History and Humanity: How Self-Awareness Leads to Reconciliation

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley and Percy Bysshe Shelley by George J. Stodart

"No more let Life divide what Death can join together." Shelley

"We cannot continue to be recognizable and survive…if everything you know is wrong, then all the problems you thought were insoluble can be framed differently. And there's a way to take the world apart and put it back unrecognizably. We don't really understand what consciousness is at the really deep levels," said Terence McKenna in an interview for bOING bOING #10, to hail the oncoming psychic transformation of humanity in the 21st century, also known as the post-2012 New Age eschatology. 

Yet, historically, we have ever been unrecognizable when we look at interrelations between human societies, especially with regard to the European saga of colonialism and the institutionalized racism that followed (and arguably continues) in its wake. People from other continents, the Native, Indigenous peoples of the world, most emphatically Africans, Australians and Native Americans (from both North and South America), were for a considerable portion of history considered an inferior race, a subhuman species likened to earlier primates less developed than the European genus. 

As we have now begun to recognize ourselves wholly, all of humanity included, through science and reconciliation with our inhumane past, the challenge now remains clearer than ever, for it is our own selves, the Self of Humankind that is in need of development, and not any other form of life. So, we might ask, might we grow up from the childish state of irresponsible resource waste and join the community of life on planet Earth, or become extinct. As the human family becomes recognizable, next the whole of life on Earth must be recognized as our own self, as the body of a relative, and until it does, and we remain unrecognizable to ourselves, there is catastrophe as we straddle the line between dominance and extinction. 

Interpreting the above quote by Shelley in the last line of the third to last stanza of Adonais, An Elegy on the Death of John Keats, essentially reads as "don't let life get in the way of dreaming" where the diversity of life, as it manifests in the human family, a wealth of ethnicities, spiritualities, and physiques can be seen not as a source of division, but of connectivity. And so, as I write, this the capital city in the state of my birth, Boston, has allegedly been bombed. In such times, it is ever paramount to instil the meaning of reconciliation within the human family. Peace studies author and professor George Melnyk recently shared with me the simple notion that "That's what happens in war, you define an enemy." And, so, with our nation(s) at war in the Middle East, and the "enemy" at hand, we can keep vigil with the caution that we should not jump to quick conclusions in our search for vengeance. 

The crossroads of human life in the 21st century divides Humankind between himself and the planet; the potential of nuclear fallout and the immanent ecocide with the unabated burning of fossil fuels. The struggle to survive as one, whole being, as a united humanity, is to be fought at our doorstep, and we must remain strong not to waver from our ultimate direction towards peace through reconciliation. See the documentary by Chris Hedges OBEY, at minute 22, where he writes, "Resentment against a disenchanted secular world will find deliverance in the ecstatic escape of unreason." Let this unfortunate incident be an opportunity to empathize with those who experience bombings on a regular basis as part of our government's foreign policy, as opposed to perpetuating violence through self-pity and aggression. 

_____________

A stone-bedded homely abode of five rabbis, all with simplicity and humor muttering of their bearded visage, they meander from home to a day’s work in the predawn night. I, a furtive wraith, clandestine in the dim corner, emerge to observe the floor-set scribes and their flowing fountain of wise austerity. The dusty air breathes sanctity unknown to most, yet from the window a flicker of artificial light breaches the soup of mind with Maras of temptation, apparitions of the female sex, flaunting a shadowy tint of flesh. I trudge outside, unencumbered by the pleasures of the intoxicating sights. We are at war.

Titus destroying Jerusalem by Wilhelm von Kaulbach

The direction of sight is clear. The enemy is known, and our targets destructible. The air is thinning of passion and feeling, to make way for hate. The true victim in this war is Earth. The all-out industrial fire has spurred on the makers of enmity under a veil of infinite resource. Brothers, sons and fathers bleed with for the ground on which they are laid to rest. The backdrop is far-reaching. There is a sense of humor in this war.

