Rene Magrite Castle in the Pyrenees detail (Godwin)
Jane King [email protected]
Magic Bells Tolling
Folks, like you, I'm a dreamer. And this is a story of dreaming. It "really" happened, though all stories are shimmery, and resist the black and white of pages; it is their nature. Once upon a time, I saw the universe open before me. What I saw contained a million stories, maybe all stories, but the one I want to tell you about involved this web-site, The Genesis of Eden. Here it is, as simply as I can relate something so heart-breakingly complex. In a visionary night and day, I saw a different reality than the one I was accustomed to--it was all still me, but I saw it aslant, and with glory and beauty and heartfulness. During these events, and afterwards, I kept repeating to all the path-walkers and seekers I knew, this has been written about, everyone who has these visions sees it. And they kept telling me, no, Jane, this is yours alone. But I had seen it as a book,I kept insisting others had read it too, and I kept saying, it is there. For four long months I was completely enchanted, looking everywhere for the book that held this vision. I tried many different roads, looked in several rooms. One night, despairing, (and never sure why it mattered so much to me to be thus validated), I happened on this, site, The Genesis of Eden. I was enraptured; it DID exist! In pictures, in words, in song, in spirit, this WAS my vision, suddenly opening before me again. I wrote a note and a poem, included here, and the Author replied in poetry that, to me, identified him as my fellow dreamer, in fact, one who had been calling me to dream.
I want to tell you: this is real. This story is real, this book is real. I discovered I had "seen" Chris King and the Genesis of Eden not just in my visions, but also in a precognitive dream. And maybe throughout all the dreams of my life. I could give you the specific details that reveal the telepathic connection, but that would probably bore you. Instead, I give you, with love, these poems, and though they are really humble specimens of the poetic art, they are truly heart-poems. Do not be fooled: this is not "just" a "love story": it is both not that, and far more than that, yet it is also that too, because love is the essence. It is the story, one that lies at the heart of human consciousness, of how people connect across time and distance through dreams of wonder.
Radiant Ocean mother,
The sun and stars enter you,
delighting to reflect,
We all melt into your transparent
love, though in dread of your dark depths,
first showering forth our golden beliefs,
and frothy thoughts, our mist shadows,
our silver love,
our own liquidity,
into the mystery.
You invoke then
of cypress branches above.
Our hearts cannot resist you,
our minds are weak before you.
We feel you are soft, know you are fierce,
and tumble eternally in your infinite beauty.
A Prophecy of Braiding
There was the time I spent
as guardian of sacred well,
dark pool in darker cave,
my lantern lighting the
coins from the hopeful glinting
through still, dark waters,
and the white blossoms I was given,
floating in the water,
perfuming my hair.
I lived in silent love,
alone except for a shining Presence.
The desire of the whole world
flowed through me to the pool
and out again.
There was the time when I was responsible for
the household of a king.
I had a hundred keys then,
and knew which door each unlocked.
All the scurrying workers
sought my assistance, and I
was ever busy, always planning,
constantly aware of everyone and everything.
I was never alone, but
my dreams were always of dark fragrant pools,
where the silence
of tideless days spoke in my mind
of eternal desire.
And then there was the bad time,
the time of punishment for my transgression.
In my mind, I did not err at all,
though they called me vile names.
In my mind, I was only dreaming
of important tasks, plans to fulfill,
or dark, silent pools to guard.
I was counselled by more prudent women,
keep that inside, keep that inside,
they fear and hate it.
But I leaked my dreams from
eyes, lips and limbs,
until, inevitably, hands and minds of rage
stripped and beat me, and I
renounced what I knew, what I had seen.
Now this time has a little of everything,
but there is much to learn about connecting--
The desire of pure love, the stillness of
golden coins in water,
the tasks to be accomplished,
so many doors to unlock,
and always present, the fear
of unforgiveness, of the punishment for dreaming.
This is where I start to unravel the threads,
a little here and there,
to undo it in pieces, to separate, then to weave it all anew.
