the big wheel

story by idio

He has the marks of a traveller: a long gaze, a twitch like he might need to get out of the way of something, a stained, greasy swollenness under his eyes. He does not know where he is right now. Sometimes this happens, and when it does there is a secret delight that plays about the vesicles of his middle back. He can live off this delight when it comes, sipping it lightly for some time.

Photo by idio

He’s ventured into new territory and it brings him to a sand beach. There is a wide glade of tall grass running headlong down the cardioid field of his vision. Breakers sound and turn in their echo. Gulls cry. There is a woman sitting on a dune looking out to the ocean not very far from him. She’s looking through him, but he’s sure that she is aware of his presence.

Walking toward her, but keeping his distance, he calls out, “Are you from around here?”

Without any change in her position she says, “No, are you?”

“Well, no,” shouting over the surf. “I’m not even sure how I got here. I have a map but apparently things have changed since it was made. My name is A’naf.”

She motions him closer. When he’s come to within a conversation’s length, he stops to take her in. She is a slight woman in a caftan hoodie sitting on her haunches, hands on her thighs, sandals neatly arranged. He can see her mouth and angular jaw coming out from of the shade of the hood in the strong afternoon sun.

She says, “There’s no slow way of telling you this A’naf, so I’ll just say it. I am your death.”

Mandala from Robert Lawlor's "Sacred Geometry"

“Hm.” His eyes hunker down into his sockets. “Really?” He scans for weapons and other signs of malice.

She hasn’t moved other than to move her lips. “You might say I am that part of you that can see the ocean.”

“Sounds appropriate, even poetic,” he offers.

“I’m not here to take you away or anything.” She lingers. “Anyway it’s not like I take you anywhere really. You simply become me,” pausing. “Or I simply become you. It’s hard to tell, as there’ll be nobody left to do the telling. At any rate, it’s not time.” A’naf makes a deep throaty sound, and she asks, “Do you see that ship out there?”

He does not turn.

“Well anyway it’s been looking ominous there for some time.” She then says, “I didn’t think that you were going to get here.”

“I didn’t think that you were here to be gotten to,” he says scrying her more closely.

“I look beautiful now, no?” Pulling back her hoodie, she turns to look at him. It’s not so much a look as a glance. She smiles quickly and turns back to the ocean. Her Asian-black hair blows up behind her, and with a quick graceful gesture she ties it all in a knot on the top of her head. Her features are wide and cut with fineness. Her lips are peaked with the slope of a French curve, her cheeks the gentle rise of the Mongolian steppe.

“It’s a big moment for me too actually,” she says. “I’m told most do not meet their death until much later.” She raises her eyebrows. “Some advice? When it comes time for the ocean, to actually get in, when it comes time for us as I was saying, just take your clothes off and get right in,” she says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks A’naf, sensing, perhaps, a come-on vibe.

“Are you ready for that?” she answers.

“Who are you?”

“I am your death. I told you that already.”

A’naf sees that the woman is no immediate danger to him, and he is, indeed, somehow attracted to her. At any rate, he wants to hear what she has to say. He realizes that such things do happen, that such conversations are written in the book of the possible. The veil has been lifted more than a few times on the lines of that book. He has peered into the sucking emptiness of it. He wants this situation. He is, after all, a traveller.

“Okay, I accept you for what you’re saying.” He narrows his gaze. “I’ve cooked enough in this sun today. I’ve been cooked enough to play the cards as they come.” He pauses to hear his words. “What shall I call you?”

“You needn’t call me anything.”

He wants to come at the question again from a different angle, but rolls his lips instead.

Her tone changes, “The middle is disappearing. The middle is always disappearing, of course, but people often don’t see that. We’re on a peninsula here, an isthmus between two oceans. Soon it will be one ocean. They’ll come to meet. The land is shrinking.”

“I’d like to say that’s helpful. Where’s the other ocean? In my mind?” A’naf asks with some bluff.

“Come and sit, A’naf. Really that was very kind of you earlier, giving me my distance, letting me know that you were not a threat. Anyway, come and sit.”

When A’naf is sitting beside her, he sees that there is no ship and says, “No ship.”

She responds with, “No ship. Just checking for stray curiosity.”

In some places and times A’naf might be sitting trying to figure this whole situation out, this situation of him sitting with his death just now. Yet, he is looking out to the ocean and simply taking in the curious strange sensation of sitting with his death. He knows it may well be a fiction. After all, where are the facts? She’s a woman on a beach talking mysteriously, and he’s the kind of sucker that falls for such things. She might be an escapee from a local institution. For that matter, he might be an escapee from a local institution. Nevertheless, as near as he can tell, she is playing all of the cards.

They sit for a long moment in the gaze of the ocean. He begins to feel a pain, not a body pain, but a feeling pain. His mind flashes to moments of bald stupidity: things he said that he needn’t have, moments of being caught out beside himself, the stupidity of private fixations and lies told and untold. All of this balls up in his gut, his collected stupidity. The failure to see and be in the same moment curses him. It bursts up like something he may well puke out. He finds his breathing and swallows a salty mouthful of air.

“Hmm,” she offers philosophically, “don’t you find that we so often take responsibility for things that are not really ours? We find it so hard to see without getting caught up in the seeing. The wise person is wise enough to see that he’s riding a donkey, although many times the donkey is smart enough to see that it is riding him.”

He grits his teeth. “You said earlier that you are my death,” he manages.

“Yes.”

“So you’re not death in general,” he wonders.

“All of a sudden you’re sitting with me, and really starting to have a good conversation, and you’re wondering whether that’s enough?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Better now than never,” she smiles. She looks at A’naf a long while. “This is all well and good, but I need to tell you that soon you may find yourself somewhere else, starring at the shadows on another ceiling,” she gestures to the sky. “You may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife, and you may ask yourself — well…how did I get here?” She pauses. “Letting the days go by. Let the water hold me down.” Gesturing to the ocean. “Letting the days go by. Water flowing underground, into the blue again, after the money’s gone, once in a lifetime, water flowing underground.”

Laughing, A’naf says “My death knows Talking Heads. That’s perfect.”

She turns to him and with a candid purse of her lips says, “Why not? I know everything that you know,” she pauses to catch his eye, “plus I know much that you don’t know.” She laughs now too, and says, “But really A’naf, I’m not here to mess with you.”

A’naf is getting that puking sensation again. Though he cannot quite picture it, nevertheless he feels the truth of who she is.

She continues, “The ocean is here. All of the underground water is flowing here,” she points with her chin. Her voice catches when she says this. A’naf gets a sharp pain in his side. She says, “This is a peninsula, an isthmus. The ocean is coming in from both sides. The land is shrinking.”

The wind blows a strand of her hair over her face. “Say listen, there’s a beautiful walk over the dunes there. She motions over her right shoulder. It might be just the thing for you. I have to say, you’re looking a little pukey.”

He catches her eye. She is my death. Instinctively he kisses her hand. It is cold. A shiver falls into his depths.

“Now you know,” she says.

Image of sound vibration from Robert Lawlor's "Sacred Geometry"

They part. He walks up and over and through the tufts of grass pawing at his clothes. There is a line of trees not far, and he finds a way through to them. The sound of the ocean fades. There are songbirds singing. They sing so high that they clear a path directly into the coolness of the upper octaves of the atmosphere. The lightness in his head congeals into a slow pulse, like a hand clenching and relaxing, clenching and relaxing. He can sense animals in the brush. There is nothing to stop him, and so he moves on. He finds a path and walks for a long while through the trees.

Suddenly, there is a buffeting of the air, a quick pulse of pressure, then the distant sound of waves flows into the sphere of his awareness. There is the musk of salt water. The path carries him along.

Coming out from the woods, he is back among dunes and grass. Climbing to the top of a nearby dune, he looks out over a large body of water breaking in pulses on the beach. Has he walked in a circle?

It is an isthmus between two oceans.