Toronto Rolling Mills by William Armstrong

Foregrounds blur into modernity, as a civilian is murdered, shot in the back, running towards us. Iraq is not Germany. Civilian and army are a rough and indiscernible duality. The cold smoke of hate becomes the backwash of sanity as soldiers and men secrete their pain into the willful triggers of deadly remorse. I, a photographer, capture the minutiae of existence full-born in the surviving families of Earth-bred singularity. Modern natives, the indigenous, bold eyes of people, now the last grave on which an unmarked praise still glorifies the vanity of war and power. Massive trucks crack and sputter past me, with so much gun, bomb and shell materiel that my knees weigh fierce into the concrete below. Rushing past, the soldiers reveal faces of bleary sweat and stinging tears, flowing from a smiling façade of youth, their graying eyes grow cold with fate as my photos are ignored.

Collateral Damage by James Miller 

When we declared war on Earth in WWII, the invasion of Iraq granted us full impunity as we commit the last atrocity on the only lasting connection humankind might instill from Earth to the mass of societies born and bred of global war. They line up, shaman to farmer, hunter to midwife, storyteller to seer, a community of global wisdom, attuned to the lightness of being, as in the creation stories of practical love. And in their firing squad, they choose to sit, meditating on the gun-barrel of unsightly loss – the drifting eyes of hate and need merge.

___________

After a cumulative process of self-publication, a DIY attitude of writing and publishing often spreads into the realms of experimentation and exploration with all aspects of the creative process and, especially where self-publishing is concerned, into self-innovated and creatively conceived avenues for sustainability.

Art is the "divinely superfluous beauty" as Robinson Jeffers says, however the artist is inherently tied to the whole of life. For this reason, I have decided to experiment with monetary value as a way to further understand my self-published works and the general field wherein I am situated as a self-taught creative artist active in a variety of artistic disciplines, with special regard for the overlap of media, thought and art.

Please join this conversation as society embarks ever on towards greater connectivity between the sacred, the communal and the entrepreneurial; that all three may one day join in a vision of society directed at once toward pragmatic utopia, while mutually creative and destructive, or better worded as discerning, in its ability to see and create potential.

I will still be offering the full collection online for free viewing, however, I have added the option of supporting the artistry exhibited by none other than the Dream Author. Jah!

Cyclical Wordplay by Rusty Kjarvik

Opening the page to experimental, improvised writing which emphasizes and attempts a most strict depiction of the spontaneous nature of mind can be perceived with harrowing aspiration in the realm of continuity, that is flipping the page, and its mystery, that is interpreting the language. As a forewarning of sorts, this collection of writing, as devised for readership, is the result of an editing which has purpose in giving the spontaneous flow of mental activity form. While attempting to convey the refreshing action of letting go, all structure and boundary and, in sense, constructs of mind are dissolved.

Created solely by one human being through "One Shot" intuitive improvisation stylings, Evocations: Cyclical Wordplay is the completion of a creative cycle of renewal, regeneration and return to the primary source of visionary inspiration: voice. With due reverence and respect for the infinite diversity of vocal and verbal forms among the worlds of the living and the dead, I hereby speak directly from the heart. Here, in these soundings, I am re-conceived through the mouth of the pen in all its power to amplify and obscure.

"Evocations" is a practice in contemporary experimental narrative, as opposed to the traditional conventions of spoken word. The poetics of oral storytelling are alive through soundings for the muses of voice in all its forms, whether in the tongues of wood, metal, plastic or flesh. The language of unity speaks through every medium.

Incontrovertible Participation Mystique of 1492

Priests traveling across kealakekua bay for first contact rituals by John Webber

PARTICIPATION MYSTIQUE is a term derived from Lévy-Bruhl. It denotes a peculiar kind of psychological connection with objects, and consists in the fact that the subject cannot clearly distinguish himself from the object but is bound to it by a direct relationship which amounts to partial identity. (Jung, [1921] 1971: paragraph 781). Psychological Types, Collected Works, Volume 6, Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press.

Although Levy-Bruhl later went against his own logic and recanted his theory, Jung continued to affirm his theoretical suppositions.

He later retracted this term under pressure of adverse criticism, but I believe that his critics were wrong. It is a well-known psychological fact that an individual may have an unconscious identity with some other person or object (Jung et. al., 1964:24). Man and His Symbols, New York, N.Y.: Anchor Books, Doubleday.