Because fear can be the seat of appalling bravery,
you can learn to say, I will do it all again,
But this time, I will make a little change,
I will plan and organize,
I will dream and gaze,
and I will transgress when needed,
But this time I will try a new pattern,
one whose inevetible streams coalesce into
a stronger fabric: of wisdom
that shines with radiant love,
with industry, and with willingness to profess.
And to braid together strands of ageless desire, with hope that
Such a reweaving can produce, in time,
a prophecy of renewal,
a transformation in the cloth.
Hi Chris King. I was so astonished by your work on Ibogaine and in general the whole Garden of Eden thing, which I had been at the moment thinking about, that I am sending you this poem I wrote re Ibogaine. Probably what astonished me most, beyond that which I already told you re fracals, is that you mention the Bwiti honor Mary as first woman. The first vision I saw on Ibogaine was Mary ascending into heaven, and your article was the first that explained that to me, since the rest of it was very tribal.
The Drumming of Eboka - Jane King
People of Mbiri, what are you chanting?
Your drumming pierces me;
I'm throbbing to your beat, not my own.
My sight is transfixed, my body jerking..
Are you ghosts? You seem so alive,
here in this small opalescent universe.
You flash by so solemnly, so knowingly.
You watch me with
Resignation in your sad eyes,
and hold up to my enraptured gaze
Jewels, spears, bones and shields.
Perhaps it is me who is flashing by.
Native mother, in your gleaming canoe
With iridescent symbols, and your glowing,
breathing hair so comforting and long,
Where are you paddling me?
Your Brave, so solid, so strong,
laughing because he is with you,
Is deeply reading your thoughts and mine,
while you, reading the river with every stroke,
laugh gently at me, for I desire to splash the water,
but am fearful of making a sound.
Are we all together, precious mother, or
Am I lying here, suppressed, repressed,
and rigid, while you go flashing by?
Where are our bodies? Is the pain that we feel
The same as the pain we inflict?
Does the stern god push us, so we have to fly?
If we then fall, break open upon impact,
How many images go dancing,
glistening and bright, along the horizon,
Just as you dance, people of Bwiti and Mbiri, along the shore?
I paddle by you; you are watching me, people of Bwiti.
Your native mother, so much like mine, increases the flow of the rivers,
As she swells the tides.
Is that what makes you drum so loudly?
Do you respond to her with throbbing?
I have heard her singing--like your drums,
her voice throbs and pierces.
It is too beautiful; you cannot hold your body
in one piece any longer and it becomes
a flock of gulls, who rise with the sun, and flash by.
What's left of you, what can't ascend with them,
sees trails in the sky.
Such yearning. Such sparkling.
If you go to the center, if you try to find the
palace in the river,
Red and bright , solid and cubic, you will meet her -
She is there with the god; she is teaching him the tricks of ascendance.
These tricks are simple, but not easy.
She will put things inside you,
for you will open to her like a sluice gate in the river.
You will open your mouth for the wafer of communion,
And she will give you the whole god.
He needs you too, for he is always going deeper;
for him descent is ascent.
His path is spiral like a rain forest plant
or the mind of this woman or a galaxy of stars.
He seeks out those who wish to entwine.
from inside, the god will push you off the ramparts,
But flight is not what you imagined it to be.
You will split open,
and will become dancing particles of love, like fire flies
When they ascend from being glowworms.
Mother, mother, consciousness is sweet and pulsing,
but you paddle so softly
And the canoe is so warm; it is hard to leave.
This god you put in me teaches me to burst;
now, please, you teach me to gather.
And then my love can glow like your canoe,
With its iridescent symbols and its swift,
smooth flow on the water,
As I paddle past the people of Mbiri, and their drums
Declare my presence, and that of
your transcendent love that flows through us
And binds us to each other,
As paradoxically we both entwine and fly,
and as we gaze, and listen, and drum and chant together
The songs of jewels and spears, of bones and shields
And then flash by.