It is late afternoon now. Not far down the beach the inky structures of a seaside amusement park rise out of the mist, obscure and rare, like the fleeting evidence of life on other planets. As if on cue, the lights on the big Ferris wheel come up. In his mind’s eye there is a greasy carnie with a sideways grin, hand on the stick, ratcheting it up. The idea of seeing people at the amusement park amuses him, here in this place where he sat with his death not long ago as a beautiful woman by his side. He picks up his pace.

Photo by idio

Coming into a small cluster of houses he sees they are well kept. It is old suburbia, a dream of the future etched in yards and murmurs. People sit out on the front steps in the early evening keeping company with the twilight. A woman in blue jeans calls out to him and waves. People know him here, and he feels like a returning hero. There is the smell of dinner cooking, corn on the boil.

He cannot stop to eat. His feet are carrying him somewhere, and he simply cannot stop. He’s a train passing through with a dopler-note of longing. He leaves the cluster of houses walking toward the entrance to the park. The big wheel rises out of a jumble of signs, turning like someone stopping to think mid-sentence.

He walks into a parking lot.  There is one car, in the corner. It looks like it has been bombed out. He’s not sure. Something is wrong. He runs in panic through long shadows. The doors have been blown off. The paint is charred. The windows are cracked and sagging. A moment of recognition. It is his car. What is my car doing here? The computer in the trunk is nothing but a blackened shell. All of his data is gone. His data is gone. He does not remember leaving it here.

Suddenly it is as if he is lost in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight. There is no one but himself and the unfathomable depths beneath him. There is no one but himself, and he is shrinking.

He narrows his eyes to the charred bits and then widens them to the gaping mouth where the trunk once was. Why this? Why this? Where will he go? What can he do? It’s more than the car. Much more. The grief of it cuts his legs out from under him. He falls to the pavement in a shudder.

After a long while of trying to remember, of trying to remember himself in bits and pieces, he hears the birdsong again like a prayer. He follows the overtones up into the blue again. Slowly getting to his feet, he walks toward the carnival gate.

Photo by idio

There are a few carnie people around. No one notices him overly. Setting up or tearing down, he cannot tell. A man behind a coin-toss game sits with a guitar playing the blues. A young woman in a velveteen bodice looks like she must be on her way to the beer garden. An enormous man in a Nehru jacket and goatee beard stamps vouchers. And there he is, the greasy carnie at the base of the big wheel. He is brilliantly tattooed in the Irezumi style. Gesturing with a quick chin, the carnie wants a ticket. A’naf has no ticket. Reaching into his pocket nevertheless, he finds a playing card. It is the three of hearts. The carnie nods as he takes it. A’naf is the only rider. He asks the carnie his name. It is Stewart. The Ferris-wheel man is named Stewart.

He reaches the top of the first go round. Suddenly he finds his body beneath him and sinks deeper into the seat. He’s just in time to see the sun sinking into the ocean, the other ocean, a good distance across the strip of land. The gondola then comes down into the coolness of the trees. A’naf calls out to Stewart to ask whether he can slow it down. The big wheel tumbles into a gentle swirl. A’naf exhales. The big wheel climbs out of the trees and into the night above. He calls out to thank Stewart.

Just as A’naf reaches the top, the big wheel bumps to a stop. In just these few moments, the sun has dipped below the horizon. He relaxes back into the seat and looks up to the stars coming out of the falling light. Are they the signposts of higher intelligence or are they the ceiling lights in an apparently vast theatre? He clears his mind and becomes watchful over it. The only thing he lets in is the air and after a while he even holds onto this. He drifts and falls away from himself.

* * *

He is back in his room releasing his breath. Where did he go? The meditation is over and a fine thread of experience lingers in the room, though his mind is blank. It is the presence of something cool and familiar, though with the taste of a foreign land. Some new contact has been made in the wires and fibers of his body that is not entirely clear to him. He is wearing a hoodie sitting on his haunches, hands on his thighs, house sandals neatly arranged. He sits on his haunches as if he is sitting atop the big wheel of life surveying the land between the moments of time, the land from which time comes. Strange. A torrent of energy rushes up and down his spine and he shivers with its flow. In the pit of his gut he feels that death is not far, it is so not far that it is close, very close, even living within him. He cannot reconcile this into a clear thought and he wonders at the incongruity of the impression.

There is a gentle knock on the door, “Stewart?” his wife calls softly. “I’m going to bed now.”

“Yes, I’m coming soon sweet,” he responds.

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the idiotplayers podcast 08: Anthony Blake

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The idiotplayers podcast is a caravanserai of conversations with important thinkers, be-ers and doers. The idiotplayers podcast aims to explore art, creativity and expression.  If there is an elephant standing in the dark, as the Sufi story goes, we want to do more than grope and theorize. We invite conversations with people who aim from the heart to make practical, the far-reaching.

Welcome to the idiotplayers podcast episode 8. In this episode we welcome the return of Anthony Blake. Anthony was our first guest on the podcast when we started in 2011 and since that first conversation, which was posted as episodes 1 and 2 of the idiotplayers podcast, I’ve been looking to have him back again to speak more in depth about his wonderful book A Gymnasium of Beliefs in Higher Intelligence. The book is a tour and tour de force of many intriguing possibilities for the manifestation of higher intelligence, ranging from the human, to the non-human and to very the dimensions of time. It is refreshing in its non-dogmatic approach to the subject and sounds a ebullient note amidst the din of the doomsday device of modern times. In the book, Anthony employs the ancient technique of ring composition that Seyed Safavi and Simon Weightman have uncovered as the structural basis of Jalaluddin Rumi’s masterwork The Mathnawi and which Mary Douglas wrote about as being central to biblical and western classical literature. This work along with The Supreme Art of Dialogue, are both available from the duversity.org website.

Many thanks to the new subscribers who continue to register for idiotplayers.org. I must admit that I’m still getting my hands around how best to moderate this situation so please accept this as my formal welcome to the caravanserai. Dr. Nevit Ergin’s podcast has sent the downloads soaring as people from around the world imbibe his deep message of Itlak Sufism. Some of our listeners have offered excellent suggestions for possible future guests. Personally I’m looking to balance the genders as I’ve realized that our first 8 episodes have been men. Speaking of past guests, I understand that Elan Sicroff, whom you heard in episodes 3 and 4, has completed some ground-breaking recordings of the de Hartmann repertoire in Amsterdam this past October under the musical direction of Gert-Jan Blom. Although it is not clear yet when and how these recordings will be released, we will aim to keep you posted.

We are considering hosting some arts-based workshops in the Niagara area of Ontario, Canada, perhaps in the summer months of 2012. So if any of our listeners are interested in exploring spiritual work through movement, music, story-telling and improv, please drop us an email at contact@idiotplayers.org.

This conversation was originally recorded on Jan 22 2012 and is being published on Jan 23 2012. The running time is approximately 1 ½ hours.

Biography

Anthony Blake (born 1939) studied Physics at Bristol University with David Bohm(see Bohm-Bennett Correspondence 1962-4) and the History and Philosophy of Science at Cambridge with Gerd Buchdahl. He collaborated with engineer Edward Matchett on Creative Design (numerous papers) and worked with John Allen and the original team that built Biosphere 2 (see Biosphere 2 – the Human Experiment, edited by Blake). With the philosopher-technologist John Bennett, a leading student of the ‘fourth way’ teacher Gurdjieff, and his team he worked on the development of methods of structural thinking called systematics that led to ‘Structural Communication’ (see Kieran Egan, Structural Communication) and ‘LogoVisual Technology’ (LVT for short , see entry in Wikipedia). In 1998 he co-founded the non-profit organisation DuVersity (in the USA) centred on dialogue for which he is Director of Studies (see www.duversity.org). He has authored several books, including the most recent, A Gymnasium of Beliefs in Higher Intelligence. He has worked with leading practitioners of Group Analysis, specifically Patrick de Mare inventor of the ‘Median Group’ and Gordon Lawrence discoverer of the Social Dreaming Matrix, conducting and filming video-conversations with them and others in the field. He has conducted transpersonal psychological seminars in the USA, Europe, Mexico and China as well as conducting training in LVT in the UK, USA, Italy and China. He extended from physics into publishing and from philosophy into psychology but his core interests are dramatic process and dialogue, following the idea of the ‘dramatic universe’ he was introduced to by his main teacher, John Bennett; seeking spirituality in life’s uncertainties.

