Monthly Archives: January 2016

Diggers and dreamer (last part)

The land has given me a gift, being the guardian of the mystery lake proved to be the potion of life, although I did perform quite miserably as the guard whenever the locals came to fish or swim, I had issues with land ownership, or at least I believed I did.

In retrospect looking at the story itself I realised I have been extremely fortunate, not jut because having a lake of your own in Israel is unheard of, but because I was given a place to integrate altered states of awareness and abilities into my everyday, usually that type of “openness” is never allowed the room or the existence, I was also young enough to be able to make it the corner stone of my existence, but like I’m trying to convey, the quarry had a story of its own, the story of place mingled with the dreams of men, the sweat of the Israeli pioneers, the diesel fumes of the diggers, and the pure water, with me the dreamer in its midst.

I believe that the world adjust itself to itself and so it wove a web around me, I’m a simple man which is why it all happened just like that…… simply, it was always all there simple and direct and I guess that reflects me somehow, I was given a power spot at the age of 18, the people I grew up with were going to the army or already enlisted, I was exploring awareness itself, whilst they went to fight in Gaza, I was gazing at the hills, to quieten the “me” enough in order to meet the “it”.

The Juxtaposition of living a parallel reality in that quarry that was dug by the men of my family was high, it was more than that, I remember the quarry men coming one day just after I arrived and rigging explosives on the basalt cliffs, it wasn’t even the alabaster they were after, as a manly “dare” they came into the bus and asked me to press the button, I was against it but they prevailed.
A hail of rocks hit the metal roof after the explosion, I felt like they are blowing my dreams apart, but we dreamers always feel intruded upon whatever happens, and we go to no ends to mask it.

But still the fact the land was dug by my grandfather and father somehow created that lake inside me, one generation of pioneers followed by one generation of warriors, and here I was the third generation, I’ve tried to explain to my grandfather one day visiting the kibbutz, that my generation’s war has to happen inside, that the external enemy has been warded (it was a time of relative quiet in Israel, just after the peace agreement with Jordan).
I guess he didn’t really understand what I was on about, I tried to explain that having no pending enemy outside allows the warrior to turn inside and start battling the real force that deprives us of our power.

I’ve come to see that there is a meta story stalking the lines of each of our tales, and those are the beginning threads of mine, maybe I was always an odd bird, I left school at 13 and knew at 14 that there is no way in the world I would serve in the army (army service in Israel is compulsory). But the ease with which I was allowed to leave the Army was questionable, although the process seemed long. I first drew some elephants in the test papers instead of answering the question about them, having quit school at 13, I guess I did miss a few chapters of algebra, and in a way it was hard to admit I actually didn’t know the elephantine answers, but I didn’t even try, maybe it was some kind of arrogance, as if I knew better because I couldn’t admit I didn’t know at all, we dreamers fight with ourselves inside constantly and so we never know.

Next I was interviewed (like everybody else) by a nice young soldier woman, she happened to know my older sister because of being in the same school year. She asked why I drew elephants instead of answering the questions, I said I didn’t want to serve, she asked me if I really was my sister’s brother (she wasn’t sure), and what I wanted to happen?….. And she said she will see what she could do.

The next person in line (the out-going line I mean) was a social worker, when asked if I ever thought about committing suicide I said “sure don’t we all?.”
I also said I’m kind of a loner (it was true in a sense because I kind of left my peers on the kibbutz when I started working instead of going to school), I just thought I’ll say whatever may help in getting me out of the army, but I was averse to lying.

I guess I triggered enough markers, so I was sent to the army’s psychologist next, who asked me if I’m a pacifist, I answered that before I venture to fix the world I feel I must fix myself. The answer must have impressed him enough to send me onward unto the last stage of the process.
I found myself in front of a committee of three, though only one spoke, I didn’t believe my shenanigans worked, so I expected them to tell me the infantry awaits me, instead I was asked if I’m ok with getting section .21 – the army code (or “profile” as it is called in Israel) for someone unfit for service due to health reasons, but that’s only because they don’t want to write, mental health reasons.

