ON THE WAY TO THE WEDDING

ON THE WAY TO THE WEDDING

 

It certainly wasn’t your fate. Perhaps it could have been in a parallel universe but you choose another route. The inner path. The path of self mastery. The most difficult path of all. The underground journey. The inward journey to the inner groom. No guarantees. The inner marriage which plunged one into a path of isolation and solitude. The path of Percival. The search for the inner grail. The Sumerians believed that destiny is written in the heavens and revealed in the astrological birth chart. Certain women elected not to go the entire route but to arise as the Virgin Bride and search for the alchemical union in external relationships. By remaining in a constant state of falling in and out of love they remain unable to utilize a relationship as a container for wholeness. The Virgin Bride, when unconscious, remains in a perpetual state of neediness. Unleashing the counter forces to such public exhibition. Fame and its attendants – envy. It is not my path. Mine was slow and steady. Patient, a turning inward, seeking the divine light deep within rather than in a partner. I already gave up the notion of an external union – how could I find that Percival who made the journey and found the Grail within himself. He would have to be the standout artist of the time. I have been through all the others. Why even bother trying to link up with the man who hasn’t taken the journey through all the external women to find the grail in the form of his inner woman? I had to go on my own grail quest to uncover my inner male. He arrived in the form of an inner divine light, the solar consciousness, now being blotted out by the Aquarian Moon. Who is the Grail but the Aquarian woman, the woman ruled by the sky goddess archetype. The light is my partner. The Aquarian called me under a mercury retrograding and a moon waxing to the place of the Sacred Marriage. The Scorpio woman who introduced two years ago had returned to New York and was accusing me of being a traitor. Siding with the man rather than the woman. It wasn’t like that. I condemned the toxic feminine, his inner woman and herself. The painter made me swear not to engage sexually with this man. What is sex but an energy exchange? But she did not see it that way. She possessed him and there was no way she was ever letting go. What happened to him, I wonder as I pass under the Japanese Acorn tree. Yes, there he is treading water in the muck. Quick sand. To open up so widely and suddenly where there are no more boundaries separating my identification with the ever moving, everchanging river of life, (the influence of the moon swallowing the sun, under this lunar eclipse no doubt) the way he did two years after that blow out (why did he wait so long) and not to go through the purification…what does it mean. Like the Englishman who asked me to marry him but couldn’t take my touch. He bent over in laughter if I touched him. I said “When you went to India in the sixties, did you per chance learn to meditate? Or yoga?” Messy messy messy lives these hippies led. And to be pure enough to do alchemy afterwards? Life is an illusion, the yogis are so fond of saying. Illusions are unmasked during eclipses. This particular eclipse, highlighting the Aquarian bride and her partner, the Lion of Judea, is at noon in Bath. The sun high overhead and darkened by the devouring moon. Eclipses always bring unpredictable events and this one much more than most. The Uranian eclipse of all time. When a new art emerges. The passage is treacherous. Dangerous pussy. The card that comes up when I confront jealousy. It was all about lust. The dangerous encounter. The beast has no patience. The beast wants it all now. I wrote about this Aquarian and he wanted to read it. His birthdate was February 11, 1950. A birthchart that virtually sang out the Sacred marriage. A new form of innovative relationship. The chart of the groom awaiting his bride. And this Aquarian in his new post yoga confident self was ready. Or so he thought. February 11, in the wee hours of the morning, marks the death of Sylvia Plath. 1963. Saturn squaring Neptune.   The dream of the Sacred Marriage dying an early death. In our last conversation, Scott admitted that he was trying to clean out his apartment of stuff but couldn’t bring himself to throw anything out. Amazing what people will tell you about themselves from their habits. The shaman taught me the importance of really listening. Not only to what is said but what isn’t said. Thank you Mercurius, winged messenger, patron of all these alchemical transformations delivering me to the Cross Bath, for the unconscious message. He wasn’t ready to bring in anyone new. His subconscious wasn’t ready. Never mind his massive ego that expected the Angel to arrive on his doorstep, all decked out and prepared to redecorate his house. How I laughed with pleasure during our conversation under the full moon in Libra. I hadn’t had that much fun in New York since that disastrous three way weekend date in the Hamptons!   Where were the stars hovering that Capricorn weekend in early 1997? Oh, yes. This was the prelude to the six pointed star on my birthday. The narrowest passage of the birth canal. Saturn testing my fortitude, checking to see if I was ready and prepared to make it to the other side. The Aquarian Age. So I returned two years, two months later to the aquamarine rug, his airy Aquarian sea complete with a sandbox on the Zinc slab of a coffee table containing shells. A reminder to take off my boots, my fear that I soiled the rug by not having done so. It looked the same. The border of musical instruments that looked as if they had never been played. Exotic instruments like I saw at Real World. In the three times I have been in his apartment, he never spontaneously picked up an instrument and played. I would attract a musician now, with Neptune on my Sun and my Pisces Moon no longer in denial of what truly