LIBER IMAGINALIS
I
QUERCUS ET PHANES
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I recline on a large coast live oak, its mossy bark still moist from recent rains. Birds scratch in the understory, and the occasional cow bellow echoes throughout the valley.
I examine the scene in the lower third of the image, the world of human activity. Smokestacks and buildings and soldiers training to either defend or conquer territory. I feel pleased to be at something of a remove from this activity — the distance gives that sense of quaintness and orderliness one gets when looking at an elaborate train set or viewing a landscape from an airplane window.
The great, flaming mandala that dominates the upper part of the image gives me a sense of radiant, expansive energy tempered and ordered by the cross at its centre. The enigmatic figure at centre seems to mediate the life-giving, life-burning energy of the sun/mandala/Self/potentiality image and the quotidian world of life, somehow both peaceful and full of struggle and conflict, as it manifests itself in its particulars.
I ask the image if I can come closer. It moves toward me and becomes something like a shroud or blanket enfolding me while the mandala hovers just above my forehead.
II
DESERTIUM
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"My soul leads me into the desert, into the desert of my own self... My soul, what am I to do here?
But my soul spoke to me and said, "Wait."
Liber Novus, cap. iv.
I am walking through the desert. I feel the hot sand on my feet. I am thirsty, the salt of my sweat stings my eyes.
I am caught in a cyclone. It feels like a wave, and I am caught in the undertow.
There is utter stillness and silence.
I lay on the ground, arms spread wide and palms and fingers exploring the parched earth.
The wind is blowing harder. It is blowing away not just me, but the desert and terra firma itself. It is a cosmic wind, clearing the plate, so to speak.
A tiny, embryonic shape emerges from the vastness of space.
I get up onto my knees.
I/matter/the desert struggle to maintain a foothold. The cosmic wind is overpowering.
It disappears, then reemerges in the shape of a sunflower -- or is it a sea anemone? -- undulating.
Suddenly, I am very old, with a long white beard. A great wind comes from the right.
The last vestiges of matter, now shaped by the wind into a form like the head of a comet, are being blown away, exit stage left.
Light emerges from the center of the flower.
III
CATHEDRA INANIS
Cathedra Inanis
IV
DE SPELUNCA, IN MARI
ET CETE
V
VILLA ALPINUS
Villa Alpinus
VI
CANIS
In the pasture of the village, it is calm and quiet. I walk toward the woods that abut the stream, and I find a large tree — perhaps a beech — to sit against. I wait for that part of myself that recoils at the world of filthy lucre, of the idea of having to sell oneself. Underneath the high mindedness is perhaps a malnourished sense of self-worth, a hesitancy ask others to show concrete validation through renumeration because I that validation does not always come from within.
I look out at the field of grain, not knowing who will arrive. There is movement in the tall stalks coming toward me. Out from the field bounds a white and brown dog. The dog wastes no time sitting next to me and licking my hand. Through some form of subtle communication, he tells me his name is Carl.
I am surprised at Carl’s arrival and also pleased. It is unclear to me what Carl has to do with the aforementioned part of myself, but I am enjoying his company such that these thoughts have receded to the background.
Carl looks at me intently with soulful eyes. I know he is some sort of bridge between the human and the wild. He reminds me of the responsibilities we hold for those animals we have domesticated, those beings we have brought into our domiciles. And yet, he maintains mysterious links with his wild, instinctual self. He knows the cultivated fields, but he also knows the woods. I think he would like for me to know the woods, too. We continue to sit under the great tree on the calm, sunny afternoon.
VII
LAPIS LAZULI
When I return to the pasture, it is drizzling. I have a thick, warm, and roughly textured wool sweater on. In my pocket is a yellow number 2. pencil that I hold and stroke with my thumb. I come to the stone wall, placing my hand on the wet stones as I walk by. I feel very pleased to be here and very alive.
I wait for the old man. I think about how enthusiastically he took to the wine I provided, so I once again pour red wine into a wooden cup. He emerges, and again he takes the wine. I hand him a flask as well. At some point, he hands me a square box that resembled an old, leather-bound book. I open it, and inside is a blue stone. At first, the stone is teardrop shaped and appears to be intended for a necklace. Its form is unstable, however, and it continues to shape shift until it stabilizes in a peculiar triangular wedge. The stone resembles an unusual axe head and has been polished smooth. One corner of the stone has been fitted with an intricate though somewhat crudely shaped silver cap with a flower embossed on it, a design similar to the Japanese Emperor’s chrysanthemum symbol. The stone is the size of my palm, and I put it in the pocket of my wool sweater along with the number 2. pencil.
VIII
VER FALSUS
I imagine the brief but exuberant triumph of imagination during the Romantic era “before the encroaching realities of historical existence” to be a sort of false spring and the poetic sensibility’s subsequent retreat to the “watchtower” of solitary spirit as an unfortunate yet necessary survival instinct in the face of unfavourable conditions. After millennia of imagination occupying second or third class status, it is understandable that Romantics like Schelling tried to seize the moment at the first sign of a changing of season.
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And it is unsurprising that the world at large was not ready to immediately embrace such a Copernican shift in the role of imagination.
