Confessions of an Explorer, Part 6: On the Nature of Faeries (And Mermaids)

"Every once in a long while a fisherman reels in a mermaid." - comment by a friend after hearing my story of the blue circle.

There's something curiously Faerie-like about the art making process.  We've all heard descriptions related by novelists of how they plan a story idea, work out the outlines and structure of the tale, frame the attributes and personality of each character - all of this only to find as the writing proceeds that the characters start to write their own dialogue, changing the direction of the narrative seemingly to suit their own purposes.  All of this culminating in the author questioning who exactly it was that wrote that novel.  I imagine improvising musicians often have a similar feeling, as well as musical composers - Johannes Brahms spoke in an interview in the early 20th century of how he felt that his best music arose when he was able to hand over the work to a higher power and just get out the the way.  In other words, let the Faeries do their work.

I've written before in this blog of my finding those moments when, after finishing a piece, I could think back and remember every step, every decision, every nuance - yet still wonder where the heck this thing in front of me came from.  Some call this almost typical creative experience an intuitional breakthrough, perhaps one facilitated by a letting go of the small egoic self that allows the usually veiled higher self to move to the center and speak.  The experience is quite magical, yet something the creative agent can grasp, can own.  Let's call this a borderline Faerie experience.  

In contrast, the experience of the blue circle is of another order.  I set up the conditions - the circular panel, the grid laid out to accentuate a spherical effect, the failed attempts that led to a thick layer of blue paint to establish a new starting point.  That was the extent of my input, and as I explained, when I left the shiny-wet blue circle laying on a table to dry I was more than a little discouraged.

Then something I can't account for happened overnight and I returned to discover a masterpiece; a totally unexpected, unimaginably sublime message from some source outside my experience, conscious or unconscious  This was a real, full-on Faerie moment.

Which begs a question - what exactly do I mean by the term 'Faerie'?  As you may have surmised, I'm using it in a generic sense pointing to the possible existence of realms or dimensions outside of our usual rather limited 5-sense perceptions and equally limited cognitive abilities.  I could use the term spirit world, or inter-dimensional realms, other-worldly habitations, or just simply the ghostly realms.  The word Faerie was suggested to my by my Irish friend, that being a term meaningful to her culture.  Another might say Angels, or Daemons, or Spirit guides.  I like Faerie because it's so in-your-face goofy.  It directly challenges the rational mind-set because it's so silly in a way, so childish - think of fairy tales, or Peter Pan's Tinkerbell.  We've all grown out of that, haven't we?  No one over 8 years old believes in Santa Claus....right?

But then a blue circle happens, and suddenly Faeries seem perfectly reasonable, or at least reasonably possible.  I mentioned that encountering that artwork immediately gave me a sense of otherness, of forces outside my day-to-day perceptions. Is there something, or some things, or energy, or entities that exist beyond our usual abilities of detection?

For the off-the-cuff doubters out there, I simply suggest they examine the dream world they inhabit every night, remembered or not.  I'm not speaking of psychological analysis, as valuable as that method can be.  I don't think I'm at all unusual in having found myself, on occasion in dreams, within completely other-worldly landscapes among other-worldly inhabitants; places and 'people' of shape and form and mysteriousness such as I have absolutely no reference in the waking world, including Hollywood.  Even in the most common dream we might fly, or breath underwater, or hurtle off a cliff in a car headed to a deep river valley below, only to slow down and finally hover safely over the raging waters just feet away.  Where could this all possibly come from, on a nightly basis?  Is it such a common experience that we mostly ignore it, mostly lose any sense of wonder about how it could be?  How many times have you told yourself "It's just a dream"?  And you think Faeries are silly and childish?

For the rest of us non-doubters, or at least non-dismissers, the idea of a Faerie realm is an intriguing possibility, if for no other reason than most of us have experienced at various times in our lives experiences so unusual that no reasonable explanation cuts the cloth.  In fact, reasonable explanations can be completely irrelevant.  But it's hard to admit these experiences, given the usual ridicule they illicit.  I know.  Who seriously believes what I've described as my Kundalini experiences?  Not many, sadly.  I can't blame them; at times I can hardly believe it myself!  Yet there it is. And there is the blue circle, hanging right now in my new exhibition space in my studio, which I've titled " Fairy Portal".

And so, what do we make of the nature of Faeries?

To be continued...