Silver and Blue: To Jane in Reply
Shall I sing of chacruna and yaje
mingled with the deep blue of Maria's eucharist,
my pupils wide with amazement
as eternity tumbles forth?
Shall I sing to you of long moonlit nights
watching the ocean lapping silver
and the ruru owl haunting and hooting
as the grasses toss and shiver,
little tornadoes curling off the hillside?
As the instant of knowing
echoes from the breeze to the cry?
Sing the song of the dance of life
transient and immortal,
fragile and victorious,
exhaltant and apprehensive
loving, vigilant and transfixed
at the brink of the great extinction?
To know the fruit of the Tree
is to become the unutterable.
So Brother Chris, is this you, silver and blue? (a passage from my ebokan memoirs). How you get around! Are we all fractals of each other ?
Silver and Blue
"One of the young men came close and into sharp focus, and showed me a type of pin or brooch made of a silverish metal with a radiant blue stone in the center. I recognized that I was being shown something significant, but didn't know what the significance was. I recognized that it may be a token that works without my necessarily understanding it. (This image resembled one from the movie, The Last Wave, which is about Aborginal Dream Time.) I now believe this was a reminder of the third eye, instructing me how to see, how to unblock the channels."
Something I haven't told you before is that since I saw your picture, I didn't know that that vision of Ibogaine (silver and blue) WAS you, not a "predicter" of you.
The Thunder of Abundance
My sister, my namesake,
it is you who are enlightened.
The visionary who "saw" me
before you saw me.
In the multi-fractal of synchronicity
we are each playing 'that good part'.
Little whirlwinds of incarnation
consummating the nub of the unfolding
until we merge with the night breeze.
We are all dreaming existence into being -
presciently if we listen to the rhythm of kaos.
I don't try to seek miracles.
I have only one circle of protection to draw.
When the rains of plenty fall,
they will thunder for immortal diversity.
How Did That Happen?
And I saw you. Now this is the key, HOW did that happen? What have I been saying for months but that we have to change how people dream? How did you enter my dreams & visions? How did I find you in dream and vision? I've been saying it's awesome, but, like Eric with the red, etc., not even asking how it could be. the reason I remembered you with silver and blue is that that image had a different quality to it than the others. At that time, I was seeing the Africans along the shore. They were very solemn, staring at me with wary eyes. Then a triangle of light zoomed up to my face and in it was this man showing me a jewel. It was brighter and more vivid than what went before and after, but I didn't get its meaning at all. I just thought, that was different. The others tended to repeat, but that one was only once. I wrote something afterwards about the third eye, but the blue is the 5th chakra: communication. Were you telling me to "recite"? What feature of human consciousness permits this kind of communication?
We seek longshoremen for our journeying souls.
Who will eagerly await us,
Who will secure us to our moorings,
Who will tread boldly but gently into our cargo-holds, and
Release our richest treasures.
Who will unload those treasures with alacrity and deftness, with concern and
Who will then, just as tenderly, refill our coffers with new gems.
Who will gratefully with joy and love celebrate the abundance we bring them,
And lift effortlessly those new mysterious boxes they then give to us.
And who will then release us, as we glide seamlessly through the harbor
On our way back to the sea,
As we ply the liquid universe,
so loving yet demanding,
Till we return to this port with renewed desire
for our longshoremen of the Soul.
Having fallen into a gentle sleep
Yadwigha in a dream
Heard the sounds of a musette
Played by a benevolent magician.
While the moon shone down
Upon the flowers, the green trees.
The wild serpents listened to
the instrument's merry tunes.
The summer of my enchantment
Prophecy and pictures are stronger than reason,
and a person can gaze and gaze,
encountering what they only guessed at,
like happening on an an unremembered lake in an
Searching maps for its name; not finding it written.
In the city of dreams, there's an antique bookstore.
One day, browsing old picture books,
each like a relic of another life or time,
you find a photo of a lake you dimly remember,
and you can't put it down. Your fingers shake just to
touch it. You inquire the price:
out of reach!