is nourishing. Peter Gabriel. The name came up immediately from the surface of the sea. During our initial meeting on his floating aqua sea of rug, I was handed his birth chart configuration looked familiar. Peter Gabriel. The Aquarian lording over a magical place called Real World. The chart looked familiar because Peter Gabriel’s birthday was just two days after Scott. At the mention of his name, a CD was extracted from the library spilling out of custom made shelf and into the aqua sea. US. The CD calling out the Sacred Marriage, which I discovered during my trek to Real World. Bought it in the Virgin Records at Picadelly Square. What an introduction! Even my English alchemist suitor, who never heard of Peter Gabriel, thought it was marvelous. When Scott contacted me this year, he brought a symbol. Yoga. He had discovered yoga and was doing it everyday. Practicing the symbol extracted down from the ethers in Peter Gabriel’s album of five years ago. The divine union. As it happened, I was blessed, under the Jupiter, Moon, Venus conjunction on my Moon, with the perfect teacher. A double Pisces with a pure, pure energy. A beautiful woman, pure of body and heart, teaching me about the balance between the organic and muscular body. The yoga comes as a reward after many years of struggle. Simply, it is a quest for order. A reconciliation between my Germanic Teutonic side and my Romanian Jewish mystic side. Light and dark. Order and Ka-Os. Mind and emotion. Spirit and soul. Fusing through the inner fire. The need for reconciliation was so great in my personality, the Grail quest took over my life for fourteen years.   The best years of my life dedicated to the Grail. At the beginning of the journey, an ominous reading by an Argentine astrologer dramatically warning me of the dangers of my chart before assuring me of the quality of my mind. Thanks to my clear thinking Germanic mother, there is assuredly nothing wrong in that department. Even when I felt myself undergoing emotional breakdown, my practicality never wavered. What genetics couldn’t complete, meditation can. The mind is clear as glass. Objects are categorized in my fine A chair is a chair. And I don’t even care to describe it any other way but its usefulness. The body is muddle, the body is struggling between the opposites, the body forever intoxificated on the qust to purity, the damage of everyday life at this crucial time . The subtle changes, the shifts, the alignment with the spirit, the marriage between Jew and German, mystic and philosopher. The fusion of the yoga. The integration. This is what is surely being celebrated during the course of this procession. Yoga has taken the place of t he partner. Yoga is creating the form to create the lasting union. Yoga is responsible for the opening. My body and mind liberated at last from the struggle of reconciliation. Free simply to make the subtle shifts of supporting movement required by the yoga. Just what conceptual art needs – yoga – the union to provide the structure. The very lack of structure caused all those ideas to get soiled in the human search for form. The tension between quality of the mystic and quantity required by society. An artist cannot become without quality. Conceptual art was art without a form. No technique. No history. No future. No standards. No rules. Just glorious present. Pure thought. But the thoughts got soiled. Strictly due to that lack of form. No form for the artist. No quest for form. Resting in the old forms, the old containers, the patriarchal archetypes. The suffering artist. The artist who must treat his suffering with alcohol and drugs. The artist that dispells the chaos rather than daring the plunge into KA-OS. From chaos to Ka-Os is what the Virgin Maiden agreed is the new movement. My yoga teacher said I was the most organic individual she had ever met. My Romanian half that I have honored and duly cleansed. So I couldn’t truly be as organic as a full Romanian, or an Albanian. But I’m not sure about that. Even the most earthy of people today have the patriarchal overlay to contend with. That is the irony, the ultimate paradox of this journey. To arrive at the truly organic one must enter the non-organic, the mind. The mind must be dispelled of false beliefs and through the dispelling of these beliefs the Body follows in consciousness. So it is an ironic award for all the hard work of the artist, to arrive at a place of organic authenticity. A place where the one thing that makes me happy is to retreat from whence I came. To retreat into the mud as a sort of primordial womb. Just the opposite of where I thought this trip would lead me….Willed myself into position and then my response to her description of my kamakazie technique. “you are decribing my life.” And then I made the conscious choice to slow down. Slow down and just do the proper preparation. Just focus completely on the body. And relish in this restructured DNA. The light infused by the forests I have written on. All the manuscripts hiding in the attic. The yoga will take me where I want to go. The yoga is the key right now. When Venus goes retrograde on my Pluto, my instincts will lead me where I need to go. I must prepare. Funds in the bank and the body as the guide. The state of grace. And by willing the change in yoga technique, I will a change in my life. The surrender to a fate I willed myself. My teacher presents it like this: The muscular body has to surrender to make the empty spaces for the organic (the light!) to enter. This integration of light and darkness is the Sacred Marriage. The union of male and female. The marriage is the reason why I was selected for this procession. I was so accustomed to the darkness that I nearly refused. Take that pop star. Or the other. They tend to be so interchangeable. But with every step of the journey under the Sacred Marriage between Sun and Moon of this fated eclipse, I understand precisely why no artificially illuminated woman