Confessions of an Explorer, Part 5: Mystery Appears

Something happened in my art studio recently.

I had been working on a large circular panel, laying out with thread a grid of squares and then painting over that grid with layers of color.  Other than the intentional nature of the grid as a starting point I had no firm idea of where the piece was to go.  As is often the case, I was simply content to let the process take me where it wanted.  Unfortunately the sneaky fella (can we speak of an artwork as a fella?) took a wrong turn and before I caught on we had hit a dead end in the form of a pool of quicksand.  A little discouraged, I decided it was necessary to retrace my steps and get onto firm footing  I spray painted a rich blue color over the entire circular surface, laying the paint on heavy to assure that I would end up with a solid blue color field as my new starting point.  It happened to be late in the afternoon and, realizing the thickness of the wet paint would take quite awhile to dry, I lay the piece on a work table and packed it in for the day.  As I headed out the door I caught a last glimpse of the shiny wet blue circle, hoping with a sigh that the freshness of a new day would indicate a different direction for me to pursue.

When I returned to my studio the next morning I was in for more than a big surprise.  Here's in image of what I found had happened to my blue circle in the dead of the night - in my empty and locked art studio:

 

I was flabbergasted!  Look at these details:

 

 

 

I kid you not, I had no part in this transformation.  I was dumbfounded by the sheer beauty of it, by the absolute coherence that is so evident.  A strange feeling of otherness came over me, the sensation that some alien presence had shaped the paint.  Even today it looks to me like a symbol language, an alphabet with a distinct yet mysterious message which speaks not to the rational mind, but to something deeper, something almost instinctual, something untranslatable, ineffable, yet profoundly moving.

I immediately realized this artwork was finished.  Nothing more for me to do here; it was perfect (which in my book is good enough!).   In fact, one of the most perfect artworks I've had a hand in; yet my part was simply to set up the grid on the circular panel, lay in as much blue paint as I dare apply, and blithely walk out the door.  I had not the slightest inkling that some entity, some spirit, or at least some beyond possible stroke of luck would take over and create a masterpiece.  For my part I was home dreaming of strange dogs following me around as I searched anxiously for where I was supposed to be, which I'd forgotten because the car had spun off the road over a cliff, hurdling at a dizzying speed down to the waiting river below, only to slow down and finally hover inches above the raging waters, which allowed me to leap out of the car into a crowded holiday party on shore where no one could give me directions to my destination because I had forgotten where I was going and WHY ARE THOSE DAMN DOGS FOLLOWING ME EVERYWHERE???!!!

Well, it was a strange dream, but that's what was occupying me as faeries were working their magic in my studio. 

Of course, we all know in our modern, sophisticated, rational minds that there is no such thing as faeries, or Santa Claus, or the Easter bunny.  Ask anyone with a cell phone if they've videoed a faerie, and if they say yes demand to see it. This whole thing was just a natural process - paint resisting paint aided by the winter coolness in my studio which caused a very slow dry time.  So I set out to duplicate the effect, identifying the sheen of the paint, the density of the added pigment, the coolness of the environment.  Making some small panels to experiment on, I tried one combination, then another, then another...and got nothing.  Persevering, I tried different brands of the paint medium, different sheens,  different densities of pigment...and got nothing.  This went on for two weeks, when finally I got just the slightest hint of the effect, but that would be the best I could do.  It was getting frustrating and I was baffled as to why the solution was eluding me.

Then it occurred to me that I was approaching this conundrum from a completely wrong perspective.  It wasn't a matter of identifying causal factors, like solving a chemistry problem.  There would be no solution for me at the end of a physics equation.  The real truth was that I needed to figure out how to communicate with the faeries; and to do that, I might have to translate the message in the artwork.

To be continued...

Addendum To a Prelude To a Plelude

If you read my last posting here you might remember the story of an unusual healing I underwent, the apparent result of an experiment in utilizing the potential of energies that I've observed coursing through my arms and into my hands. It was certainly a surprise to me, one that was encouraging yet perplexing.  The little jeffy in me, the skeptical one, was unconvinced.  Alternately, Big Jeff simply echoed the comment from a friend who had read the account - Why not?  I decided there was a need to experiment further, and an opportunity quickly presented itself.

Soon after the period of the mysterious healing I decided the eyeglasses I had been wearing for several years were scratched beyond help and in need of replacement.  I went in to the shop to order a new pair and was informed that the prescription had expired and I was in need of a new examination.  That seemed like an annoying expense, but I acceded and set up an appointment with my ophthalmologist.  Little did I know that I would be in for a surprise.