So you keep returning and gazing, hoping
for "a sale." Books go on sale, but that one
is never among them. You ask why, explain
how much you want it;
the Bookman replies everyday people ask
for this book. That's why it's never on sale..
The lake though, he adds, is really there.
But it's not in the maps, never got "documented."
Most people, he says, who inquire, actually
do know where it is, and have been there.
They just can't remember the trail, or are too old for the journey.
If you remember, he told me, go now,
and quit looking for picture books.
"Go, go!" he was nearly shouting.
And that's the reason I'm on an unmarked trail,
without a map, without a guide,
but with no thought of returning home.
I look to the moon and the stars for guidance,
but they just repeat, like the bookman,
I am trying to get there before I can no longer remember.
We all know that the silver glow
veiling the moon
is a spiral road,
but it's also a river
you can drown in.
Walking it, you drown in mists,
Drowning, you walk a highway.
Awakened deep in the earth
by droning and drumming,
drawn down, you gaze into a mirror,
but it's also a pool
you're looking up through.
In the mirror, you see shining water,
through the pool, yourself, dancing with stars.
When we convene there's solitude;
we draw moon circles and, gazing through mists,
we're also drowning in mirrors.
The deepest communion then
flies among us and up through the earth
and, shining like a path of flowers
a highway of clouds reveals the glow of the moon.
Only tricksters conjure such slippery visions,
There's a misty enchantment in them.
If you want to attempt it,
You already know how.
If you think you know how,
You'll never try.
And this distinction,like the others, is a lie.
Had a strange "visitation" today. Walking across campus, a brilliantly lit up white bird flew in a half circle just above and around me, then lit out across the sky towards the southwest, flashed brightly, and disappeared! I thought at first it was a tern, but not. And such so strangely bright. But strangest, that disappearance. Like the sky parted. And no clouds in sight.
Five Easy Pieces of Knowing
An elven light inside me flickers when my brother,
my namesake, whistles on the night breeze,
with songs of silver chiming
and a scent of holy moisture.
I make a wand with which to greet him.
I charge it with incandescence from a spark he gave me,
and from the three remaining essences:
what I create, who I am, what I know.
Then I blow and blow.
My brother and I dream coalescently.
His gift for fire-giving is the great one that makes jealous gods roar,
but their power is very faint in this garden,
because we created it without them.
Arriving in a new place,
I was instructed to climb the hill.
I spoke to the well, as I was taught,
Who answered me sweetly, in the voice of a frog,
And called me blessed.
I spoke of you to the well; he said you are his friend.
His ancient wisdom
Made me laugh with joy.
I then gave to the well the requisite coin and a flower,
and I ran down the hill to the dancing people
Who returned me to the beginning of this world
With apple seeds and blossoms (and a secret).
Climbing, then, up a perilous tunnel,
With the help of the owl and a wild storm following,
I came to this place so new.
Now, I laugh because I have seen you,
My brother, my heart's flower,
Who lives in my world's tomorrow
I do know who you are, do you know me?
You are not the only one with mission, vision.
Our paths are separate, but they unite,
Particle and wave, if we do it right.
I've conjured you here to her clear dark pool
Observe the moon, note the branches,
I the maid, the stag with antlers
Kneel, give me your hand, Listen.
Hear the loon? And the whisper:
(Through Her I grant you- Everything.)
She is best pleased when we both sing--
you are earth and air,
tone of clear bell rippling outward,
you contain and hold, breathe and exhale.
wherever in your warm atmosphere
you fly or walk, swim, or dig
blessings flow around and through you.
i am fire in water,
bright lava pulsing through the ocean floor,
eternal undulent birth,
invisible, chaotic, silent,
no one can see me
unless they dive deep.
one day seeking respiration
i emerge in your embrace.
in bluest sea an island paradise,
we make a flame in the dark sky,
which wild winds shatter to seeds--
then carried in clouds
we flash and shower
on waves and plains--
where you resound, and I burrow down
till we reconvene in love
when the branches shiver in the moon light wind
listen for a whisper
a catechism of pearls,
a parable of shine.