of the last decade who refused to fully enter the darkness (in order to find their light) cannot take my place in the media glare. Oh, they were lining up their managers, their publicists, their producers for invitations no doubt. They would have jumped at the opportunity to join the ritual. But, it wouldn’t have happened. They wouldn’t have been able to hold the energy long enough to go the distance. It took the intense yoga and the body absorbing the philosophy of the retrograde Mars in Scorpio over my Scorpio constellation which relates the archetypal narrative (sitting now in my mother’s attic) of the new archetype to make it happen. certainly would like too but they will never be able to hold the energy long enough. America is the land of the Sacred Marriage, the Aquarian Age archetype. We are the melting pot, the combination of old world and new. Most Americans are a combination of old and new, light and dark. But a combination does not mean the same thing as integration. The idea is to fuse the opposites so that one cannot know on a physical level where muscles end and the organic begins.   See, my astrology gave me the confidence that I was going to get at the Sacred Marriage by one means or another. Either by the worldly route (my south node in Taurus) or the non worldly route (north node in Scorpio) So now I am like the alchemist who revealed that his life was completely fated. Taking the road of public recognition was a parallel path to the one I ended up taking. And in all that time of obscurity I never realized how lucky I was. How free. To write whatever I wanted. To not have to think of an audience. Who wants to become a whore to their audience. I would really feel sorry for an unpublished writer who writes to be read. My writing style is a form of colonic. A means of creating order out of chaos. My Germanic mind needs order. I can’t live in a state of constant information input. I need to process, to analyze, to examine, to purge. My writing derives from the pure source – the Virgin Goddess – she is the engine that keeps the entire mechanism going. White notebook. Step by step. Joint by joint. Patterns emerging. The last half of the 20th century . What an amazing time to be alive! A most meaningful time to be alive . My toes tingle from the sensation of it. The sensation of the cusp. The Grail. Coincidencias. There are none on this journey. Only projections and syncronicties – magical moments in time. Moments which extract like from the Ka-Os of dark matter. The patterns emerging from KA-Os. Mahler writing an opera on the death of the kinder and his child dying immediately afterwards. The guilt wrecked his marriage. The pathway to KA-OS is treacherous. A direct convergence between the creator and his fate. Did the dwelling in the energy of the dead children create such a fate or was Mahler a prophet of his own future tragedies which would tear apart his family? He plunged right into Ka-Os despite the pleadings of his wife to turn back from the abyss. Yoga. Balance between surrender and will. The yoga is the teacher. The body has the wisdom. The body seeks the marriage of the opposites. Blending the organic body with the strength of the will. Ironic because my will is less now than ever in my life. Now, it is my will that is aiding the surrender instead of preventing it. The confrontation with the Virgin Goddess got me to this place of surrender. Surrender not because someone (always a man) told me to but surrender because it is time. The safe passage has finally arrived. With the quaternity, the fixed Cross, there is safety that the form has been created. The trinity of the Piscean Age no longer rules the psyche. The four fold relationship between matter and spirit, form and substance, is now bound with blood. This is the celebration rite of a new millennium. Taking place at the Cross Bath, will the purified Spring will rise again and heal the parched and wounded earth, the ground still shuddering from the Airean swords, the warriors of the Iron Age that lived to conquer, the warriors who destroyed the temple of the goddess. Mahler still plays in my head. The Sacred Marriage. The KA-OS cycle of life, decay, death and regeneration. On so many levels in his compositions where life and death merge. Soul and spirit in joyous unity. That is where life is. Right at the center of Ka-Os. How we have denied ourselves from finding it. All because of fear. And now I celebrate the balance. The paradox. If I hadn’t achieved the balance I wouldn’t be here at all. The surrender. If could only do it when my will – my male side – was strong enough in my beliefs that I knew I wasn’t surrendering to the old gods but to the new. And here I am, steadfast in my beliefs. In that cozy Baroque bar of the hotel across from the Met. We walked into the dimmed romantic lighting and he gave me a choice. He asked me if I wanted to stay. And of course. It was such a romantic place. The setting for a love encounter. And I knew then I wasn’t in love with him. The setting was therefore incongruous. It didn’t match my mood at all. Well, maybe his. The interesting thing was that the planets were aligned in the place triggering my old pattern. Eros as the engine. An energy that couldn’t be contained and had to be acted on immediately. And here was the setting to trigger the locomotive – the nymphs follicking in Eden, amorous couples making out on all sides. But we shared an intimacy that wasn’t physical. He told me of his wound. His father’s wound actually. Quite a visible one. His father cut off his own arm to save himself. A heroic survivor of the Battle of the Bulge. He retrieved a watch. So the timer was an important element of the myth. Saturn. I told him that he had extremely good timing, to reappear in my life when it was so empty and I was so ready for the Sacred Marriage. And a full moon in Libra. What timing! How unfortunate that he wasn’t ready! The body knew the timing but it wasn’t prepared.