Index of topics:

Gymnasium, Alfred E. Orage,  John Bennett, Gurdjieff Movements, creative dynamism, practical actions, the game, play, work, work = force over distance, 3 centers, Peter Brook, Jerzy Grotowski, reactional self, belief, the colours of belief, unconscious emotional attitudes, sensing and feeling, communication of the 3 centers, keeping people stupid, John Taylor Gatto, Edward Bernays, Peter Levenda, freedom and the human will, the gesture of will, I, sin, higher intelligence, the demiurge, Francis Thompson, the tangible substance of not-knowing, seeing between, the plan of the book A Gymnasium of Beliefs, human potential, the higher centers, non-human agencies, Thomas Aquinas, alien intelligence, systematics is pilates for the mind, alam-i-imkan, alam-i-arvah, Gustav Fechner, Biosphere 2 project, John Allen, Vladimir Vernadsky, kesdjan substance, dimensions of time, creative intelligence comes from the future, Jay Kennedy (Plato’s Symbolic Code), Mary Douglas: the meaning is in the middle, Dr. Nevit Ergin: the human being is a concept between two unknowns, Charles Sanders Pierce: man is a sign of himself, Bertrand Russell, the number 12, ring composition, dissonances, mind is only present when there is active play, the simple encounter of will, self remembering, speak it yourself, reading is a form of higher intelligence, writing and reading as meeting, the moment of creation and re-writing the book, who is the author?, Hamlet, the divided self, systematics of drama, the enneagram as a way of understanding dramatic structure, Aeschylus, Sophocles, the death of Hamlet at point 6, comedy, deus ex machina, Philip K. Dick, point 5 of the enneagram is the divided self, Bennett said that Shakespeare knew better than any other writer the divided self, it can’t be resolved but through commitment to freedom, Horatio (the reason), the progression of Greek theatre through characters, character, Robert McKee, write your own version, George Steiner, the encounter, the intimacy of meeting in conversation.

Music

intro and outro music by the idiotplayers: urgent carnaval, advice to the drunk at heart.

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Pennies from Heaven: Found Introductions

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Anthony Blake consented to write a few words as an introductory impression to our idiotplayers rendering of the song “Pennies from Heaven” by Johnny Burke and Arthur Johnston. I mentioned to him that I would also write such an introduction. We offer them here as two found introductions to this piece.

Owl in a Workshop, Vancouver B.C.

The Angel in the Rubbish Tip
Anthony Blake

In my book Gymnasium of Beliefs in Higher Intelligence, I constantly hark on the theme that whatever might be ‘higher’ than ourselves will not speak to us according to our ideas of what is higher or important. To put it crudely, we would more likely find an angel in a rubbish tip than in a bank. The world of popular songs taps into this instinctive wisdom, celebrated in that wonderful book Gods of the People by Denis Saurat (who so admired Gurdjieff’s All and Everything). It surfaces as the gut-felt belief that heaven does shower us with blessings –  pennies from heaven — even though we largely ignore them. What is spiritual must be freely given to us to every moment. We just don’t get it and complain all the time.

The idiotplayers’s rendering of the song, done with such feeling, is a restorative tonic. ‘If you want the things you love, you must have showers/ So when you hear it thunder don’t run under a tree’. It’s almost a commentary on Gurdjieff’s idea of the transformation of negative emotions. And also an enrichment of what I wrote about as ‘The Saintly Dust of Humanity’. Let alone an echo of the story of ‘manna from heaven’ in the story of Moses. And even an extension of Shakespeare’s ‘The quality of mercy is not strained/ It droppeth as the gentle rain upon the place beneath’.

The song speaks to me of the early version of All and Everything in which the reconciling will of God enters into every triad even down to the lowest level. This must be the basis for reciprocal maintenance because the message is that in some ultimate way all creatures are equal in the sight of God.

Story Pole Workshop, Vancouver B.C.

A Long Time Ago, A Million Years B.C.

Many songs from the era of the 1930s and 1940s were written with musical introductions. Many performances of these songs, versions that have become standards, omit the introduction. This is the case for “Pennies from Heaven.” If you google simply for the lyrics of “Pennies from Heaven”, you find the verses only, some even added verses, but not the words for the introduction. The same is true for the versions I found on youtube. Of course, you can find the words. They’ve not disappeared down the memory hole. However, you have to know some of them already in order to pluck them out in full. Recovering the whole means remembering something more of the whole. The words are these:

A long time ago,
A million years BC.
The best things in life
Were absolutely free;
But no one appreciated
A sky that was always blue
And no one congratulated
A moon that was always new.
So it was planned that they would vanish now and them,
And you must pay before you get them back again.
That’s what storms were made for
And you shouldn’t be afraid for
Every, time it rains, it rains…

The introduction tells the story of the transition from everything running wonderfully, smoothly, delightfully, to something that has a different tension to it. When everything runs wonderfully, smoothly, delightfully, perception loses it’s edge. Entropy sets in. Information is lost, because no new information is being produced. The sky is always blue. The moon is always new. Perceptual nets operate not simply on the rate of change, but on the rate of the rate of change. Perception is a field of acceleration like gravity.

Perhaps this approximates in informatic terms Gurdjieff’s key idea about a shift in world system, from the system he called the autoegocrat to the system called the trogoautoegocrat. In terms of information production, in the autoegocratic system no new information is produced, and so therefore its informatic content starts to leak away. With the trogoautoegocratic system, there is provision for dispersion as well as for concentration and new information is produced. The new element is what you pay for this process of informatic renewal. In human terms, you must be able to perceive across a wider bandwidth. Shifts in perception are required. Shocks. Thus, getting your clothes wet in the rain is a delightful humiliation. The poetry flows from the oxymoronic wound.

Native Story Pole, Vancouver B.C.

That popular music can provide more than a flippant touchstone into such musing is a fine thing. Deep thoughts provide a basis for deep feeling, and vice versa. In performing this song I struggled with how to hit the feeling in it. I could not come straight at it. If something started trembling in my breast as I sang, and I began to want to express this feeling energy directly, then the singing suffered. I breathed at the wrong spot, or pushed too hard. It’s difficult now to try to put myself there in the singing of it to say exactly what I discovered, though certainly it had something to do with technique.

Eunji, who plays piano and sings the harmony so breezily in this recording, is the musical director of this duo, and she is merciless in her insistence on singing the notes just as they are noted on the sheet. As a folk musician who relies on my instinctive sense of music, this was often a painful regime. Nevertheless, I had consented to it from the outset, and this consent led to learning something new-for-me about how technique is a container for music. The “pennies from heaven” moment is that keeping the moving part of my singing apparatus working properly as per the “notes” opens up the other parts of the song. Now I know this may sound obvious to some, but what isn’t as obvious is that opening up room in the moment of performance, however that might be, allows for gravity. Something accelerates. It is a sly way, perhaps, of letting the field find you.

Music
Piano and Vocal: Eunji Kim
Vocal: Gregory Dominato

Photos
Gregory Dominato

Posted in Story/ Comment/ Poetry | Leave a comment

poem

idiot I am

How much of my life is me?
You see, I can’t even ask the question without begging it,
Without using myself to point at myself.
There is no outside place.
I am entirely in media res.

And so now that I have concluded that the poem is
stuck in the first stanza, let me move on,
For there is no standing still.
Should I worry and fret at such a mess?
Is there comfort in taking the being for its dress?