There are some thematic parallels between Kearney’s piece and James Hillman’s And Huge is Ugly. Hillman, too, focuses on and is concerned about the “retreat from the world.” Hillman says,
We may say they show a compensatory relation: the more horrific the vision of the world out there, the more beatific the vision of the interior castle. As impersonal enormities increase out there the more attention we devote to the minutiae of personal dreams, fantasies, feeling and relationships. Small is beautiful restricts its meaning to the private and personal. (Hillman, pp. 149 - 150)
I am sympathetic to Hillman’s critique that we not reject the world in favour of the “interior castle”. And yet I also wonder if this “watchtower” or “castle” might also be something of a seed pod, a nearly self-contained protective casing that enables the germ to wait for the signal that conditions are favourable before germinating. Perhaps a return to the seed pod of the private and personal was necessary after the false spring of Romanticism?
IX
VITULA ELIGANS
In the valley, it is early evening. A crescent moon hangs above the silhouette of mountain peaks. I sit on the stone wall watching one of the cattle in the pasture, a steer with a sleek, reddish-brown hide. I approach him, and I take note of his unusual horns. The are very slender, and they curve down and then up like handlebars of a racing bike. The tips are sharp and point skyward.
I walk closer and closer, and the steer regards me. His energy is palpable, more wild than docile, but when I extend my hand he sniffs it and allows me to place my hand on bridge of his nose. He allows me to grip both of my hands on his horns, and we do a bit of playful wrestling like this before he bucks his head and throws me onto his back. He takes me toward one of the nearby stone cottages. I enter, and I am surprised when the steer follows me inside. I inspect and explore the small, tidy, homey cottage while the steer stands in the main room.
I leave the cottage for a moment to get a breath of the cool night air. The steer remains inside. When I open the door again, a blinding golden light emerges, enveloping and then ending the fantasy.
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Thinking back upon this encounter with the steer, my thoughts return to the theme of domestication (literally to bring into the house, the domus). I also think of the steer's sharp horns and the quote from Ortega y Gasset which James Hillman kept on his desk during the writing of Re-Visioning Psychology: "Why write, if this too easy activity of pushing a pen across paper is not given a certain bull-fighting risk and we do not approach dangerous, agile, and two-horned topics."
X
TANNHAUSER
Tannhauser
XI
BALLO
I return to the Alpine Valley. It is a quiet, moonlit night. I hear crickets softly chirping, and there is light in the distant windows of a few cottages.
There are a few cows in the pasture. I feel the cool stalks of wheat and savor the physical sensations of being here. I run and jump and feel the burning of my lungs in the cool night air. I feel into my wool sweater -- the number 2 pencil is there, as is smooth wedge of lapus lazuli.
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On a previous visit, I encountered a steer with curved, very sharp horns and a dark reddish hide. The steer is there again, as is the dog, Carl, who I had also met on a prior visit. In seeing Carl and the steer, I am reminded painfully of the gulf between humans and our animal kin, the millennia of exploitation we have subjected cattle and other domesticated species to. I reflect on how it might have been when we saw ourselves as no better and no worse than other animals, when we participated in "the council of all beings" to borrow a term from Joanna Macy. We used to dance and flight and play together with mutual respect, mutual understanding of the game of life we were all engaged in, shared appreciation of the cosmic joke.
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Domestication has never fully anaesthetized this steer; in fact, it seems to have had little impact whatsoever. He brings to mind, I realize, one of the bison of Altamira. We begin to dance, to spar, to wrestle under the moonlight. Carl sits nearby and watches, seemingly enjoying the spectacle. And then, without warning, the steer becomes a stag and bounds over the nearest stone fence and into the night.
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The split between humanity and the other-than-human world within the psyche has had painful repercussions -- the increasing sense of alienation and lack of belonging so prevalent in modernity, and human's horrific treatment of other species. Domesticated animals, in particular, are living, breathing reminders of this painful split. Genetic engineering technologies only stand to intensify this oppressive, exploitative, and deeply unsoulful dynamic. The dance with the steer felt like a reminder of a time in which humanity felt that we belonged within the community of beings, as opposed to the lonely, hollow position of domination we now (think) we occupy.
XII
IN SILVA
In Silva
XIII
GRANUM
I am in the forest just outside the Alpine Village. It is still night time, and the full moon is above. I have just come “back down to earth” from my sycamore seedpod shot into the air.
I am walking and take off my shoes, feeling the wet, cold pine needles under my feet. I come out to the pasture and howl at the moon (there are wolves howling, too). The stone wall is there, and I lay down on it, feeling the edge stones with my hands.
The old man appears — he is more or less the same, although he bears some resemblance to Lord Yupa from Miyazaki's film Nausicaa as well, particularly in his athletic, confident movements. He then sits next to me — his voice is very deep at first, and asks me why I’ve asked him to come. I am a bit mealy mouthed at first, saying well... it’s kind of for this paper and stuff… but really I am here more about what I have to offer in this life.
He sits down, and I give him a hostess cupcake (he smiles ) then some apple. He takes out a flask — it’s some sort of plum or pear alcohol, quite stiff (a la Marco’s grandfather…). He inquires about the seeds he gave me and asks me what I’ve done with them (knowingly). They are, of course, still tucked in my breast pocket under my wool sweater. He asks why they’re still there. I hesitate, but then instead of responding I go out into the field and broadcast them vigorously as he had done. I return — we’re sitting close on the wall together now — and ask him about whether its better to broadcast or whether that is not “strategic” and thoughtful enough, a waste of resources. He says all methods have their value, depending on the context. I say something about how planting them individually somehow feels too forced, like consciousness is taking too much of the lead versus the unconscious.
XIV
FILUM