 

I bought my mother an angel made out of straw for her birthday and we hung her on the front door. The return of the sky goddess. And we decked her in ribbon and there she remained until Spring when a bird built a nest and laid an egg. The birth! What a sign. And perfect timing. The very day that I lit a candle in church for the sky goddess to celebrate her return and there was an egg to commemorate the new birth. And so I had to part with the Virgin Goddess. I needed to encounter the sky goddess on my own terms. At last. I already learned the dangers of receiving her without being able to ground her energy. The father’s wound inherited by the son. The incomplete father blocking the gifts of the complete son. The wound was inherited and so visible. Right there with Saturn precisely on his ascendant. The wound there for everyone to see but himself. The wound of allowing himself to go through life not whole so he wouldn’t have to complete with the father who wasn’t whole. Cronus who devours his children so they wouldn’t outdo him. The Fisher King whose wound causes the land to fall into drought. The wound. I used to run way when a man felt obliged to tell me his wound. I believed that hearing his wound would make me obligated to heal it. And finally, I was released. I finally understood as the moon continued to wax to the full lunation in Libra, that I was under no future obligation at all from a moment of healing. Of course they want to continue the relationship. Why wouldn’t someone want to bath in the healing power of the goddess all the time? The problem in the past was my own attachment. I projected my own attachment onto them. As the Virgin Goddess said, “once you let go, it returns in a higher form.” And it happened. I let go, not expecting to ever hear from him again and he returned more conscious, more willing to embark on the journey. We even discussed the choreography and he confessed that he was ordering me around out of fear. Mahler understood completely the cycle of nature, long before it was acceptable in the culture. He was easily a hundred years ahead of his time in his quest to unite light and dark, conscious and unconscious. And how he managed to do so in his life! Running an opera house for ten months in the city and for ten months retreating to enter the unconscious in complete isolation. The fifth Symphony begins with the trumpet call. The death march and ends with a joyous embrace of life. He found the Goddess during that symphony. He embraced her entirety – dark and light. He wrote the music in the most blissful time of his life. He had just married Alma, a much sought after woman.

 

The Grail. Not just a male journey. The female journey as well. The wounded fisher king is the ailing patriarch in all of us. I knew I was healed by my confrontation that day in Scott’s apartment. A confrontation with Saturn which I approached without repressed anger, without bitterness. Without denial. Just open and observant and detached.

 

A woman who frees herself from her animus is the true revolutionary! Yes, I do believe we were engaged in a revolutionary/evolutionary act right there in Scott’s aqua living room. A man and a woman in a conscious relationship. Didn’t matter that it had no future. And how can I know that anyway. I let Saturn lead. The old devil set up the meeting. After the last words I said in parting was that we would get together under the Libra Moon, he insisted on the Virgo Moon. Syncronistic. Instead of joyous union (that he must have been expecting by his state of half undress) there was only a therapy session.   I was actually bored. It is one thing to listen to a man reveal his wound – the mental masturbation that inevitably follows is another thing. What a bore! What an ego trip! He told me his problem was that in high school he was forced to choose between music and athletics. He

claimed he couldn’t do both. Come on! Talk about from the sacred to the mundane. That incredible mythos reduced to socialization in high school! I suspected he felt the need to make excuses. Perhaps it is the next step in the conscious relationship. When the man of unfullfilled promise reveals his inadequacies (in this case laziness) to the fulfilled woman. A quest for her sympathy, perhaps? He only received my scorn. But I hid it. The last thing I wanted from a real conversation with this mythical man is excuses for the lack of dedication to developing his considerable gifts! His explanation for his failures? A weakness for beauty! Ha! I too have a weakness for beauty and that precisely is what spurred me to create. Mental masturbation I do not need. IF he was truly that sensitive to beauty he would be able to recognize the goddess when she appeared and to recognize the goddess is to worship her. I delivered the goddess to him and he stomped on her. Does that reveal a true weakness for beauty?

 