Jung quotes from Wikipedia article, "Participation mystique"

Related article, "Particpation mystique: mythological cosmologies are functions of dreams and visions" on Mythic Dreams

It is wildly fascinating when we apply the logic of "participation mystique" to the impact of the mythic 1492 first contact, as the beginning time when dream and reality were clearly delineated in global history. Dream being the riches of the orient and our pre-contact Eurocentric notions of the world and Reality being another continent inhabited by non-Christian and thriving societies. Both of these two separate European lenses through which the Americas were experienced illustrate the post-virginal spring of absolute earthly delusion, and thus our entire consensual knowledge base, commenced.

Indeed, our "unconscious identity with some other person or object" has moved from the unconscious to the subconscious of our collective national consciousness, and only fully bloomed in the mind of each individual of mindful conscience.

_________

On a concert stage, a fantastically roomy floor for our world fusion quartet, my wife plays on the zheng, and our friend masters the Indian tabla drums, while I gather Middle Eastern style percussion and touches on woodwind. A guest to our homebound trio takes center stage. He is an expert percussionist on the Turkish davul. 

Odalisque with Slave by Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres and Paul Flandrin

When the music begins, he takes the lead rhythm by storm, without mind to our accompaniment. He is so overly animated in his egotistical inertia. I become exceedingly frustrated, so much so that I stop playing altogether, and it seems our other percussionist is contemplating the same. As I talk with my wife about the unseemly course of events, he stops playing as well and begins handing out gifts to the audience, smilingly captivating them with an open charisma that effectively portrays our music with underhanded nonsense. For me that’s the last straw. I grab a glass of milk and throw it at him as I walk out in disgust.

Internal view of the O'Neil cylinder by Donal Davis

On the street outside the concert hall, industrial trucking and convenience store culture intermingle in an altogether drab disarray of poverty and addiction. Over-the-hill men glare at me, wondering about their next fix with vampire teeth and screwy eyes. I silently glide past, entering the dismal folly of a culture affixed to the worthless distractions of fame and light personified in an attractive male with the maturity of an anxious adolescent. I won’t return, and the horizon is still empty. 

_________

Morose, pangs stir my subtle breath, walking up the nerves,
To break down with laughter and see ocean’s rise
From the abysmal core of first being,

The naked home of belief,
Cradling Lover’s net
As a down-pressed skeleton, chained with ire

...

Coldly moving from place to place
Like numbers spit into the viral joke of God
Seeing white rice burn to blackish brown on the needy plate of the human universe

Believed so beautifully
In the back of a working man’s mind,
Stepping to the bold indecision of a wakeful conspiring

...

Across pyramids, tunneled to the foot of known reason
Yet, to be detached from an able body
Now roasting at the offering spit and waiting for mass death

To plummet from our towers, piercing heaven with a sufferer’s torment
Across worlds, times and into the imagined memory of the once-respected
Human insanity behind the art of the worldly races

excerpts from "Art of the Worldly Races"

Achuar Victory! A Dream Come True Is An Awakening

"We have fought long and hard against Talisman. Now we've achieved this, but it doesn't end here. We have to remain awake." Achuar (FENAP) President Peas Peas Ayui

See the Amazon Watch report 

Proof: international networks of civil society and allied global citizenry make unprecedented change in the policies of big business and government. 

See my past posts on the Achuar struggle (Here & Here & Here), and we must remain aligned!

__________

An acquaintance, a young African-Canadian woman, confident and jovial, meets with me on literary terms, to edit a short story of mine. The story is in its very beginning stages of development, only a few phrases and scattered ideas. She is diligent, and always supportive. As I begin to tell her the story, I penetrate the image-letters and enter into the mystery of its narrative continuity, to explore experientially.

The concrete walls, unfinished, breathe with shadow. A well-known author sits in a dim corner, incommunicative. He is deep in listening, with headphones on to gather the soundscape of the strange, even horrifying darkness surrounding. Then, I notice his subject, a grumbling bunch of ruffians thirsting in the mud of Mexican pain. They secrete primal sounds from unlit depths below, before trailing off into the endless night. In that moment, the famed author saunters off with recording equipment in hand, leaving me to the bare depths, an empty memory.

