church attendance waned after the death of Micah on my father’s birthday. I guess he framed the tableau of his son’s still, blue body swaddled in my mother’s arms as a rotting pieta and a red flag that the dark one could win no matter how faithful you thought you were.

For me the sudden discovery that I had been impregnated by my film school directing partner after I’d walked into the auditorium after an on campus healer event as a different sort of serendipity. I found myself mouthing words to the silver haired woman as we sat in the middle of a room of empty seats that perfect timing had led me to occupy that seemed to come from a place inside my chest unknown to me, a stranger choked out the words, I’m not able to have a baby. I heard the sentence as it flowed from my body to hers as if she were giving me the power to speak at a level of truth I did not know I owned previous to this chance meeting. In a few more minutes the woman and her entourage would have been packed away in their van and disappeared in Muir woods to the north.

Life knows its own seemingly arbitrary rhythms. Two weeks after I had voiced a secret awareness of my body’s fertility condition and the atypical, for me, desire to have a child, which I had been so radically against before that day, during a walk with the impending baby father, I felt sick, like I had the flu. My boyfriend suddenly suggested I might be pregnant. I laughed, and tried to hide my horror. No, I chided, I think it’s a virus as we continued more slowly than usual up the backside of Twin Peaks. I was actually programmed not to marry before I turned 25 when my father told the 10 year old me that if I waited he would give me $1000, an enormous sum to my child mind, and integral to the way life unfurled and I made choices about what landed in front of me once I left our Tennessee farm,

“If all pleasure is relief from tension then junk affords relief

from the whole life process, in disconnecting the hypothalamus

which is the center of psychic energy and libido.”

– William S. Burroughs

Once that microorganism fantastically formed from a tiny dot in my body meeting the tiny rocket that came to meet it, pun noted, because I had that little creature to watch. Literally in front of my eyes his hands, his tiny toes, his hair would grow and grow until they could hold him up, erect on the earth. He took his first stems of independence and my process of becoming took hold from the newly acquired chthonic awareness of new beginnings.

Before I became a mother I was a very different person. I wanted to leave the planet to I turned away from the pain and fear and toward relief and release through the addictive side of sexuality.. I was exasperated with the way my career dreams had fallen open to a different priority that seemed to lead me into an abyss of startling discoveries filled with unexpectedly frightening depths of pain and anguish.

The symbolism of the initiation into a journey of truth was what Joseph Cambell mythologically labeled The Call. However, for me the beginning of the alchemical process had taken hold without a warning plea, surely without asking me, at least consciously, and was soon an item I wished to return to the vault of my subconscious with a loud slam.

Of course memories once brought to the fore are like birth, it’s hard to stuff them back into the place where they came from. With the fertility of the Egyptian flood plains so flowed into history khem, mummification procedures, and through the Greek invasion of the region, in 332 the division of nature into four elements. The Greeks called Egypt, Khemia, and when three hundred years later the Arabs and “al” to their new home, possibly making alchemy from alkhemia, the Black Land. It’s also possible Khumos, the Greek word for fluid, is the originator of alchemy but because the Christians burned the Alexandrian library in 391 it’s not possible to know a more granular birth of alchemy for sure.

Part Five

“The transformation of object-libido into narcissistic libido

which thus takes place obviously implies an abandonment

of sexual aims, a desexualization, a kind of sublimation,

therefore.”

– Sigmund Freud

February 2, 2023

In order to change the pain that comes from being used as a child or an adult for that matter to assuage another’s misplaced need relief, release, or rectification one ironically needs to accept what occurred not just from the perspective of the conscious attitude but as Carl Jung wrote, the subconscious attitude, where the pain resides, can be transcended only by meeting the attitude regardless of how we might want to justify our anger, sadness and fear about what was done when we were rendered incapable of a physical, mental, emotion or even spiritual response that would have been adequate for the conscious mind or the egoic perspective. Instead to transcend the pain embracing it is the quickest and most effective way to transition what is on a quantum level thwarted energy. The child or a compromised adult could not escape the situation so the amygdala of the brain does its best to contain the energy, something like putting a lock on the hen house until you can repair the hole the wolf has dug at the place where the fence meets the pliable earth and made its entry. The body is used as an entry point by a percentage of the population who see it as an escape point, their escape hatch from their own pain. In my father’s case I believe his own childhood was filled with humiliation, fear, and abandonment by adults who in turn were making choices that affected my father as a little boy which gave them relief from financial worry and probably other difficulties that I’m not privy to. Since my father has passed and I was not able to connect with him while he was still alive these are mysteries that I’ve found ephemerally answerable through shamanic practices conducted long after his death.

During the pandemic when I was in solitary confinement of the viral kind the depth of the work I had been practicing since living in Joshua Tree in 2017 and departing for South American in 2018 I found myself availed to an unexpected opening of the crack in the universe that mystics talk about and musicians like Miles Davis and Leonard Cohen describe as sources of creative enlightenment. What I would call the place where this opportunity found me is a portal into the creative nature of the universe. Some say the eons of activity on the planet earth are recorded in a dimension that is given the third dimensional easier to understand label the Akashic Records.

In my experience nature will inform you when it feels you are ready to access this information. Just so, I started getting downloads from this aspect of consciousness in my early twenties. In fact my spiritual journey took off as I lay on a cold magma boulder at dawn in the Mojave. Naked physically and spiritually I was given information that took two decades to integrate into my conscious mind. Those years were spent finding “glasses” that allowed me to read the pages of those records that concerned the terrible truth layed out over the canvas of those giant rocks that morning. I was given the apex of joy and pain that I carried me back and forth in incredibly dark and light extremes back in my Los Angeles haunts. From that point of departure to the beginning of an arrival requires understanding that there is no escape from pain in the first place. Seeing it as something that can be left or pushed aside one soon finds is folly that leads to deeper

Overview of Curriculum:

Limit Experience and the container of the time continuum’s extremes in the bedrock of third dimensional space.
1. The transcendent function (min 27) The mind is completely incapable of making sense of and interpreting a way through trouble. Intellectual self analysis will not helo you contact the subconscious. It cannot be circumvented.
  1. Steps
    1. TBA

Illusion
Beyond time and Space
Locating the source of pain
Embracing the terrible and transitioning to the sublimity available for cultivation at this point only.

Part IV South Direction

Part VII West Direction

Part X North Direction

“Everything in the world is about sex except sex.

Sex is about power.

– Oscar Wilde