I agreed, than the weirdest thing happened, the spokesman of that committee told me that in case I change my mind (remember I’ve just been deemed mentally unstable) they would put me wherever I want in the army (something that doesn’t happen in the best of cases),
It was another point that seem to stand out in the narrative of the “Tale” as being adjusted by a greater force, I even thought that maybe the fact my father held a high position in the army had something to do with it, “protekzia” it was called in Hebrew, you can figure out alone what that meant, for a little moment I thought of asking to serve in the Air Force, as that was a childhood dream of mine, like I said we dreamers never know if we are coming or going.

It is always hard to see things from the inside, everybody has to be the lead character of their story, but looking at my own stories I have come to isolate moments that stand out as if they don’t belong or seem emphasized, moments when something seems to intervene and adjusts things for an ulterior, or rather, superior (if you are taken to believe in hierarchy) motive.

Thinking about it now, the same thing happened with high school, I was an A student, but upon hitting the social ground of high school, I found myself in with the gangs of lesser students, and instead of going into class ended up sitting on the lawns In front of the Sea of Galilee, but I wasn’t the only one, we all use to do it. Somehow out of 200 students in my age group, I was the only one to leave school.

Here too I found myself in a meeting, with woman In charge, the very same woman who told me there is no way they would allow me to join the “builders” – a group of specially hard learners (I mean students who found learning very hard) who spent 4 years learning how to build houses, there weren’t even arranged in age groups but got assembled from all the problematic students of four age “years”, or put simply all the students who were deemed unable to be taught.

At the time I said it is ok with me, it feels right I don’t join them, she said I’m too good a student, for the school management to pretend I belong there, but on that day of the meeting that ended with me leaving school (something which is illegal as going to school is compulsory) I was again told I could be put wherever I wanted to, even with the “builders”, but maybe that’s what they always tell me before they send me out.

I refused, I said all I seem to do, coming to school is sneak out to the supermarket across the road and stuff myself with pastries, and I’m afraid I’ll get fat, I might as well go to work on the kibbutz, so this was how I got expelled out of the school, or you could say I left,
I’m a dreamer and my eyes are set somewhere else, so it never mattered.

I have a very high sense of social right and wrong, and it always seemed strange I got a special treatment, at times even questionable.

But although this story seems to be about me, it isn’t really, it’s an attempt to meet the creator itself through the weaves of the story, the force that guides our fates, an attempt to illustrate that there is another line of thought, which isn’t ours, a line of thought we belong to instead of it belonging to us, the thoughts of the Spirit.

There is a group in the UK called diggers and dreamers, and some how to me that seemed a very good way to summarise this chapter,
I was brought up by diggers, my grandfather driving the bulldozer and my father being the manager of the quarry, him with a spell in the army armored divisions, which is a type of a bulldozer with canon.
And I was the dreamer in their midst, the mystery lake that have sprung from the rock, quarried out of the barren hills of the Jordan valley and of the tough Israeli pioneers and the Kibbutz society and its idealism.

For those that have swum that lake’s deep waters, this is an attempt to reveal the hidden relationship between place and being, the secret of power places or the power of story, I am that dreamer that was expelled, or you might say I chose to leave, I never knew a difference.

People that deal with power directly all have a special art, a way to perform their relation with the forces at large, mine is that I’m a
story teller, although I’m not really a writer.

My realm is the living story, and the medium that I use to perform my art is what we call the HTML, because it stands for the programming language itself.

Diggers and dreamer (part 2)

And so my love affair with open psychic spaces and the inner landscapes they conjure was met, content meets intent, it was just right for it to start that way, I was the third generation to come to that quarry, with my grandfather and father to work the stone before me, though maybe my stone was different to theirs, because my quarrying certainly was, and this is in a way the beginning thread, I have a burning notion that places individuality or maybe better, originality at the fore of everything, being arranged for a place to live in the wilds especially by the kibbutz people felt like a failure of sorts, because I was looking for a way to live away from the western mind set, and living in any sort of dependency felt like falling into the cold, but safe, arms of socialism again.

Already in the kibbutz people found me strange,I guess the fall of the movement itself also contributed to a sense of something being lost, maybe it’s a fear people that Have a life sorted by communality have, that they wouldn’t be able to deal and make a living as individuals, my fear was maybe deeper, I was scared I wouldn’t be able to live with people altogether, so the notion of having to be dependent again felt like a step backwards in a way, it offered the time and space to integrate, in retrospect, the quarry people didn’t want anything from me in return for offering me a place, bar a cup of coffee when they came.