After all of the usual mini-tortures that come with an eye exam, the doctor informed me that not only did I need a stronger eyeglass prescription, but that he had detected unusually high pressure inside my eyes and had spotted signs of early stage glaucoma.  He explained that glaucoma was the result of this high pressure squeezing on the optical nerve at the back of the eye, and over time this pressure would cause a gradual decrease in peripheral vision, eventually leading to a kind of tunnel vision.  He also explained that if caught early -as it was, hopefully, in my case - it could be treated, and so he referred me to have a more thorough examination at an eye surgery clinic in the area.

As you might imagine this was rather unpleasant news, exasperated by the fact that I am a dedicated VISUAL artist.  As so many come to realize, getting old sucks!!!!  I was unsettled, but the news of possible treatment was at least a bit encouraging.  After mulling things over for a couple of days I decided the best thing to do was to get the whole picture as quickly as possible, so I called the clinic to make an appointment.  They had received my referral and I was on file, but this was a busy clinic and the earliest  time I could get was six weeks out.  So much for quick.  I agreed to the date and time and resigned myself to waiting it out.  

Which turned out to be a blessing in disguise, for I realized this was the opportunity to experiment once again with the kundalini energies coursing through me.  I immediately integrated into my almost daily kundalini session a focused meditation, similar to the one I described in my last post concerning the skin blemish.  In each session, once I could feel the energies strongly flowing into my hands, I would raise my arms together, then  lower them until the palms of the hands hovered just over my eyes - right hand over right eye, left over left.  Every time, within seconds, that particular indescribable sensation that some label prana would envelope my eyes.  In my mind I imagined the prana working to return each eye to its natural, healthy state.  Two or three minutes would pass, at which point I would raise my hands high again, then return them to my side.

Did I believe this was going to make a difference?  Big Jeff simply suggested, why not?  On the other hand little jeffy counseled, don't hold your breath.  You might say the totality of me didn't believe this would work, but nonetheless had faith that something good would come of it.  At the least this faith allowed me to cut back on some of the anxiety and go about my day to day business with a degree of equanimity, where eventually it became a back burner issue in my life...until the day before the exam, when little jeffy started to lose it with flashes of anxiety.  Interestingly, Big Jeff held his calm, repeating over and over to the little guy the simple question - why not?  And guess what?  The calming advice worked.  By the day of the exam little jeffy was, if not exactly enthusiastic, at least  mostly stoic about what was to be revealed.

And so I, meaning the totality of me, walked fairly calmly into the clinic.  In fact, looking back on it now, I'm surprised at how calm I was.  This was quite possibly a life changing moment, yet I simply arrived, spoke pleasantly with the attendant at the desk, and submitted to a barrage of bizarre vision tests - modern medicine, as good as it supposedly is, is a madman's technological nightmare.  I had no idea what was being done to me, or for what purpose.  Room after room of crazy machines to stick my head into, barraging my eyes with unspeakably crazy light effects intended to tease out how far I have deviated from normal eye health.  After an hour of this I was led to a quiet room, where I received eye drops to dilate my eyes, being told that after 20 minutes the drops would take effect and a doctor would examine me.

I had brought a book, anticipating possible long waiting times.  It was one I was re-reading at the time, titled "The Time Falling Bodies Take To Light", an irony I only just now see.  It's a fascinating book examining the beginnings of language and culture in very early Homo Sapien life as long as 100,00 years ago.  Surprisingly, I became completely absorbed in the book despite the coming verdict from the doctor.  When he arrived he put me through a detailed examination of my eyes, yet for the first time since I arrived I felt I was being examined by a DOCTOR, not a machine.  He was a nice guy.  The assistant he brought was a nice gal.  They worked smoothly together, and I was comforted in a weird way.

Then the verdict came.  I just listened with no anxiety, no expectation.  Whatever was coming, I was ready for it.  The doctor said, rather simply, that I had no high pressure in my eyes.  I had no signs of glaucoma.  He recommended I come back in a year for another exam, but otherwise I was OK.

You can imagine the shit-eating grin on my face as I heard this verdict, partially disguised from the doctor by the covid mask I was wearing.  As I left, driving home with my temporary sunglasses shielding me from the intense light entering my still-dilated eyes, I considered the possible implications.  Maybe my ophthalmologist had made a mistake, had misdiagnosed my situation.  Or perhaps, just perhaps, prana had done its work.