I bleed on through the folds, with pain-stricken mind, searching through memory, confronted with a hollow mixture of painted nostalgias. A university campus, brimming with beer gush fads and costumed throwbacks to the glorious sexual revolution of their parents, now filling their pockets with the fool’s gold of American savagery. As I wander through the woods, the clouds gather above, warning of a rainstorm.

On the forest path, exiting from the campus, a friend and I are spotted by a group of peaceful youth, with meditative eyes and friendly sight. One remarks on my shirt, a gift from Israel. Soon, I find he is from Israel. He asks me, “Why is it that Americans never emerge from the forest?” I understand his referring to the colonial history. I empathize with his heart, worn from the break of political waves crashing in mid-sea. The Mediterranean harbors of our once shared ancestral home are now given speed to the sacrificial meaning of e-state.

We clamber on, my friend, an Aboriginal man, and I, as he critically rethinks the statement by the Israeli, “Haifa is a place not unlike Halifax? A seaport, where you fly from America without heed to the other?” We walk on into the city, through art galleries, attendants offer free espressos and truffles, through the museums of old travesty, and in an off-white room, sightless without a spot of focal interest, we separate.

__________

your eyes crack open
with subtle wanting
in the cold

drop

mourning

...

with the unforgiving pull,
a soft whirr from the sky's clear vacuum
exhaling
the rusty kisses of lips gone stale
with a life
lived too long

- excerpt from "Morning Dew"

The Diamond Truths of New American Colonization

Detail of the Frontispiece, Diamond Sutra from Cave 17, Dunhuang, ink on paper (the oldest, dated printed book, 868 CE), universal distribution made possible by Wang Jie

"If a good man or good woman develops the mind of a bodhisattva and maintains this sūtra, even with as little as a four-line gāthā, and accepts, maintains, studies, recites, and explains it to others, then the merits of this surpass the others...

All conditioned dharmas
Are like dreams, illusions, bubbles, or shadows;
Like drops of dew, or flashes of lightning;
Thusly should they be contemplated."

- Vajracchedika (The Daimond Sutra), 32

________

Only a few days prior I had only passed by the reserve, Tsuu T’ina. The dilapidated rodeo stadium seemed dwarfed beside the traditional tipi stands, piercing through the pine forest canopy. Though, their well-worn canvas was visible in the instant of passing. And on down the highway, the billion dollar estates of cookie-cutter middle class residential colonies staggeringly featured on hillsides and valleys with the shallow, crooked smiles of worldwide settler ignorance.

Invited on reserve, what was I to expect. It became all too real and just so warming when in the presence of two young women, sitting on felled trees in a forest glade. They were humble, kind and open. They told me about the human experience, the incomprehensible ways and wherefores of corruption and the weary distillation of progress with or without wealth, on or off reserve. The original crime is at hand, though, truly, the unforgiving hand of an all-deceiving colonial contemporary oppresses us all.

This was my realization, though she didn’t have to say it as such, just kept flashing her warm smile and welcoming presence. A tea offered with such candor on a land infused with such bitter rumors, emptying on your heart with the depth of tragic realization, as viscerally near, as your own heartbeat struggling to course blood through your veins before the awe of an expectant spiritual confrontation. And here we were, sitting in the quiet peaceable forest. Three youth, peering out through the sun-cast opening towards a picturesque vale of mythic proportion. The warning sky cleared, as with ethereal empathy just for us at that moment. The sunrays cracked through the forest shade, enlightening the smoky dust. Looking at such wide-open beauty, I drank in the wild vocation of rapture at the mere sight of ecological wisdom in its simplicity. Yet, to the north horizon, as we looked west, a mountain had been reddened, as an eviscerated body, heaving the dim breath of laborious, earthly pain. I shrugged in careless abandon, questioning the lady to my right. She told me, briefly, of the catastrophe; a mistaken excavation, fruitless for all, rendering the mountainside clean of life.

