11.11.'11
DEADLY TRANSLATIONS V
Old Mary and the Beast
58
Genius Mundi
Oil on Canvas 7' x 4' 1980
The psyche of the world makes itself known in various figures. In the making of this painting, I was blocking in areas of color in preparation for another in a series of "nature" paintings inspired by a backpacking trip in the High Sierras. Suddenly, I noticed that I had unconsciously painted this figure that identified with other paranormal, psychic phenomena to which I have been witness.[1]
We prefer what we already recognize in art and religion.
People like what they know from school best, I think. Or maybe what they see in Church or on PBS: Ideas, images, feelings… material plots, intrigue. But you are not going to recognize what follows. You will be changed if you keep reading. And people prefer their education to be what they expect. But don’t let me get discouraged just yet. You might do better than I expect. People often do-- when needs arise. I was astounded when I discovered these materials. I’m just warning you that there is little in mainstream culture that will prepare you for what you are to read: About
JACK, OLD MARY, FR. STEVE, A BEAST,
AN EXORCIST, A VERY LARGE MONK, SIMON- A SHAMAN’S AID,
And MS CHANTILLY FLORENE
WARNING: If you
are underage or squimish about sensual topics, you might want to skip this
episode. Here we begin a graphic
treatment of that might be called:
"Intimations of Tantra: Toward A Complete Worldview."
...
2.0
The Devil’s Punchbowl
You will remember that Fr. Steve Shallot, was investigating the exorcist's, Fr. Robillard's, murder. Or, was it suicide? He was also seeking Dr. Jack Hartley's current location. Fr. Steve had left Old Mary’s house after the arrival of that large monk, Br. Benedict, who had come to check up on Sister Mary after her ordeal. Fr. Steve left, but with Mary’s directions in hand to find Dr. Jack Hartley, now on the run-- to avoid another deadly confrontation with the Beast(?) These directions guide Fr. Steve to the retreat of a fearsome hermitess on the eastern slopes of California’s High Sierras above a town called Bishop.
...
As Fr. Steve got to Highway 395 to Bishop from Old Mary’s place, he soon his mind began to meander, uninterruptedly, but for the occasional inconsiderate soul coming the other way with their high beams on.
He and Jack had shared a couple of high school years, and other intimacies. They had competed for girl friends. He even wrote a poem about one of their loves:
We
are roiling clouds pierced by the mountain.
Dominus Vobiscum
At times, I might rebuke this bright passage between two black holes and can only envision the final fall.
But, then
I remember the cover tossing joy of holding you or talking to you,
Then,
I laugh in the morning light, hardly able to wait for the next bright dance to come, hardly able to wait for my next chance to fold myself in your arms..."
Et Cum Spiritu Tuo
______________________
…And then it seemed as if Agnes (Stephanie?) was in the car with Steve! Was he dreaming or just hypnotized by the monotony of the road! No, she almost seemed so real. But her clothes were bloodied. Or rather that her clothes had been bloodied by putting them on over a bloodied body. It wasn’t her really, its some kind of visceral, psychic projection. Terrifying for this very straight, otherwise ordinary Catholic priest. He kept driving. His eyes were completely wide open, but still, he seemed to be dreaming. She began to sort of sing. No, not sing really, she began to reminisce:
And how archetypically American that we should have first explored our love in that dusty barn on the family's ranch in Southern California. Then, days were still smog free. Clear, clean heat waves rose from the broken pavement of the road. Small herds of cattle rested, chewing beneath scattered trees on the dry hills. Dry stack of alfalfa bales stored in that hot barn and covered with the old horse blanket was our prickly, uncomfortable bed for those early explorations. Sometimes the alfalfa stems and leaves would get caught in our clothes, between our sweaty legs. The cows didn't care. They would eat it anyway afterwards. We were so young when we first started but we didn't get serious until much later. Not serious. No, that’s not the word. "It" became a terrifying compulsion. Compulsion? Not exactly that either...