Comfort? Why sure. I can get on with things
And plan and dream the dreams that life has put in me,
Anything else would surely be an idiot’s symphony,
A montage of silences.
Alas, idiot I am.

gj dominato, january 2012

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the idiotplayers podcast 07: Dr. Nevit Ergin

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Welcome to the idiotplayers podcast. In this episode you will be glad to listen to Dr. Nevit Ergin. Dr. Ergin is the man who has translated into English the 44,000 verses of the Divan-i-Kebir from the poet and Sufi Jalalluddin Rumi. These divan are currently widely available as a 22 volume set or as individual volumes. A new collection of Rumi’s rubai will be available in the spring of 2012 with special recordings of selected poems read by Coleman Barks and recorded in the Mevlana mausoleum in Konya, Turkey.

Dr. Ergin trained and worked as a surgeon in his professional life. He now works solely to bring Rumi’s works and teaching to a wide audience. He says “Understanding the message of love in Rumi is our last hope to avoid nuclear winter.” Please go to the website for the “Society for Understanding Mevlana” at sfumevlana.org for more information about Dr. Ergin’s work. You’ll find an excellent set of posts on many topics.

The content of the conversation is excellent as Dr. Ergin covers many topics ranging from the Itlak path of Sufism that he was initiated into by Hasan Shushud to aspects of Rumi’s life. I cannot imagine that there is anyone better qualified at this time to speak to these topics.

I apologize for the recorded quality of the first 12 minutes or so of Dr. Ergin’s conversation. The quality does improve when we switch to a landline. In any case, the conversation requires a quality of careful listening that the idiotplayers audience is well capable of, I believe. I have provided a summary of topics covered in the show notes so that you can follow along as the conversation develops.

As usual, the introductory music and closing music are excerpts from the idiotplayers. As well, in this podcast I have included a taksim played on the guitar by your host and simply entitled taksim 3.

I lost the donation button on the site temporarily, but if you would like to donate to the work of idiotplayers.org you can so through paypal directly by addressing your donation to gregory@idiotplayers.org. Your donations are appreciated. If there is anyone out there with WordPress experience who would like to contribute a bit of expertise, that would be most welcome. Thanks to all of you for getting the word out about the high-quality conversations that we have been posting this year, and I encourage everyone to post something of their own in the way of a comment or reflection to the blog. Let me know that you’re out there listening.

This conversation was originally recorded on Dec 23 2011 and is being published on Dec 28 2011. The running time is approximately 1 ½ hours.

Biography

Dr. Nevit O. Ergin, a Turkish-born surgeon, is the original translator of Rumi’s 44,829 verses of the Divan-i Kebir into English. He has been a student of Sufism and the poetry of Rumi since 1955. Nevit spent 35 years translating the divan (or anthology) from the Turkish version prepared by Golpinarli, one of the most important Turkish scholars and an admirer of Rumi.

Dr. Ergin emigrated first to Canada and later to the United States to pursue post-graduate medical work. He founded The Society for Understanding Mevlana in 1992. Dr. Ergin currently resides in San Mateo, Northern California, in a little house called a Rumi Sanctuary.

Links

Society for Understanding Mevlana

New collection of Rumi’s Rubai

Review of  “Tales of a Modern Sufi” by Nevit Ergin

Index of Topics

The truth of death;
Death before actual chronological death;
Die before you die;
Human perception;
The heart that has not learned ecstasy will always stay under the feet;
The problem of the knowledge of good and evil;
Creation has never taken place;
We are fooled by the gods;
Essence and existence;
We are the children of perception;
Adam and Eve;
Change of perception through changing eating and breathing habits;
Mevlana Rumi;
Translation of Divan and Rubai;
Qualification as a surgeon (FRCS);
Golpinarli;
Zaman Furuzanfar;
Ahmed Aflaki;
The Divan is not for beginners;
Translation of the Rubai available in Spring 2012;
Shems of Tabriz;
Rumi’s son Aladdin;
Rumi’s letters;
Rumi was 62 years when he met Shems, who was older than this;
Rumi and Shems were not in a relationship in the everyday sense;
The non-material nature of love;
Plato’s idea of love;
Zikr, fasting, suffering, fellowship;
The humiliation of the path;
Hasan Shushud;
Fana, Annihilation of Self; ladun; Fana al-akham (Fana of laws—Presence of Body), Fana al-af al (Fana of Actions—Spiritual Presence), Fana al-sifat (Fana of attributes—presence of potentiality), Fana al-dhat (Fana of essence—presence of Ipseity);
Fana of Actions, all intellectual problems dissolve;
Fana of Attributes, love and ecstasy;
The love we experience in life is a gateway to Love;
Love of Self;
Prey and predator mechanism of the self;
The selflessness of motherly love;
Mevlana Rumi is the last hope for humankind;
The importance of breathlessness;
Fellowship – sohbet;
Fellowship, however, is effective when breathing and fasting practice is in tact;
Mathnawi;
Husamuddin Celebi;
Shems came to Konya in 1244 and left in 1247;
The power of Rumi’s work;
Sanai and Hafiz;
Mathnawi written beginning in 1265;
Work on Divan continued during Mathnawi;
The form of the poems in the Divan;
The life of Konya as seen through the Divan;
Method of translation of the Divan – word by word;
Life as a Dream;
Man is not an object, he is a concept, the touching point of two unknowns;
Wine;
Mevlana and wine.

Music

Opening: Urgent Carnival

Interlude: Taksim 3

Closing: Advice to the Drunk at Heart

All music copyrighted by the idiotplayers (idiotplayers.org).

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the idiotplayers podcast 06: George Bennett p02

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The idiotplayers podcast is a caravanserai of conversations with important thinkers, be-ers and doers. The idiotplayers podcast aims to explore art, creativity and expression.  If there is an elephant standing in the dark, as the Sufi story goes, we want to do more than grope and theorize. We invite conversations with people who aim from the heart to make practical, the far-reaching.

In episode 6 of the idiotplayers podcast we present part 2 of a conversation with George Bennett originally recorded on Sunday, October 16, 2011. Here the conversation turns to a discussion of some of the remarkable people George has met and the influence each has had upon him. He speaks personally and engagingly about these experiences while at the same time keeping a keen practical edge.

Biography
George Bennett was born in 1951, and was raised at Coombe Springs, the experimental spiritual community led by his father, JG Bennett. The ideas and practices of GI Gurdjieff, Subud, the Shivapuri Baba and Idris Shah formed some of the background of his childhood. After gaining a bachelors degree in history, George attended the third basic course run by JG Bennett at Sherborne in Gloucestershire, England. These ten-month courses were designed to give people an experience of the reality of the spiritual life, establish practices and spiritual ‘tools’ that could be developed over a lifetime, and to impart a sense of the spiritual task that confronts every individual, and humanity as a whole.

After Sherborne, George completed a masters degree in US history and then spent seven years as an international truck driver, an occupation that took him to countries across Eastern and Western Europe, and the Middle East. In 1982, having given up his driving career, George spent some months in the USA, where a visit to George and Mary Cornelius, long-time students of JG Bennett, reconnected him to ‘the Work’ as expounded by Bennett and Gurdjieff. Subsequently, George attended several seminars at the Cornelius’s institute in southern Oregon.

Working as a journalist in magazines specializing in trucks and transport, he learned the business of magazine publishing. He became editor of two magazines and, for a while, was responsible for the production of the market-leading ‘Car’ magazine in Britain. In 1990 George, with a business partner, bought the trucking titles he’d worked on from the Murdoch organization, and set up a small publishing company, which he co-owned for seven years before selling it in 1997. In 2001 George qualified as a school teacher and currently works as a 4th-6th grade teacher at The Village School, a small private elementary school set up twenty-two years ago by a group of Gurdjieff-Bennett students in Massachusetts, operating under the name Millers River Educational Cooperative (MREC).