Walking back through the town, I was led to meet others.

________

Interpretation: In Our Colors and Dreams We Are All Daughters of the Sun 

________

names tearing at the throat from the machete claw
breaking apart the vocal chord forests
dreamt in saw-cleared eyes
during the infamous winter of English settlement
from the prized mouth and stomach of burnt corn and lacrosse 

pages, ruffling in the French-Canadian afternoon

who remembers with sterling grace
and an ease unbeknownst in the blank wilderness of Western memory,
the oral grave of intergenerational strife
digging itself extra corpses to save face in the final rain of time

- excerpts from "New America, Go Forth!" 

Dreams of Palestine: A Transitioning People, An Ephemeral Mind

I usually begin with a cultural dream context and then select a creative dream description, however when I read Rashid Khalidi's book, The Iron Cage: The Story of the Palestinian Struggle for Statehood I was struck by a fact regarding the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, namely that the Gaza strip is only slightly twice as large as the area of Washington D.C. (Source)

It is one thing when a dream can be applied to a cultural context, though it is wholly another when the cultural context can be applied to the dream. 

On that note, I have always been highly intrigued by the similar plight faced by both Palestinians and First Nations/Native Americans. Which is why the article, "What is Settler Colonialism?" by Maya Mikdashi has resonated in my memory so deeply.

For a great resource on Palestinian films and writings visit Dreams of a Nation

Also, see my earlier post, "Making a Home with an Identity of Conflict" on Rashid Khalidi

_______

A map of New England, pieced together with intersecting lines and pure conceptual space, is represented in a form unknown to me, a son of the land. An unmistakably present empty space lies in the middle of the map. The white of the uncharted territory stands out like a mirage over the sandscape, deluding the eye into such incredulity enough to trick any human sensibility.

Later that night, at my grandparents, I am transfixed by the emptiness. The open white space turns my attention inward, as I meditate on the image, as in an unconscious stupor, half involuntarily though secretively through my utmost will, unchallenged, I ruminate on the mystifying aura of a palpable nothingness so close to home.

The next morning, a family friend tells me all about the emptiness on the map. He is Arab, ancestral to the Levant, while a proud American. He tells me exactly how to get there. I am awestruck, undone as with a viral need, doubly expressed as an escape from the normalcy of the known and also to confront the other.

I arrive to a gate of barbed wire fencing, an entire society of Arabs, transplanted as it were on the uncharted map. A rudiment of the colonial present, a territory, though flown upwards with a gargantuan mall, the area is blistering with the heat of overpopulation. As I enter the grounds, I am constantly watched. Every passerby regards me with a hard edge, though delicate and unassumingly friendly. 

It is Palestine in America! Though they say they are Lebanese. I am taken by their quaint humility and sensitivity to intercultural warmth. I am welcome, though an alarming fear abounds uncannily as thick as the smog-worn air. As I feel for the exit in the train terminal-style, busy street-esque bustle, I stray towards a news kiosk to ask the man behind the counter a question.

Inquisitive as ever, I observe ruffian street children buying single smokes, and so I follow suit with deliberation, quite taken by the overt signage in Arabic absolutely everywhere. I try a few phrases I remembered from Egypt. The man is quiet. A deep pain seems to inflict his chest, almost speechless in the act of a simple exchange. The transaction, while gentle, struck a chord of such powerful resonance that I was never able to return to that emptiness, for the nothingness was filled only with my own ignorance.

_______

Interpretation: The Achuar and the Meaning of an Indigenous Map

_______

a reach
to touch Love's palpable drift
in the body of one Northeastern life
slipping softly from consciousness
into the unending scream of ignorance
as waves of ghosts piercing the cracked, loose air,
and our lonely exit comes to fruition

...

dreaming soundlessly into the never-ending swarm of heart

...

sensitivity under the 95 year old skin of true feeling
resonating in the earthy hair of guitar & piano strings, cut
burning in the night's long internal ache,
that fires the ebullient seed in grass-thundered vocalizations
giving melodies to ancestral brother and sisterhoods
calling throughout
the music of surprising beauty

- excerpts from "Fortune's Glutton" 

Grandmaster's Fight Against Colonization, Fulfilled.