 Why not?

To be continued...

Confessions of an Explorer, Part 4: Time Is On My Side???

Yet Another Prelude to a Prelude

I've been reporting observed events related to my Kundalini experience with the intention of getting them on record.  I'm not necessarily certain how to interpret them - what does one make of electric toe wiggles, dancing lights, arm to hand rushes of energy?  Not for me to say at this point -  just the facts, ma'am.  Here's the latest:

As the arm to hand energy sensations continued to increase I thought to conduct an experiment.  Many who speak of Kundalini conceptualize the energies as Prana, a life force that normally supports our biological machine at a low level we hardly notice, yet has the potential to greatly increase when activated.  Given my experience this seems a sensible possibility to me, and so I began to wonder if the discharge of energies into my hands could be utilized in some way.  We all have probably heard of individuals who claim to use energies of some sort to heal - laying on of hands, so to speak.  Could this energy radiating into my hands be some version of that?  If so, how would I test it?

I have very light skin, and  noticed a dark growth appear just above my left clavicle perhaps 5 years ago or longer.  Very small at first, hardly a concern, yet over time it has slowly increased in size to the point that recently I've considered having it looked at by a dermatologist and possibly removed.  Instead, I decided that this would be the object of an experiment involving the strange energy sensations rushing into my hands.

Let me first describe my current Kundalini practice.  Almost daily at some point in my activities I stop the normal flow of events and lie down on my back to do a 20 minute Pilates session aimed at loosening my upper back,  neck and shoulder joints.  Quite effective, by the way.  After finishing, still flat on my back, I start a mini-ritual, taking a deep breath as I spread my legs to shoulder width, then another deep breath as I spread my arms a bit from my hips, turning palms up.  One more deep breath and I close my eyes.  At that point I mentally fall into my body, and within minutes, sometimes seconds, the Kundalini/Prana energies begin to make themselves evident.  Often beginning at the perineum, sometimes in the heart region, the energies typically slowly build until they run down my arms and into my hands, creating an exquisite sensation in my fingers that causes them to flex and wiggle.  Here's where,  recently, I began my experiment.

Using the notion of Prana as a life force underlying our biological selves, I began conceptualizing the energies in my hands as having the potential to return damaged organs or cells to their normal, healthy state.  With this in mind I started to proceed with the experiment, the process as follows.  I extend my arms fully upward, and as I do so the sensations increase, surging to my fingers.  Then I lower my arms, hands going to my left neck area.  With my left hand I pull back the collar of my shirt and hover the open palm of my right hand over the skin blemish.  I hold this position for perhaps a minute, sometimes longer, literally feeling energy flowing into my palm.  When my arms begin to tire I end the experiment, raising hands first to the sky, then lowering into my normal Kundalini session position.

Did I believe anything would come of this?  The little jeffy in me was entirely skeptical, but willing to go along for the ride - after all, what was the harm?  Big Jeff just observed with arms folded over his sternum.  He had seen enough of the unusual to know better than to form an opinion; he is by nature very, very patient.  The Unborn was kicking in the womb.

I performed this experiment almost daily, but after ending the session tended to quickly forget about it as I immersed myself in day to day life.  After my usual morning shower I would occasionally glance at my shoulder, though most of the time it would not occur to me to check if there was any progress.  Then one morning, after three or four weeks of experimentation, I consciously took a look in the mirror and thought I detected a small change in the blemish, though I didn't have my glasses on and couldn't be sure due to a little fuzziness.  The next morning while in the shower I felt a little itchiness in the area and when I scratched it a piece of skin sloughed off.  I jumped out of the shower, putting my glasses on and wiping steam off the mirror.  I looked and...behold!  The very dark patch of skin was gone, and all that was left was a pale remnant of the shape!

What to make of this?  If you're going to insist on coincidence I can't argue with you, except to remind you that this patch of dark skin had been with me for many years, slowly growing over time, showing no signs of going away.  It had become a familiar, if slightly unnerving, presence in my body.  And now it's gone.

Just the facts, ma'am.

To be continued...

Confessions of an Explorer, Part 3: Can Culture Make Whoopee?