Since the early 1990s, George has been involved in an international group running annual ‘Work’ seminars in the UK, and in 1994 he convened a conference at Claymont in West Virginia, on the twentieth anniversary of the death of JG Bennett. Some one hundred and fifty people attended the conference, mostly former students of Bennett who had taken his training as a point of departure, and had tried to develop their own understanding and methods of transmitting the ideas and practices of Bennett and Gurdjieff.

George currently helps to run a group in Boston, Massachusetts, but he remains convinced of the value of longer courses, to give people sustained experience of practical and spiritual work together. To that end he, with a small group including Elan Sicroff, the foremost specialist in the music of Gurdjieff and Thomas de Hartmann, initiated an experimental fourteen-week course in the fall of 2006 at Camp Caravan, a facility owned by MREC. This course was followed by a six-week ‘Intensive’ in the summer of 2010.

While it became clear that longer courses continue to have a real value, it is also apparent that people find it much harder than they did forty years ago to take a long period away from work or studies. As a result George, with a small group of collaborators, is currently experimenting with a series of shorter, ‘modular’ courses on specific aspects of the Work. The first of these two-week courses will be held at Camp Caravan in July of 2012. For further information, contact George on geoanab@gis.net.

Show Notes

jgbennett.net, Pak Subud, JG Bennett, Mrs. Annie Lou Staveley, George and Mary Cornelius, the reality of conscience, Ashiata Shiemash, Shivapuri Baba, Coombe Springs, Elizabeth Bennett, Idiots in Paris, Summer Intensive at Camp Caravan July 2012.

Notes

Music by the idiotplayers urgent carnival and advice to the drunk at heart.

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the idiotplayers podcast 05: George Bennett p01

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download (right-click and Save as…)

The idiotplayers podcast is a caravanserai of conversations with important thinkers, be-ers and doers. The idiotplayers podcast aims to explore art, creativity and expression.  If there is an elephant standing in the dark, as the Sufi story goes, we want to do more than grope and theorize. We invite conversations with people who aim from the heart to make practical, the far-reaching.

The idiotplayers welcome George Bennett to the conversation caravanserai. In our conversation George speaks about his years growing up at Coombe Springs. Coombe Springs was an experimental community started by his father John G. Bennett in Surrey, England. It was experimental in the sense that JG Bennett took a widely experimental approach to what a spiritual life might be in the post-nuclear age. He invited from all over the world people who had learned something of value about themselves, consciousness and love and could teach something of this to others.

He speaks practically about his experience as a teacher of the Movements, his work with children and adults and his professional life as a school teacher. It’s an excellent visit together presented for the listener of the idiotplayers podcast. This is part 01 of the conversation recorded on Sunday, October 16, 2011.

Biography
George Bennett was born in 1951, and was raised at Coombe Springs, the experimental spiritual community led by his father, JG Bennett. The ideas and practices of GI Gurdjieff, Subud, the Shivapuri Baba and Idris Shah formed some of the background of his childhood. After gaining a bachelors degree in history, George attended the third basic course run by JG Bennett at Sherborne in Gloucestershire, England. These ten-month courses were designed to give people an experience of the reality of the spiritual life, establish practices and spiritual ‘tools’ that could be developed over a lifetime, and to impart a sense of the spiritual task that confronts every individual, and humanity as a whole.

After Sherborne, George completed a masters degree in US history and then spent seven years as an international truck driver, an occupation that took him to countries across Eastern and Western Europe, and the Middle East. In 1982, having given up his driving career, George spent some months in the USA, where a visit to George and Mary Cornelius, long-time students of JG Bennett, reconnected him to ‘the Work’ as expounded by Bennett and Gurdjieff. Subsequently, George attended several seminars at the Cornelius’s institute in southern Oregon.

Working as a journalist in magazines specializing in trucks and transport, he learned the business of magazine publishing. He became editor of two magazines and, for a while, was responsible for the production of the market-leading ‘Car’ magazine in Britain. In 1990 George, with a business partner, bought the trucking titles he’d worked on from the Murdoch organization, and set up a small publishing company, which he co-owned for seven years before selling it in 1997. In 2001 George qualified as a school teacher and currently works as a 4th-6th grade teacher at The Village School, a small private elementary school set up twenty-two years ago by a group of Gurdjieff-Bennett students in Massachusetts, operating under the name Millers River Educational Cooperative (MREC).

Since the early 1990s, George has been involved in an international group running annual ‘Work’ seminars in the UK, and in 1994 he convened a conference at Claymont in West Virginia, on the twentieth anniversary of the death of JG Bennett. Some one hundred and fifty people attended the conference, mostly former students of Bennett who had taken his training as a point of departure, and had tried to develop their own understanding and methods of transmitting the ideas and practices of Bennett and Gurdjieff.

George currently helps to run a group in Boston, Massachusetts, but he remains convinced of the value of longer courses, to give people sustained experience of practical and spiritual work together. To that end he, with a small group including Elan Sicroff, the foremost specialist in the music of Gurdjieff and Thomas de Hartmann, initiated an experimental fourteen-week course in the fall of 2006 at Camp Caravan, a facility owned by MREC. This course was followed by a six-week ‘Intensive’ in the summer of 2010.

While it became clear that longer courses continue to have a real value, it is also apparent that people find it much harder than they did forty years ago to take a long period away from work or studies. As a result George, with a small group of collaborators, is currently experimenting with a series of shorter, ‘modular’ courses on specific aspects of the Work. The first of these two-week courses will be held at Camp Caravan in July of 2012. For further information, contact George on geoanab@gis.net.

Show Notes

jgbennett.net, Coombe Springs, Shivapuri Baba, Pak Subud, Sherborne House, the medium of hope, Millers River Educational Cooperative MREC http://www.campcaravan.org/, Claymont Court, the Gurdjieff Movements, Gurdjieff’s ideas of objective art, Number 17 (Gurdjieff Movement), The Village School, experience with children learning the Gurdjieff Movements, jgbennett.net, Diane Cilento, Robert Fripp.

Notes

Music by the idiotplayers urgent carnival and advice to the drunk at heart.

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cleo’s secret

story and images by idio

Cleo agreed to go. At any rate, she heard herself say “Yes” to her mother. Then the second thoughts came. After all, what would a fifteen year-old girl do in the quiet of cottage country with two old folks for three weeks? At the bottom of it, she really wanted to go, mostly to get out of the city. T-dot, T-drop. She needed to escape its ways. Chat-chat-chat. ru goin to g’s house on fryday? lol. yadayadayada. She wasn’t against the chat-chat-chat overall and she did a certain amount of yadayadayada, but she had noticed something very strange. All these really bright kids who only two years before talked deeply about rain forest depletion, consumerism and what happened after death, now seemed so eager to get on the bus of shoes and cell phones, nasty things written about so-and-so on j’s blog and hotly curious discussions about whether p’s breasts were real or not. It wasn’t that Cleo was cynical or angry. Yes, she was a little heavier than t and a little more clever than w and decidedly shorter than c, but this was just being confused and fifteen and it likely had some kind of purpose she figured. It was something more than that.

The idea of going to summer camp made her lips curl too: slim girls in tankinis poised like Venus Flytraps waiting to see how many boys they could lure. She realized that she was being a bit dramatic. Yet she wondered in her journal how it was that everyone seemed to be winging their way into adulthood and consenting to take part in the strangest social rituals, so strange, in fact, that they were merely stolen from somewhere else.

Maybe she was a hippy child, but her parents were never really hippies as per a standard sociological test or anything like that. They did spend some time living in an alternative community when they were young. They apparently learned serious things about life. She was probably brainwashed by some of that. Nevertheless, she could see for herself that somebody had apparently injected her friends with a big syringe of some kind of drug that had turned them into people who needed to convince everyone else, and themselves, that they were really smart, sophisticated people of the world when they were really just kids who needed something interesting to do. Cleo knew that she wouldn’t end up like a black-white-movie spinster, but something in her had turned on too, something that secretly wished for the same kinds of things as everyone else. Was this a problem? Is “problem” the wrong word?