And I know the truth. It was revealed to me after he put on his pants (I’m sure he would have preferred to getting naked by then but not under this examination table!) and we trotted to the Post office. I went along with his coaxing, despite the fact that my meeting had already begun and the inner disgust I felt in the range of his overblown ego, so satisfied to have tightened the lasso to keep me at his side. Some psychics explain the grail as the central nervous system in a highly attuned state. This is what makes the Aquarian so psychic, the ability to receive information from the air. Bypassing the intellectual process entirely to the act of a simply knowing. The Aquarian knows the last act of the drama by the first intermission, it is said. Leo is the heart, the source of the blood’s circulation, but Aquarius rules the spreading of the blood through the central nervous. They are already calling the Aquarian Age the Information Age, bypassing the wisdom of the Grail all together. And they wonder why the culture is disintegrating. It is up to those who have taken the Grail journey, the artists and healers, to instill the values of the Aquarian Age, thereby putting technology in its place, a tool of humanity as opposed to a ruler of humanity. For those who embark on the Grail journey at this time there are no coincidences. Only syncronicities. Magical moments in time. What is Jung’s definition? Now, here is a syncronicity!   I was listening to a CD for the movie City of the Angels in a cubicle in the perfume department of Elizabeth Arden, the Apple computer lined up with perfumes and listening to Peter Gabriel’s I grieve when this handsome Frenchman comes by to ask me for the itinerary of my boss who was traveling in Europe. And here I am writing my past, my present and future in a series of elliptical moments and here I look down at the extra copy of the Itinerary and on Friday the 30th it reads: Noontime – Travel to Bath. Now, how is that for syncronicity? I knew then that something huge was due to happen. Something determined long before my birth. Around that time I discovered that the lunar eclipse, the eclipse that launched this wedding procession, was directly on my Sun. All told, with the conjunction of Neptune, this reveals a significant emergence of a vessel for the Aquarian Age spirituality – the Sacred Marriage. Mind proceeds psyche. I grieve. And I’m available! Peter Gabriel’s song of grieving bleeding through my computer as I write that the grieving is over. The new has fully emerged. This is the rub. Jupiter is exactly opposed my Jupiter. Opposed the conjunction it made to my Scorpio when I was led to Real World. This Jupiter makes real the connection to the real world. The real live vessel for the Aquarian Age male.   Nothing happens without eclipses my astrologer friend once told me. The cosmic opening grounded in reality. Eclipses are when the stage is set and the lights suddenly come on. Fourteen years of stage production. Here is another syncronicity that would seem to prove astrology. I was frantic to get on that plane, despite my having to receive my passport the very same day, it was Mars on my fated Saturn Mars combination that caused the pressure. I had to get on that Virgin flight. And once I was on the flight I had to change my seat. A man on either side. Men. So many men to be flying out of my body under that aspect. Darryl met Nicky at the airport. He couldn’t believe the combination. Darryl was gorgeous. Cajun. So unbelievably strong. He could handle my high pitched energy. You don’t have to leave. The musicians wanted me to stay. They were groovin off the energy I was channeling. But I never wanted to be a muse. And I couldn’t be cruel to Nicky. Sweet Nicky. Did he propose before or after I took off for Real World? I can’t remember. The return in Spring under an eclipse that sucked all the energy out of me. The eclipse that flung me into a brick wall, telling my body I couldn’t possibly merge into the old soiled forms. No, I had to push on to the new forms. The forms created by the yoga. The teacher materialized under the potent Jupiter Venus on my Moon. A most magical moment when I wandered into the Greenwich Arts Center and discovered a yoga class was beginning. A yoga class that changed my life. How to read that all important trigger to my Saturn Mars conjunction which caused me so much trouble with men in my past? The Virgin was taking me to the new man. Struck by the lightening I carry as a weapon. The all important tool in my toolbox — my ability to cut off a relationship from one moment to the next. The yoga teaching me Inanna on those tablets. The archeologists got it all wrong. The sky goddess isn’t carrying corn husks. She is carrying bundles of lightening. The generator of electricity. She is the source of the heat. Her weapon awakens humankind. She is Prometheus, the awakener. Strikes you all dead. No big loss anyway. We don’t need the assistance of the old containers on this mystical march beside the freedom canal! Arise from your death and let the revelation of truth awaken you into the New Man. You better!   Darryl didn’t know but he was already carrying it. The spirit of the New Man. He was so strong, a Capricorn, so he could contain it. That is what Peter Gabriel was doing at Real World! Creating the New Man! Today is my wedding day and I want to mate with all the men who dare to grieve, the men who dare to surrender to my embrace. Nicky, that is all I wanted for you. To awaken in a new manhood. He had never even heard of Nirvana either and through it hilarious, in fact, that the leader of a band called Nirvana killed himself. Of course, it would take someone with Nicky’s abstract mind, his social isolation, to find the humor in such a tragedy. These musical geniuses can’t help but carry a myth, even if it is not the myth anyone would carry to enter. In Cobain’s case, the canary in the Coal Mine. Like Peter Gabriel, Carrying the name of two angels. Gabriel, the most beautific of all.

That night at the Spring Equinox, when I toasted my Romeo and Juliet cup with the Virgin Goddess, I was toasting my liberation from the media. My last piece – written on site at the gala celebrating the mythmaking of Linda Eastman McCartney who captured the Sacred Marriage in her photographs and later in her life with Paul McCartney – was the last attempt to reach the mass consciousness through my journalism. It failed to work and all of Spring I rested before being alerted to the new approach. And here I am, weaving through the trees of the world, winding through all the myths, the various roots of our past winding into a unifying root of a unifying myth. I need to be in the center of my own orbit. The center of a bountiful table filled with love. A light that extends through even the darkest of matter. The Round Table of King Arthur resurrected under this myth. We got locked out of the ritual. I was $39 poorer and I processed right there in the street. I have outgrown the goddess worship. There is no room for males. As my yoga teacher would say: all organic, no muscle. So I processed it quickly because I had to find a place for us to eat. A suitable space where we could welcome in the new year. And by entering the unconscious, I found it. Just after a run in with a tough guy who literally dropped a glass bottle at my feet. It shattered. The Virgin Goddess was scared. A sign we had just crossed into the unconscious. And there was our safe haven, “Tea & Sympathy”. A tiny English teahouse. We entered as a couple was leaving. The front table was empty. All English accents. A playbill. Photos of England. The waitress with her English accent. I ordered crumpets and a pot of tea.   And what about the sixties? The mod of London turning to the British invasion. Mary Quaint. It happened just about overnight. Those few minutes of the Beatles on Ed Sullivan show changed our culture forever. “It always takes time for success,” said the Virgin Goddess. I have heard this before from those who know of course. “Not the sixties. Linda Eastman had an overnight success,” I said. “She is dead!” The truth hit hard. Not only did she die young but her subjects died younger. Blew a fuse. Short circuited. IF there is one thing I know about myself, is that if I had experienced early success, the success I expected before 30, I wouldn’t be alive to make this journey.