 Prelude to Another Prelude

In keeping with my last posting here I have a new Kundalini observation to share.  I previously mentioned the curious physical phenomenon I associate with my developing Kundalini process - the toe tingles, and the low illumination visual perceptions of dancing lights.  Not long after those arose yet another related surprise made itself known,  a pattern of lovely tingling nerve sensations  running down my arms and into my hands and fingers.  Subtle at first, these sensations now are quite strong and consistent, often signaling the beginning of a transition to a whole body prana/nerve explosion.  All of these experiences are available to me at most any time, though the intensities vary from day to day.  Yet in the long run there seems to be a steady increase in those intensities, suggesting a developmental arc, the goal of which is not yet apparent to me.

BTW, this recent August 18 was the 13th anniversary of the first onset of this mystery.  Quite a ride. 

Prelude

Mark Rothko (1903 - 1997 was a Latvian born American painter best know for his works under the genre identified as Color Field Painting.  He came into prominence in the 1950's and 60's and was an active, internationally renown painter until, after a protracted and deteriorating illness, he committed suicide.

If you're not familiar with the term, Color Field Painting is pretty much exactly as the name describes - large swatches, or fields, of pure color laid out in an abstract manner, usually on large canvases to amplify the effect.  Here's one of Rothko's works:

After his death a collector of his work living in Houston built a chapel there in 1971 and installed 14 large paintings that Rothko had produced for that purpose. The interior walls were almost completely covered  for 360 degrees.  Known as the Mark Rothko Chapel, it was (and presumably still is) a non-denominational chapel, free of admission and open to anyone desiring to spend time in contemplation within this aesthetic environment.

From 1973 to 1976 I found myself living in Austin, Texas, about 100 miles east of Houston.  I was in no way involved in an art practice at the time and knew next to nothing about contemporary visual art - a few works by Andy Warhol were probably the scope of my experience in that world.  I was young and mostly directionless, proverbially still trying to find myself.  The Rothko Chapel had only been up for a couple of years, and had make quite a splash in Houston; enough of a splash that word of it reached my ears in Austin.  When I had a chance to visit Houston for the first time some friends urged me to make a reservation to visit the chapel site, and that I did.  

I was one person when I walked in, and quite another when I walked out.

It's hard to describe the experience - ineffable, as they say, though almost 50 years later still indelibly inscribed in my memory.  The painting were huge, maybe 10' x 12' on average, and dark, yet incredibly subtle in the variations and nuances of color change.  I was alone, and spent my allotted time standing in place slowly turning round and round and round, almost breathless, stunned to the core.  I had never come close before to experiencing such a viscerally powerful visual presence.  

Perhaps because I was in a directionless, seeking stage of life I was ripe for it; open and defenseless and willing.  Or maybe that chapel was a true contemporary sacred site, and I experienced what many people did within those walls.  In any case, when a little bell rang announcing the end of my visit I exited in something like a dream, which stayed with me for the rest of the day.  I was a changed young man.

Fugue

This was, without a doubt, a whoopee experience, one between me and the work of a man 4 years dead.  How did it happen?  It was pure,laser-hot cultural transmission, perhaps similar to the experience of a stone-age young adult, innocent and naive, being led into the cavern of cave paintings at Lascaux, France twenty thousand years ago.  And as I imagine it was for my stone-age comrade, it was transformational for me.

So now we can see not only is there whoopee in the physiosphere, and lots and lots of whoopee in the biosphere, but that whoopee does indeed enter the noosphere through cultural interaction.  I've written here before of another cultural whoopee experience I had in that same young adult time frame of my life. after the first reading of Tolstoy's War and Peace.  I've had several since then - for example my first hearing of Beethoven's Opus 111 piano sonata, and the live concert experience of Benjamin Britten's War Requiem in which, upon ending, an entire audience of several hundred people were stunned into silence - nary a clap or bravo for at least a full minute, followed by a spontaneous and sudden thunderous applause.

These whoopee moments don't just come and go, like an ice cream cone on a hot summer afternoon.  It's my contention that they become a part of you, a living part that ceaselessly works on your personality structure, invisibly shaping and forming what you are to become.  Sometimes consciously, but mostly unconsciously or at best subconsciously, these experiences accumulate, each one entering into the process of your becoming, joining in the little workshop of your ever-changing life.  All of it driven by whoopee.

A process it is, and there is something about process that is always true - it happens over time, past to present to future. Or should we call it past-present-future?

To be continued...