Here the our editor has censored the more graphic images of Fr. Steve's (Ag's?)musing. To include that material here would be too distracting. Suffice it to note, that here we treat
‘Intimations of Tantric Mortality,’
as its worldview, for our purposes, yokes best mortality to immortality-- with almost scientific detachment. You’ll have to imagine the rest, but for the following:
Night after night, I would go to my room and find Jack waiting for me there. My room was in the attic of our huge old ranch house. Or we would agree to meet in that isolated hay barn at the back of the property. Jack always seemed fresh, fragrant with some new cologne. His body would be so warm that at times it seemed he must be on fire. He kissed me, offered me his naked body. Nor did I resist ... 'But there is something else I want even more, he'd say. I want you. You. I want to touch your soul. There is love you see and there is Love.
...
This night, we drove to a place about an hour away. It's called the Devil's Punchbowl. It's now a park, but it wasn't then. It's where the San Andrea’s Fault comes to the surface. We walked to a place that over-looked the edge of this deep chasm, strewn with huge boulders. It was nearly a full moon in this late autumn warmth of California's Indian Summer. We could see anyone coming from a long way away where we were, but it would be hard for anyone to see us, night or day. It was a perfect place beneath boulders and pinion pines. We spread our blanket on a bed of soft, fragrant pine needles.
... In the soft autumn air, there was the rush of a breeze. And did the earth tremble just a bit along that ‘magnificent fault’? As a soft fall of garments sounded the beginning of something different... For as Jack gazed into her eyes, so close, so naked- he peered so deeply into her that she was afraid. But when Agnes looked back there was nothing but the gentlest desire in him, on his lips. She gave a long gasp and then her whole body opened up. For an eternal instant they were bound together. He stopped. He stopped and held... His face agonized. She did not understand.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Why did you stop?"
"Just wait,” he gasped after a bit.
He started again, his lips pressed to her neck… Then he rolled over away from her as if wild with pain. And she reached out for him. He resisted. She tried again. His body was perfect in its youth, modeled by the soft light of the moon. He recoiled painfully. And once again he rolled away.
After many moments, maybe years, she reached over, touched so tentatively his broad shoulders as he lay rolled up in a ball. Then she took him in her arms and held him. Whether in ecstasy or agony, she could not tell. She just held him in the moonlight. Many moments passed, maybe hours.
"Why?" She asked.
"I don't know."
"You must know."
"I wanted to see what we looked like inside."
"Like that!?" Moments passed. "What did you see?"
She felt him withdraw, within himself, away from her soul. She glances, almost frantically, about her cave as if lost. Yet, something was evoked, boding power beyond imagining. And the moon slipped behind the mountain, leaving them in the dark rocks above the chasm beneath the pinion trees. A night wind blew up the canyon wall and whipped their fragrance into the world.
____________________
Jack had forced himself to stop thinking about Agnes for the most part after high school and college- their lives diverged. But now she is back. And back with a passion!
"DON’T FORGET JACK, FR STEVE. DON’T FORGET WHAT WAS BEGUN THOSE LONG YEARS AGO! Remember our love…"
Father Jack woke as the tires of his car were hitting the caution strips along the side of the road...
__________________________________
OUR TALE CONTINUES... SOON!
(Re-member, reader/viewer, remember the sensations you have viewing the image, reading the poem, and the more popular format of adventure/fantasy fiction that follows as well as the non-fiction narratives of the NEPSIS FOUNDATION. Then let your unconscious re-member it- Re-compose image, poem, history to tell its real story, to have its real effect on you!)
[1] THE GREAT OLD MAN. (See LETTER TO A BISHOP, Chapter 4, p. 64 in the NEPSIS FOUNDATION’S “Cycle One,” (http://ecai.org/NEPSIS/NF%20sitemap.htm) and from the same sitemap, ART CATALOG paintings #s 30, 53 and 60. See especially #50, "Fence.")