 

The beauty I am searching for is the Sacred Marriage. There is truly beauty in balance. The feminine not as dead matter or ravaging but in a constant state of flux and change. I saw that reflection in the Virgin Goddess. And I’m grateful. I learned to recognize grace through yoga. Grace is truly taking life as it comes. No longer treating events as dress rehearsals for the big one. There is no big one. Everyday is bliss when it is a feeling that comes from inside. The day I felt the shift. I remember so clearly. April 20th, the very day of those horrible massacres by two high school students in Littleton. I refused to read the papers. I didn’t want to know about external discord when inwardly I felt so complete. I took a walk in the Arboretum with my mother. A little stroll in the daffodil beds and I took her to my favorite spot across the bridge of the pond. It had been raining earlier in the day and the ponds was so still. We gazed into the water down into infinity. The infinite vectors from the tree ranches and the illusion so complete it was impossible to determine where the branches ended and where they were only reflected and staring at the merging between illusion and reality. As above, so below. Which was illusion and which was real? In contemplating the boundary between worlds, I had my moment of breakthrough to enlightenment. There is no boundary at all between the real and the not real. All is one in the spiritual state. The explicate order meets the implicate order in the body. The eclipse is when the union manifests. Only in the day to day life is there the illusion of illusion. What is real is the iron grip of the patriarchal Saturn – the animus forced into continual work 00 Arbeit est gut. To keep the female preoccupied and unaware of her apparent lack of freedom. I say apparent because biology reveals that the female is actually freer than the male. The female can hold energy. She can choose heaven or earth. Not so the male. Who is the authentic female I have been so avidly seeking. I got her reflection in the Virgin Bride. She is joyous. I fell the joy in stillness. Sitting in the Garden and watching the birds, the huge robin digging for his supper, the cardinal, the blue jay. This is real. So that is my journey in a giant paradox. Led to the bungalow of a rock and roll star when I discovered the real after being tossed out of Eden. A false Eden promised on one knee by my alchemist suitor who denied it was lust he was feeling. My alchemist suitor who locked me out of his townhouse when I returned after wandering the streets after a party. The suitor whose jealousy condemned me to spend the night in the streets. My alchemist suitor who dared to blame the gods for his actions when he littered symbols on the back of a postcard of gargoyles from France. The suitor who compiled data on horse breeding during the moon cycles but had no idea what to do when the lunar goddess shone on his dark archetypal world. His house littered with ghosts. The old girlfriend who appeared on his doorstep the day before I arrived to tell him she was there to exorcise his mother’s ghost. The alchemist had a thing for little girls. The little girl in me is what he lusted after. The woman he ran away from. I remember him leaning against the wall with a pained expression on his face, arms holding his heaving stomach. If you only knew what I am feeling” he cried. LUST! There it was, the wolf in the bottle. I spent a great deal of time in the townhouse in the bathtub taking bubble baths purchased at a charming apothecary in Chelsea. And what represented my resuce from that dark, occult world. Real World. I longed to return. But the second time I went back I couldn’t get in. Condemned to the shadows of the implicate order. Stuck in magic time. Real time wasn’t ready. Condemned to the shadows with the other archetypes. Tinkerbelle defending her precious Solsbury Hill. Six years later. Real time is as ready as it will ever be. And the yoga is teaching me to appreciate it. When I was invited into the orbit during my Jupiter return – six years ago. When I was invited to England by the alchemist who promised a rescue from the Hall of Mirrors, as he called it, but the cosmic joke was that he was the biggest mirror of all. A mirror of my own lust for little boys, a mirror of my narcissim, my love of dramatic entrances and exits, my love of abstraction over reality. I told him I saw a ghost standing over me, a ghost with a huge penis dripping blood and he turned white and gripped my hand. “You think it was me?” All that occult going on in his family history. His grandfather the high priest of Annie Besant. It was another syncronicity that confirmed that interesting bit of history. After we spent the day together and he told me of his past and the fate course of his life, I went on a desert retreat and staying in a cabin which was, not so incidently, being ram rodded by a huge trailer. Very phallic. Extremely symbolic of the men who got in my way. The patriarchal archetypes – male and female – that got in my way. If I had submitted the way they wanted me to, I never would have arrived at this procession. But there was the cosmic carrot luring me on right there in that cabin. A book about Krisnamurti with a photo of Nick’s grandfather in priest’s garb, the caption reading Annie Besant’s inner circle. And I tore out the photo and sent it to Nick who admonished me for tearing pages out of books. I think it was then he fell in love with me. We did have in common this occult history and fathers who were healers – sort of. His was a psychiatrist and mine a psychologist. Don’t get me wrong. Nicky was certainly brilliant. He went to Cambridge and it nearly destroyed him. Or so he said in that dramatic death defying manner he had of relating his history. So Nick was a mirror of the tormented and repressed kundalini from my own past. I couldn’t even begin to heal him. I just lit sage and prayed. And it wasn’t Nick who was the embodiment of the New Man I was unconsciously seeking but beautiful Darryl. So spiritual he was Darryl although he refused to admit it. It simply wasn’t hip in those days to be spiritual.   