Source

"In 1967, Grandmaster Ip Man started the Wing Chun Athletic Association to foster the spirit of Wing Chun with a group of like-minded enthusiasts, fulfilling the most cherished dream of his later years. Until now, Wing Chun has become a world renowned branch of Chinese martial arts. The lineage of Grandmaster Ip Man's disciples has exceeded 2 million people...including the most illustrious action star of all, Bruce Lee." - from "Ip Man" the film  

_______

A full-scale invasion! Be-feathered helmets and Spaniard tempests swing wildly in the bloody aftermath breeze. The mountain jungle air is chokingly humid. The brayed skin and shattered metal splits and shaves with hairless, painted flesh meeting the clunky spillage of wounded Europe, thirsting to murder unearthed prophecy. Silent, I escape. There is no victor, only the great veil of death and havoc, a clean-swept tide foreboding a colony and its inimitable dry heave of personality into the vile mix of disease and one-sided freedoms.

A vented rise of wood and shale offers solace. I meditate with spirited concentration, removed entirely from the bells swinging into their clapper of my inevitably gruesome end. I’ve escaped this history into another world entirely.

My first visit to East Asia! I ride wealthily and untethered down futuristic main streets in South Korea, eyeing Monasteries doubling as military halls. Tokyo films play in the pavement signage. I hear Cantonese and Vietnamese swimming in my head. No, this is Korea! We dance carelessly over the sweet dell of masterful urbanism. There are people to meet, and eagerly we find our way, personified by withdrawn shelter in the sun world east. By midday, I am alone, a vagrant wanderer looking for likelihood in the exotic sky.    

________

Asia

"To dream of visiting Asia is assurance of change, but no material benefits from fortune will follow." (iDream)

________

not leading, trying, attempting,
nor bluntly giving, allowing or assuming,
yet to leave an ear, as offering, sacrificial listening,
to give an ear, affixing a host
who lets their body down to the cured mammal's coat,
whose friendship bore a spiritual communion

- excerpt from "shaped by more hands"

The Story of MAY DAY Returns upon Waking

A May Day Garland for 1820 by Samuel William Fores
"Dance away my Friends, I have been the cause of all their fun by your Help and Money - Edward the Instigator!"

"This is the story of the rootless ones. Your bones already know the story, though your mind does not yet understand it. One day, in the waking world, this story will come back to you."

- from "The Witch's Child" a brilliant zine on MAY DAY

___________

In the old-fashioned aesthetics of a New Spain colony, the federal district of Mexico in the 15^th century is featured on a piece of black and white cartography. The historic document is imprinted in my memory as I glare out over the Manhattan skyline. The urban grid lies before me. I am headed towards the last line on the grid, one hundred and something street. Atop a bristling hillock in the strong spring winds, a fair temptress bounds effortlessly over sprigs of dandelion-bloomed grasses, her clothing flaps wildly as she mounts my hip in a leap of embracing lust. She’s asked me to find my way past the blistering outcrop of one staggering urban nightmare, a chaotic mess of colonial history, a Tenochtitlan of North America, sprawling in a frayed mess of abandoned wires and charcoal heat. In an apocalyptic vehicle, I brave the incendiary beyond. 

__________

Heat

"To dream that you are oppressed by heat, denotes failure to carry out designs on your account of some friend betraying you." (iDream)

__________

“as we swallowed awful breaths of meager and sinking failure

she gave it her all and courageously fit into the brew of my panic, and surprise

and we could figure the rains, as they hit charred disdain in our unfeeling dream

of croaking drink, and vile moans 

that troubled our disgraced, fugitive blame”

“as I sought out your Gaelic whispers with a charm for sage-grass forlorn

there spun a hint of deranged angst for the painful distance 

expressed in the age of a silent rasping damage

to condemn an unknowing

in the broken guilt 

that goes aimless and unforgiving

as the bellows of sorrow and the un-chosen regret

of a million graves violating the entrenched sky”

as journeys go

afraid into the wild

calls of a single space.

- excerpt from "Breathtaking Images"