When her mother mentioned that she could go to spend some time with Aunt Isabelle and Uncle Roger, it clicked – even if it was the click of another of her brother’s popsicle sticks as he tried to finish his grade 8 science project.

***

Cleo inwardly forgave her mother for not having the air conditioner on in the car when they turned off the 400 and onto a road that snaked along a river where the water sparkled and ran fast. As if on cue Cleo pulled the i-pod buds from her ears. The cicadas buzzed and her mother was singing something smoky in French.

“Hello daughter. This is called earth,” her mother said in the same smoky tone turning to look at Cleo for a moment overtop of her sunglasses. “Welcome.” Cleo smiled a cheeky smile in return.

“So, will I have to do stuff for Uncle Roger?” Cleo asked. She knew “Roger” was pronounced in the French way, Rowjay, but she got a kick out of pronouncing it with a “g” as in “girl,” Raw-ger.

“Stuff?” her mother replied.

“You know, like washing him and changing his under things … stuff.”

Although Uncle Roger was her mother’s brother, both he and Isabelle were considerably older than Cleo’s mom. Cleo knew that Uncle Roger was well into his 80s and that Aunt Isabelle was 79. Roger had become wheelchair bound some years ago when it was clear that he could no longer walk on his own. For much longer than that, it had appeared to everyone else that he had retreated into himself. He did not talk, other than strangeness, and Cleo had no memories, other than photographs, of him as a vigorous man. Isabelle, on the other hand, was mobile and altogether full of sauce and stories.

“Are you worried about ‘stuff’?” her mother asked.

“Mom, please don’t answer my question with a question, somehow inviting me to reflect on the nature of the question. I just need to know.”

“Well that’s up to you if you want to help out. There’s no expectation, I’m sure. Isabelle does well on her own and the nurse from North Bay comes a couple of times a week.”

Cleo was prepared to admit to herself, at least, that she was a little apprehensive at the prospect of “stuff.” She looked out the window at the river. It had turned into a lake. The dark forms of the pine trees sped by in a cool blur and the sunlight upon the water beckoned to her from beyond.

“So tell me again something about this place that Uncle Roger used to run,” Cleo asked after a time looking out at her shifting image of the lake.

Cleo’s mom paused for a bit, “Your Uncle travelled for many years when he was younger, North America, South America, Asia pretty much all over. He met some incredible people and, I suppose, was somewhat incredible himself. He started a kind of school to work alongside others. It was a place where people came to live … to live like genuine people,” she said without a drop of sarcasm.

“They came there to learn how to live?” Cleo asked somewhat dubious.

“It’s amazing what can happen, Cleo, once people simply let go of the violence and stupidity that everyday life feeds into them and be …” She trailed off. “Yes, I that’s right, just be.”

“Just be?” echoed Cleo.

“Yes,” her mother said like Cleo would know exactly what she meant.

Finally Cleo simply said, “Mom, you’re going a bit fast aren’t you?”

***

The roads got smaller and smaller as they approached the cottage, branching like blood vessels reaching out ever finer. Cleo’s mom turned down a lane marked by a tatty sign, “The Petries”. There was a beautiful collection of lake rocks around it that contrasted with the sign.

The cottage was old-school. It was hunkered down beneath a grove of white pine and spruce trees and painted cottage green. A stone chimney climbed up from the gabled roof and the old glass in the windows warbled in the light. Despite its nostalgic look, the cottage that had been fitted with electricity and the modern things some years ago by Cleo’s father and several friends of Uncle Roger’s from the days when he was director of the school. Cleo had been to the cottage many times, but never with the prospect of hearing her mother’s car back out of the lane leaving her behind.

As Cleo’s mom inched up the steep lane, the sunlight came quickly and densely as they rolled out of the coolness of the trees. Isabelle came out of the cottage and raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, and when she saw that it was Cleo and her mother, she danced a little dance that made her look like a puppet. Cleo laughed. The car stopped, and she tumbled out to run and say “Hello.” Isabelle took her into her arms and kissed her forehead and whispered something sweet to her that only Auntie Isabelle could whisper. Cleo and Isabelle stood arm in arm as Cleo’s mom approached.

“Ah Diane, how nice to see you, ” said Isabelle in her rich tone, leaning to kiss.

Diane came up and Cleo slipped away from Isabelle’s side with a soft word in her Aunt’s ear. She turned to go down the long rambling stairs to the dock. She heard her mother and Aunt Isabelle speaking in French as she went to check-out whether all was as it should be, as she remembered it.

The hammock was tied securely between two aspens on a rock ledge leaning out over the water below. The lake washed gently onto what little beach there was. The scarlet red canoe was lying mouth down on the dock with its beautiful ribs of sugared cedar just visible. There was a good breeze and not many bugs. The cicadas buzzed mysteriously overhead with a sound that pulsed from everywhere all at once. She turned to look up at the cottage and saw Uncle Roger in his chair looking out over the lake and waved to him. Although he did not wave back, she felt that he saw her and that said hello in his own silent way.

Cleo scrambled up the rambling steps, creaked open the screen door of the cottage and walked through into the lake room. The smell of fire smoke and pinesap welcomed her. He held her Uncle’s hand and kissed him gently on the wrinkles of his forehead.

“Hello Uncle Roger,” she said in the French way. “I’m so happy to be able to come. Thank-you for having me,” Cleo said with definiteness.

They had lunch together. Isabelle was a good cook and gave everything a unique touch. They ate lake fish and salad with fresh fiddleheads. Mostly Cleo listened as her mother and Aunt Isabelle chatted about family and the news of the world. When time came for Diane to leave, Cleo hugged her mother and said goodbye tenderly but without ceremony. She watched her back out of the lane with the tires softly crunching the gravel. Before she realized it, there was only the sound of the cicadas and the dopplerized propeller of a passing plane. The summer had begun.

***

Time passed strangely in the first week, running in flows and eddys. Some things stood out while the rest of it flew quickly by. Cleo canoed and played Gin with Aunt Isabelle. Then her Aunt started to teach her Bridge, this she remembers very clearly. “All card games lead to Bridge,” Isabelle intoned with raised eyebrows. Actually she called it “Honeymoon Bridge.” Cleo liked that. She had a clear image of a young couple tossing stones into the water.

She remembers helping her Uncle Roger. She remembers his scent. Beneath the crusty smell of old age, he had a turnip kind of smell, a little spicy and a little buttery. She liked that. He needed help to dress, to eat, to wash and to go to the bathroom. She gave considerable attention to most of these tasks, but she left the bathroom chores to her Aunt.

Mostly he sat in his comfy chair by the big bay window looking out over the lake. He slept, and he murmured and he cried, and even cried out sometimes. He smiled a very fine smile. And, sometimes, the look in his eye cast out on a hundred thousand miles. She sat with him one evening and watched a storm move in from the southwest. Sitting with Uncle Roger she felt the system move and move in her feelings too. The grays and blacks and magenta purples expressed hard-to-explain things in her, growing up maybe, a certain awareness of time. She felt her Uncle really present beside her like he was on this journey with her too. When the storm passed she looked to find that he had nodded off.

***

Early in the second week Aunt Isabelle announced after doing the dishes while taking the rubber gloves from her hands, “We need supplies, Cleo. I’m going to drive into town tomorrow morning.” She looked right at Cleo. “I’m going to need you to stay here with Roger.”

It felt like an important mission had been laid upon her.

The next morning Isabelle explained everything to Cleo that she needed to know. Isabelle showed her where the emergency numbers were and what she should do if anything “needed to happen.” Cleo couldn’t quite figure that out, the way that Isabelle said “needed to happen.” She wondered at the phrase, as if the universe had a schedule for these things. It stuck with her.