Darryl knew where I was coming from. More than Nicky who just went nuts over me. I would tell him. Nicky, it isn’t me. It is an energy I brought down from the mountains. The Native American sweatlodge where I met the goddess. I showed Darryl my unpublished article about the alchemy of the sweatlodge while I was on the plane. His very name, Percival, means, according to some, “pierce the veil”, I always knew it would end up this way. Having everything I strived for firmly in my grasp – fame, fortune and long deserved recognition – yet giving it up to save my life. All my live I envisioned myself as retreating to some faraway place. I’m still waiting. The central paradox of my life is that only with money can I go and when the money finally comes in exchange for my talent it will be hardest to leave. But what a statement it makes personally and publicly to give up the material wealth for inner peace. And going with him to the post office. The spoiled child who absolutely had to get his way. I played along. Not so much to pacify him but to view the outcome from a neutral place. It was a game I was playing with the universe. If old father time didn’t rouse me from my center, I knew I had won. I wasn’t going to rebel just because he expected me to. To become that nasty, dependant, critical inner woman. He has the wounded statue for his alter. He doesn’t need me to lay across it. Thank you Scott for revealing your pattern and liberating me from my own. Find someone else to play in the sandbox with because I am simply not available. So too with the Virgin Goddess. To move in like a surgeon and fix what wasn’t working. Something the angels themselves couldn’t see because it dealt not with cosmic but earthly realities. Did I have to solve her every mundane problems as well? No, the Virgin Goddess revealed that everyone has their role. Woe to those lost knights who don’t know theirs! As one admirer once said: “There is no profession that fits you.” Yes, all I can find that suits me goes back to Sumer when men and women were equal. Freedom comes as a great cost. A cost of consciousness. In truly accepting our freedom, we can’t blame others for our circumstances. The Post Office was taking too long. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t have mailed it before I arrived. I told him I had no time for a leisurely stroll across the park. I didn’t expect to hear from him. Remember, said the Virgin Goddess, when you let something go, it returns at a new level. He did. More heart and more consciousness than before but not nearly enough. I asked him why the orders and he said he was afraid I wouldn’t come. I told him I need to hear what he is feeling because I refuse to be led around by Saturn. I told him that I have no problem with Saturn at all.   I have made my piece with old father time. Took a great deal of work but I did it. Ironically, my Saturn provided me with the grounding to release Scott from my orbit. I don’t need any projections of the patriarchal saturn in my orbit. I have humanized Saturn, brought the planet back into the earth mother sphere. The motion of the planets is right and true and it is our beliefs that must change. Saturn doesn’t have to be mean and heavy. Saturn can be an ally.   It was a simple statement meant for a much larger audience. But too, I needed to hear myself say it. I have no issues with Saturn. In acknowledging my freedom, my only obligation to the universe is to live freedom fully, to claim it in every moment, every action. His problems, like those of most of us, were all in his mind. Attempting to realize the ideals of a perfectionist mother, he couldn’t finish a creative product, or probably not a romance either. And in not carrying his libido through to completion, he blamed his mother. Every creative woman he attracted placed him in the same cycle. But the cycle stopped with me. I refused to play. My parting gift was a brochure from Waters of Life on 60th street. Pray that he makes the wise decision to heal himself, thereby removing a wounded man from the planet in the place of a whole man. But he provided the wonderful contrast with Peter Gabriel – the Aquarian Man who has finished his journey to the Grail, realized his gifts through engaging in successful collaborations and is awaiting his Sacred Marriage partner – an outer reflection of the inner achievement. Like Percival we need to embark on the journey. Every one of us. Man and women. Traveling the world with a sac on our back, taking back our projections until we have finally become whole. IT is simply not true – what the media and advertising marketeers would have one believe, that the rich and famous receive the magic. How untrue is that notion!   If I had been a celebrity, I would never have been able to make the journey. Celebrities are mere commodities, hawking their personalities from behind a market stall. The truth that the black magicians will never have you see is that the Grail lies in the most ordinary experience! The most ordinary acts reveal the most extraordinary workings of the universe. And suddenly, another chilly breeze with a tingling working its way down my spine. What if this was all a trap? What if I was coaxed on this freedom trek in hopes of arriving at the symbol of the new reality, the authentic cross unifying spirit and matter, and there isn’t the solar light of a new cosmology but the glare of artificial light, the limelight, and the accusation that all this is happening to me simply because I am famous!!!! What if god was attempting to tie me up in a neat little package, a new container for an old perfume, by luring me on what appeared to be a spiritual path – the cosmic carrot luring me to new points unknown – and I was tricked by the darkening skies into climbing onto a media constructed pedestal, the mouthpiece for the Goddess, or something to that effect. What if I arrive at the Cross Bath and meet my partner in the flesh. And heaven forbid, what if he were to be famous. Someone like, just say for the sake of argument, Peter Gabriel, to be encountered in a fated meeting under the aqua seascape of a uranian eclipse.   The very eclipse that is bringing the Sacred Marriage from the distant ethers into the Real World. instantly into a rarified realm. And suddenly thrust out there wearing my Cross, the cross of a New Archetypal female who stands firmly between heaven and earth, I am to have my image reflected back to me electronically as is the fate of someone who dare tread over the invisible barrier of the patriarchy so far into the distant realms where men and woman are free. This is the task of the artist, is it not? To travel into distant realms and deliver to humanity the gift of what was found there. What if this procession was proceeded by a funeral march. Lisa was pre-determined before and by my birth – a destiny readily available for graphic reading in my star chart. What if I was indeed lured by the cosmic carrot straight into the arms of the groom that has been waiting for me with his head shaved like a monk, refusing all but the woman that is destined to merge her orbit with his own? To arise from nowhere, it would seem, to the red hot center of the world. How would I respond to the incredulous expression of those attempting to understand where I have been hiding all these years and dealing with their emotional frustration at having given up without arriving at the