Beyond the Tame
There's a lake in the Dismal Swamp;
enchanted. It's haunted, the legends say.
The pine, the cedar, the cypress flicker endlessly--
with emanations of fireflies, bird-wing shimmering,
star songs, beast roars, fire on water.
I asked the lake a question, and it answered me:
"Wildness is the spirit of eternity!"
Dark lake, clear spring, and bright tree, and animal and flower, the birds
all sing this chant unendingly,
while we, so weak, so gray, think taming will make us free.
This place has sheltered slaves escaping,
Taming is its enemy. the spirit of bear, of eagle, of glowworm
all haunt, all enchant together in one loom, trying to make us see
beyond the tame, within the fog,
the flickering hope, the mystery.
The Two Blessings
In the drenching storm,
when the winds blow danger,
as we swiftly gather the beasts, the babies, the grandmothers, the precious
there is no time to contemplate the mystery of Love, fierce and strong. All
Then in the safe enclosure,
the fire so warming, the suckled babies drowsing,
as we enter the vision,
our hearts open silently to love's mystic soothing and sweetness.
Yet when we walk sound and soft, in times of well-being,
within the heart Gaea's love,
we understand both, and know,
we too should love fiercely and soothingly,
strongly and sweetly. The river-path then holds clarity.
In the Undernet
there are strange chambers;
where birds fly upside down,
where space grows then shrinks,
where rooms appear and disappear,
Love Incarnate lurks in dark corners.
Master Shame makes his home there, too.
In the undernet
you meet seven judges,
and then find that they are you,
and that what has always been transparent you now must explain,
and what has always been darker than blood is now clear.
Is there another world
under the undernet?
If so, I imagine it is
the uppernet, oddly,
and full of bubbles,
and new delirious delights.
In the undernet lie caverns
of loss, betrayal, punishment,
but also a clear, pure light
may shine. Is there time
for any one person to find herself
whole in the undernet? No.
when you get there,
lie down with the dark god
and tell all your secrets; you'll
soon know that the undernet
follows you wherever you go!
Speak to the filthy, fat goddess of carrion of your
lies, deceits, and blasphemies;
she'll laugh--she already knows you.
in the undernet you must submit,
or else won't be shown the way
through it, or out of it, or to the uppernet! In the undernet,
owls and snakes are friends, but
they won't love you till you give them
all you have.
Strip for the undernet, take off the jewels,
hand over the garments of many colors,
tell your whole life as if it were a joke.
In the undernet, to retain nothing is very valuable.
The more you bring, the more you have to give up.
If you are lucky, you will learn, with the giving up,
the undernet and the uppernet are really
the same place, and the key to ascendance
is the loss of the key. Go there, you will see.
Getting Even with Eleven: For Jane
One time we lived by thirteen menses'
monthly round of four weeks mean.
The Moon, 'Men', bides his time:
Wanderer between twelve and thirteen.
The men of Earth cursed the menses,
which they owed their very lives,
and adopted in their stead twelve months,
twelve constellations, and twelve tribes.
But jealous tribes could not abide.
Eleven-sided violence befell the chosen one.
Joseph's rainbow coat, mortified,
became a vengeful, then repentant wine.
Jesus celebrated this tradition
a dying Adonis, Spring's sedition.
Judas copped the sop lot, to his toll,
again leaving uneven eleven.
Do not consider I blaspheme,
because my home is at thirteen.
One Quirk of three Fates speaks no crime.
We spell the fourfold-nature of space-time !
Enmeshing Nets or Selkie Dreamtime
I'm grasping at a tingle
that quicksilver slips
through the fingers,
or else evaporates in puffs
like lemon light froth
in the wake of a sea beast,
like all dreams, made of mist,
even in a driving rain.
Beneath the clouds,
whispering star, sea and cave
invite participation in a selkie existence.