“Darling, I won’t be gone long. Roger will be fine. Just look in on him every now and again.”

Cleo was a bit insulted with that. Of course she would look in on him. She was intending to do more than that. She bit down on the urge to say it to Aunt Isabelle, but she thought that if she said something that she might not do as she said. Strange. She had never noticed this before, this push and pull between different parts of herself. Somehow it brought her back.

She remembered playing on a swing set in Ypres Park one afternoon with the sun falling between dark gossamer trees and the sound shunting of trains in the distance. She must have been 3 years old. She remembered watching her feet vaulting into the sky with each thrust and feeling the point of utter stillness just before falling back. There was something special in that point of hovering between two worlds. She realized now that it was probably her first real memory, the moment where she woke-up to herself.

Isabelle loved cars. Cleo saw that she enjoyed pulling down the long drive with speed and skill. After she left, everything was quite silent, as if nature de-tuned out of hearing for a short time.

She washed the breakfast dishes and got her uncle settled in his chair by the window. She flipped through his collection of vinyl records and found a recording of Beethoven’s piano sonata opus 110. She settled the needle deftly into the groove.

The music started so beautifully, a dream becoming aware of itself. Feathers and sky and light. There was the smell of flowers. A running up a hill. Then a looking out. A cool freshness. Thoughts without words. Somewhere totally different now. Not a particular place.

She walked over to look at the jacket. The pianist was Artur Schnabel. She could feel something really wonderful in the music and in his playing of it. She enjoyed music and studied the piano. She was going to audition for the Conservatory this year. She looked at her Uncle. He was beaming with energy. He knew the piece well. She took a seat at an angle to him where they could both look out over the lake.

The music was just shifting to a section of minor chords, very strident, moving in their knowing. The feeling of being in a room with Roger so close and not talking was strange for her. After a short while Cleo found that it was actually quite relaxing.

The music moved back into something hopeful, though complex. Rolling chords of ascending and descending arpeggios all at once. Then a lilting motif that recalled the opening of the piece, but with a minor feel. Someone was saying goodbye. Powerfully and without sentiment, though potent in its inner resonance. A tolling of a bell, growing louder. The echo of it. Someone whispering something in the corner. Then a wild conversation, purposeful and moving all around itself.

When the music ended there was the click of the needle in the final grove, sliding and popping, going round and round. The room rang.

Being with Uncle Roger was interesting to her. There was relaxation in it and fresh thoughts, fresh feelings. Wow. She listened closely to the end-of-record skip. She deepened her breathing and felt at home in her body next to her Uncle. She felt his joy, his attentiveness. Yet, his features betrayed nothing. His over-sized glasses, his plaid shirt, his roving whiskers, his painfully frail body and the faint smell of urine all spoke to his age and condition. She knew, though, that if she moved close she would get a wiff of the spicy turnip smell.

She wondered whether it was possible to bring him down closer to the lake. The long rambling stairs gave a challenge and brought in a pang to her moment. They sat for quite a while looking and seeing too. Finally she got up to lift the record. There was a new silence.

“You’re quite right,” Uncle Roger suddenly said in a high whistling tone that cut through the air between them. Cleo turned with a start. He did not turn to look at her, but continued and said, “Life can be a shambles.” He raised his hands up, cupped in a poor-boy gesture.

At first she thought that maybe he was replaying a conversation from years past. He seemed so disconnected from his appearance, but she felt sure that he was speaking directly to her. What he said turned her thoughts to thinking about why she chose to come here in the first place: to escape the camp, the city, the chat-chat-chat, the frustration, the headlong run over the cliff into shoes and cell phones.

“Small choices, peut-être, lead into big rooms,” he said like the sound of the winter wind in the empty trees. There was a chill in it, as if they were beneath a great vaulted ceiling and the coolness of the space had fallen to the bottom where they sat.

His face brightened as a child’s does when talking to angels. He gave out a small cry. Cleo didn’t know what to do. She waited in exile. Finally turning to her with that long look of a hundred thousand miles, he said, “Anyway, love is beyond knowing, and only the heart can see.”

He spoke to Cleo in perfect clarity. The coolness she sensed was, in fact, perseverance. What he said, she found that place in herself. She was not confused and fifteen. She wondered, just then, in an astonishing way, whether she had been here before.

Yes, with her Uncle. She did not have to know what that meant. She was amazed at the hard-to-describeness of it. She was chewing on a knot of leather falling through the emptiness.

They sat in silence. Cleo wanted to quiet herself. Even though she might not have, she said,  “Uncle, I’m having this strong feeling of déjà vu.”

Silence.

Then he sprouted his lips, and he said, “Yes, I see that.”

Cleo laughed like she was watching Ms. Turner’s wardrobe malfunction at the senior dance. Roger enjoyed to hear her laugh. From herself.

When she looked again at him, he appeared to her like he must have been as a younger man. His jaw sloping out and his forehead arching up. His cheeks falling like heavy drapes over his bones. She had seen pictures. But this was something different.

She watched him closely. Then suddenly it was if he was falling back into the world out of which he’d come. After a moment or two, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

***

Cleo felt a strong desire to swim. She changed into her suit, turned on the baby monitors, placed one beside her uncle and took the other one with her down to the dock. Her feeling of déjà vu clung to her, but she could not see it directly. It evaporated whenever she turned to get a good look at it. Down at the dock she looked out over the lake as it began to stir in the late morning breeze coming up out of the west. The lake opened up just beyond the headland of their little bay, and she saw the prow of what they called Ponderer’s Rock just rising out of the water. Diving from the end of the dock into the tea-coloured water she swam toward it.

Ponderer’s Rock. She loved to sit on it sunning herself like a mermaid, that is as long as the breeze was blowing enough to keep the flies away. It was no more than a couple of body lengths across, depending on the lake level, but it plunged beneath the surface of the lake to where its real substance lay. It was a truly massive chunk of pink granite, an erratic, dropped here after riding, once upon a time, like a surfer on the crest of a gigantic ice wave. It was a local legend. A nearby cottager, a geologist from Trent University, estimated it at over 5,000 tons. It was perched on a cleft of the descending lake basin like the submerged head of a colossus. Sitting atop it, one sat atop the most ancient of goddesses. The Canadian Shield, as it is called, is the most ancient exposed rock on the planet, and Ponderer’s Rock was the perfect place to gaze out over the surface of time.

After pondering the poetry of the expanding moment, Cleo slipped in again to the water and, taking a deep breath, dove down into the gradient light that opened into the darkness below. She swam down against the buoyancy of air in her lungs until the pressure started to squeeze her tight. Letting go of all of her air, she hung beside the great substance of Ponderer’s Rock suspended in the water of time. Her heart pumping wildly in her ears, she felt her consciousness winnowing down into a tiny seed within the pure instinctive force to get air.

***

Aunt Isabelle returned, hands full of groceries. She had all kinds of gossip from town and Cleo relished having tea with her in the afternoon down by the water. She laughed to hear her Aunt bring the town to life in her stories. Jane Rintjema was pregnant. Cleo used to swim with her in the summers she spent at the cottage as a kid. Jane was eighteen now. Isabelle suggested that she could ride into town tomorrow with the Moody’s down the lane and visit with her. On another front, the town now knew that the disappeared funding for the new library went into buying Tony Walker a flash condo in Toronto.

She thought about telling her Aunt about Roger. In the end she figured that it was as it was, or rather that it is as it is. She did want to hear that he had such episodes every now and again. She did not want the specialness of what he’d said to be drained away. And so it remained Cleo’s secret.

In the evening, she played Honeymoon Bridge with Isabelle and later in bed with the crickets sounding, she repeated to herself what her Uncle had said, “Love is beyond knowing, and only the heart can see.” She took it apart like a delicate, intricate thing and was amazed to find what lay hidden inside.