 

 

Yes, the Virgin Airlines flight on that fated December day in 1993 was delivering me to the Sacred Marriage.   I felt the archetype in Darryl and together. It felt like love. And the other musicians.

 

My heavens! Ted Hughes gets it. Surely, he was initiated by his marriage to Sylvia Plath. He gets it! A poem her write about Sylvia’s first poem, a wooden poem that fails to stir his emotions. He writes of how he tends to see words as omens but the poem lacked the depth that would prepare him for Sylvia. He writes of the Fullbright women: “fragile, like the mantle of a gas lamp.” And there is the symbol. The masterpiece Duchamp left behind the door. “Given”. The body of a woman with extended arm holding a gas lamp. The flickering flame. How vulnerable indeed. How easy for the flame to die. Yet, what happens when it burns out of control? Ted Hughes knows. Sylvia with that Scorpio instinct honed by her art managed to find the artist most likely to surrender to her myth in Ted Hughes. And she was right. They united their flames and her ambition propelled their marriage to prominence. Can you tell me that was not written in the stars?

All of it has to do with destiny. Certain rare individuals are selected to enter the myth at certain times. I find myself incredibly fortunate to be selected to live it when the time for manifestation in the mass consciousness. The eclipse that incorporates Uranus with the Moon and Neptune in marriage to the Sun.   Ted must be smiling down from the heavens to realize his role in the preparation for the living manifestation.   I understand the role of women now. Their job is to make the marriage last. Not just from one lunar return to another. But forever and always. And when one woman does it, she will be a model for others. Hillary Clinton was the model for fin du sicle woman’s dance. Attempting to balance the old containers rather than throwing them all out in silent and expectant preparation for the new. But for a woman to do that she has to retreat from the public stage. Surrender to the dark sister underground, learn to trust the unknown, and follow the pinpoint of light that appears at the Winter Solstice to rise again. When this woman arises with the truth, holding her lightening rods. The time is ripe for the manifestation of the new paradigm. The question is where in the pop culture will it emerge first?

Like the Sunday Styles that I gave up wanting to write for on account of the dark subject matter. The editor I don’t doubt in need of a giant colonic. What if I am not arriving to a wedding ceremony at the Cross Bath at all but a press conference to be carried live by satellite? I told the Virgin Goddess, there is no room for shadow. If there is any shadow lurking in the personality, it is arising now. And wasn’t that what happened between me and the Virgin Goddess? I stepped right into her shadow. Treading on the Emperor’s New Clothes. It was my self-appointed task to uncover all the dark areas and bring them into the light in order that they be resolved. Finding all the dark areas It was unavoidable once I cross the permeable line between being a writer and being a friend. No longer the subtlties of the new moving about within the old structures, now it is a question of how to move about in the new without being held back by the old?

 

 

 

If the Goddess who balances the opposites can make her way into a gothic Church, in the hotbed of Fairfield County corporate conservatism then she can go anywhere. It was a two year struggle. And I have been saying all along. It is the partnership model. The Eco-feminists are far too radical for me. We don’t want to overthrow what the patriarchy has created. We simply want to create the space for the purely feminine to enter. Yoga is the teacher. Yoga is the practice of moving the muscle to create space for the light – the organic. No wonder the women who fell to the gods of plastic surgery, aerobics, et c. In her Sermon, Lee provided the image that sent her on the journey — described it as suckling at a huge breast – the nurturing of Gaia. I understood in all my occult teachings that when the new archetype appeared, it would be accompanied by the discovery of a new planet. Instead, the onset was alerted by the comet Halle-Bop and the emergence was accompanied by the discovery of an entire solar system. And isn’t that the new reality. The authentic feminine, when she emerges, brings an entire solar system with her. What does this mean to humanity? Far from being an appendage of the old patriarchal cosmology which kept adding archetypes as the outer planets were rediscovered through the past few centuries, the new feminine brings her own solar system. She is complete into herself. Her satellites floating around her have nothing to do with the known archetypes. On the contrary, they are yet to be discovered. I created the space for the Grail to enter. The last fast before the Equinox. Ingesting clay. Long strings of dark matter deposited from my intestines. From the earth and back to the earth. In the beginning it seemed that fame and fortune might make one more eligible for the Sacred Marriage. The very mobility they had – but everyone has it now.