From tide to tide,
at least till winter mists of snow
freeze the sky then melt in the sea.
A mermaidish me
in kayak skin.
Do you wish for clairvoyant diving?
Or long more for the tingling mists
of the beached?
Jane King [email protected]
Allowing dreams to enter into and shape consciousness
The West has no cultural mechanisms for allowing dreams to substantially enter into and shape consciousness" (Hightower 79).
As poets have always noted, the only way to substantially, dramatically change people and their societies is to change how we dream. Political action and reform fight a losing battle against the cultivated need of people for the psychological relief from fear of alienation that consumerism represents to them. Tragically, however, the relief provided by goods is shallow and transitory, and thus this deep cultural addiction to "getting and spending" continues unabated despite even the most extraordinary efforts of individuals. Yet we discount more enriching, rewarding activities, such as dreaming, visions, and spirituality, teaching our children that "dreams are not real" and that the imagination is, at best, a useful tool for a higher plateau of material success.
If you unravel this simple idea to its roots, it becomes astonishingly apparent that the transformation that is needed to save biodiversity is both obvious and simple, though not necessarily easy. We need to contact, individually and collectively, the spirit of the earth, a "substance independent of materiality," (Hightower 80) yet manifest everywhere in the physical, including ourselves. We need to reshape our cultural dream in such a way that people will have direct access to their deeper connectivity to the joy of life. We need, simply put, to value the visionary experience more than acquisition.
I am aware that this sounds impossibly naiive and idealistic. But it is not impossible. The nuclear family structure tends to breed in us feelings of inferiority that activate a primal instinct to hostility and competition. Each of us engages in relationships of every sort in which we exchange hostility and inferiority, or, put another way, of oneupmanship, so fluidly that we can't even idenfity the changes. This in turn causes us to spend all our psychological energy in attempting to "feel OK" through any means possible; ultimately, we have a society of individuals whose only viable sustenance of happiness is in acquiring enough status and goods by which to measure their worth against others. We don't have to get rid of the nuclear family in order to change this process. We merely need to help people learn, by being conscious of our own reaction syndrome, how not to participate in this transaction. We simply recognize when we are reacting with either hostility or inferiority, and stop. Even if others aren't aware of this, the subsequent lessening of their own hostility/inferiority reactions to others will activate a chain reaction. This lessening frees us to engage in a more creative, spiritual, loving existence. Such a simple process, but the rewards for the planet could be enormous. Every individual reading this could start trying now. .
The second step, once we have begun to free ourselves from these unnecessarily provoking responses, a life-long process, admittedly, is to make a connection with something deeper, a spiritual source that can provide more depth of experience, love and joy. We will intuit our place in the universe as very special, not alienated and struggling for emotional fulfillment that can't be had, but involved in a fabric that stretches forever. The profound joy that comes from spiritual interaction with the cosmos and especially the earth is known by us all , but we have been taught and continue to teach our children to discredit it because it can't be measured. Imagine, though, if we instead supported such connections as our highest human value. This does not mean bowing down beneath a weight of "rights and wrongs," which is the fundamentalist error. It simply means the recognition that just as we phsyically evolved from the same beginnings as everything else here, so we spiritually evolved. We are all in loving partnership with every rock, tree, plant, animal, star and human mind; when we turn to their eternal wisdom for guidance, we become truly free, and we then can use our powerful connection with the unseen as well as the seen to end the destruction of each other and the earth.
John Lennon and Yoko Ono once said, "War is over, if you want it." We likewise can say, the annihilation is over. But we have to want it, dream it, envision it, will it. And to do that we need, desperately, to teach ourselves and each other what is truly valuable.
And must this mighty universe dissolve,
And in the melting mass all things involve?
And must fair Nature here expire at last,
And sink upitied in the gen'ral blast?
And must she leave behind no mark, no trace
Of all her glory in the empty space!
To tell to passing clouds a world did once
Fill up this mighty round, this wide expanse.
Jane Dunnett, From "Time," 1818.