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six rooms revisited (2 of 2)

In this post we publish material from Divah (P. McCabe). Divah was attracted initially, I think, to idiotplayers.org by posts I made beginning back in Aug 2010 entitled “six rooms.” These pieces were prose explorations based on a short and dense passage from JG Bennett’s Dramatic Universe, Vol. 4. She has written her own exploration along this theme, and we are happy to publish it here. The final rooms, rooms 4-6, are published in this post.

Room 4

I wander down the long corridor. They can’t keep me here locked up. I’m here by choice. I can leave whenever I like! So many doors… hey, this one’s open! Wow…this room is beautiful! Blue and yellow, my favourite colours and so many interesting curios in that cabinet… a tiny china-glass bell, what a lovely sound it make’s. It sound’s like the one on my bicycle when I was little. Round and round the garden I’d go ringing the bell each time I’d pass my mother who was sitting on the porch reading so she’d look at how good I was cycling on my new bike. But now… Now I feel her sadness, she’s crying, but I don’t remember her crying then… how can I see it “Now”? Am I still “Remembering”?

This is different to how I remembered this day before…I feel more… I’m no longer concentrating on keeping my bike steady. I’m feeling the breeze on my face, the sun on my back. I can smell the grass and my mother’s perfume in the air. I can hear the radio coming from inside the house playing an old song that my father used to sing to my mother. She had it played at his funeral… That’s why she’s crying !

How come I didn’t see this before? Before what? I’m back there “Now” !

Oh, mother, why didn’t I hug You then and wipe away your tears?

You’re gone Now. Is it too late? Can You feel my embrace “Now”?

I Can !

Room 5

This room is not so much a room as it is a Meeting-Place. It has beds at one end and at this end there are a few tables and chairs. Flowers on each table, cheerful atmosphere. Everyone here seem’s calm. But it is not the “sedated” calm of the first place, more a contented type of calm. I like it here.

I sit at the table with my morning coffee wondering how long it’s been since I first decided to come here to this place. It seem’s like a lifetime ago. Breakfast arrives. “Must eat well to Be Well” they say. I smile. Life Is Wonderful!

A young woman joins me. She seems happy. “How long have You been Here”? she asks.

“Oh, long enough,” I say.

“It’s a lovely day. Would You like to take a walk around the grounds with me after breakfast”? she asks. Why not.

We walk.

“You know,” she say’s, ” I can’t remember coming Here, in fact, I can’t remember ever ‘Not’ being here! Strange, because You’re the first person I’ve spoken to since I’ve been here. But if I’ve always been here, I should have met more people, don’t You think”?

“Depends,” I say, “On Why You’re here!”

“I told You, I’ve Always been Here. I Live Here. Why are You Here”? she asks.

“I was Lost for a long Time. I came Here to find My Way Home. You say this is your home? I like it here, maybe I’ll stay.”

“I hope You do, I like visitors.”

Room 6

Strolling through the grounds, I stop at the pond and throw some bread to the ducks. What a beautiful day. The Sun is shining, the birds are singing, the ducks are eating, aaahh… wonderful. Looking back at the big house I see it has a type of conservatory. There are a couple of people sitting inside chatting. I think I’ll join them.

I greet them. They smile and nod as if they know me. One is the young woman I walked with earlier who she said that she lives here. The other is an older woman. I’m sure I don’t know her.

“Why are You here”? I ask the older woman.

“I work here”, she says.

“What is your job here”?

“I’m the Librarian. I’m in charge of All the Knowledge within these walls. Why don’t You come and have a look sometime, see if there are any books here that interest You!”

“Ok, I Will, where is it?”

“Right here, in the back of this room. Come. I’ll show You now.”

I follow her into a dark room. She switches on a light. It’s Huge! Stacks and stacks of books on every subject. I’ve never seen so many books!

“Come,” she says, “I think I have just the book for You.”

Oh, yes… this Is my type of book. Great story. “Real” characters. Good twist. Wait… the house in this story… It’s This House, and The Owner is ME”!… “This is My House!”

“Yes,” she says, “We’ve been waiting a long time for You to come Here. You’ve been away for So Long!”

“Where was I?” I ask.

“You went out to “Play” with the others in The Playground as a child and You liked The Game so much that You wanted to keep on Playing. You forgot about us and This Place. Here, WE are In Charge of All Games but we never get Lost in any of them, we just Watch and take notes! This Is a place of Learning, of Enjoyment, of Living, of Freedom! But You Must BE Yourself Here! There is no room for strangers.”

“But You’re a stranger to me! I don’t know You,” I say.

“But I know You,” she says. “All the books I take care of are kept in place for You. You wrote them all and put them in my charge so that One Day You would come Here and find Yourself in them Today Is That Day. Welcome Home!”

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six rooms revisted (1 of 2)

In this post we publish material from Divah (P. McCabe). Divah was attracted initially, I think, to idiotplayers.org by posts I made beginning back in Aug 2010 entitled “six rooms.” These pieces were prose explorations based on a short and dense passage from JG Bennett’s Dramatic Universe, Vol. 4. She has written her own exploration along this theme, and we are happy to publish it here. Rooms 1-3 are published in this post. Rooms 4-6 will follow.

The Asylum

Room 1 

Entry Level for new patients / Initiates

This room is over-sized and is relatively “free” in it’s capacity to allow it’s inhabitants to wander the halls and smoking/congregation room, where the inmates can socialize and share their stories of how they came to Be Here. There is a calm atmosphere, brought about by the constant Sedation by the staff to keep everyone “In Check”!

Not much help is given, other than an opportunity to develop a new In-Sight by sharing stories with other patients and maybe learning something about our own condition by comparison.

New faces appear daily and some familiar ones disappear.

The Conveyor~belt move’s continously while behind the multiple cctv~cameras in every corner, a pair of eyes watches…

Somewhere, Someone Is, taking notes…

Room 2

This room is quiet… too quiet.

I Am alone. Plucked from the other place where at least I had people to share my feelings with.

This is strange, why did they take me away and put me here?

I’m sitting at a table, the only piece of furniture in the room, apart from the chair that I’m sitting on.

There’s a note-pad and pen on the table. They said I should write how I feel…

How I feel about What? Dear God they’re crazier than I am, and they’re the doctors, this is ridiculous, they’re not doing ANYTHING!!!

Am I supposed to cure Myself? How dare they call themselves doctors? They’re supposed to help Me!

I don’t know what’s wrong with Me!

I hear coughing coming from behind the mirror, is this a joke?

I must be getting well, at least they took me out of the main room full of people with all-sorts of dis-eases, that must be a good sign. I’m not as sick as they are. Yes, this must be a place for preparing to Go Home. Those pictures on the wall… those are my clothes but that’s not Me… the mirror… that’s not My reflection … I pick up The Pen.

Room 3

I open my eyes, sunsine through the window give’s the room a golden glow. This room is different, strangely surreal with it’s red curtains and black marble floor. Cold, yet comforting, seem’s familiar somehow. Soft music playing somewhere, voices whispering… are they talking about Me?

Where Am I? I remember Now. I was writing about an Existence where I was being questioned as to My Identity. Hah… they think I’m stupid. I see their game. I know who I Am, they won’t use me as a Lab-Rat!

Yes, They’ve moved me again, they must have given up, I’m too smart for them.
I’ll go look for the smoking area, see who else Is Here.

That lady seem’s nice, I light up a cigarette, “Where is this place?” I ask her, she look’s at me, bemused.

“You don’t know?, this is the “Changing” room” she say’s.

“‘Changing’ room?”, I ask… “what the hell is That supposed to mean?”

“Well, If You can’t recognize this place very soon, they’ll send You back to the first room and You’ll have to start all over again”.

…crazy woman… I put out my cigarette, I look up, she’s gone! I didn’t see her go past me… she looked familiar though, a lot like me a while back, when I was carefree and happy. There’s a nice painting on the wall of a House, look’s a lot like the house I grew up in.

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