I  learned later that falling in with that gang saved me from the kibbutz administration, people that have had dealing with kibbutz life all know that each kibbutz has some outlaws, kibbutz Gesher had some of Its outlaws in the quarry people, the fact they work outside the kibbutz, the amount of money they brought in to the community and maybe all the big diggers made them feel above the rest, but somehow that allowed me to fall in between the cracks for a while and for that I was grateful.

But there is another story line, a deeper one, the story that’s is woven around the heart itself the quarry of dreams, the ethereal one that exists in another realm, the realm of story itself, and we would meet it I hope bit by bit as the story unfolds.

I was given a dog, a bus and an axe, the bus was parked by the old corrugated iron shed my grandfather built, and I officially became the guard of the quarry, I was guarding against people coming to the lake, one of Israel’s secrets, but known to all locals, it was called the disappearing lake. The quarry being abandoned, have now filled up with underground water, that amount of natural sweet water in Israel was not a thing to ignore!. The lake was also filled up with fish, one of the quarry man threw in, so they can come and fish when they felt like it, Instead it ruined into a pilgrimage location.

The quarry equipment was moved further south in the Jordan valley to the new quarry at Doshen, right under the Qauqab or Kokhav Ayarden in Hebrew (the star of Jordan) the ancient Templar castle called belviour, that overlooks the Jordan valley, home to Meir Har-Zion; one of Israel’s warrior-heroes, a man that crossed the border to Jordan and is reputed to have murdered a whole village singlehandedly to avenge his sister being murdered, and with a knife only!, his farm near the old templar fortress was called Shoshana’s (rose) farm, and with the place itself being called the star of Jordan and my dyslexia that brings meanings into unity I saw it as the rose of the winds, or the star if the winds (Kokhav Ruhu’t).

But neighbouring heroes aside, I grew amongst a people where every other grandfather was a hero, walking on the lawns of the kibbutz you would meet one of the old generation and with respect the kids would whisper that is the guy that threw the Molotov bottle and turned the Jordanian tanks around, My grandfather was one too, he blew the bridges over the Jordan and when the fuse didn’t catch on the explosive he went down and lit it with his cigarette, later one of his comrades was given a medal for that action, whilst he kept quiet. He had a bullet hole through his cheek and when he died, the family found he kept secret weapons (no one knew about) in the attic. So to us every other man was a hero, I always looked elsewhere, for some deeper heroism, but those were the hills I grew in, strong and high with ancient fortresses and surrounded by warriors and high ideals of socialism and communism, the rocks.

The old quarry and the lake that it held was called the disappearing lake because it was surrounded by cliffs, and you couldn’t see it until you got right to the cliff’s edge, it was simply too much to ask for people not to come and enjoy, the cliffs provided a daring jump for the braver Israelis, the fish grew into the stuff of legends and the cool sweet water in the white and pink of the alabaster was an oasis at heart of the Jordan valley and It all was beyond refusing.

Living in the quarry was more than a gift, it was a moment I could explore that psychic space and new abilities, without the toll of others around me. I have reached a state, living in that old gypsum quarry where I believed I could hear the thoughts of anyone in a 4km radius, not having anyone live within that radius allowed me to explore deeper, and swim the psychic waters of the mystery itself, the cool lake of the being.

In later years this contrast between the barren hot hills and the cool sweet water, as an osmosis to the inner pool that comes out of the harshness, or as the watery dreamer I was hewn  out of the hard stoney men of the Jordan valley, would be highlighted even further as my father would come back to that quarry as its manager and would drain the lake again to reopen the quarry, to the chagrin of the locals of course, it’s like a story that runs down and back up again in the male side of the family, the diggers and dreamers, their work with the hills and the stone.

The place took some kind of liking to us or better still, it’s story became ours somehow, at least this is how I interpret it, but whatever it was that story ran alongside us, or at east it’s an easier way to put it, because the truth is that the place took a liking to me and that I know why, but I think that for now, explaining that a place as a mind, or saying that one and a place can communicate would seem little far fetched.

The quiet and open space and the power of the spot, but more so the isolation, allowed me to go beyond being alone. it allowed me to see that there really was not such a thing as personal thoughts, learning to turn them around and find their roots, I realised that the internal dialogue itself wasn’t ours to begin with. Maybe the most important thing was that I’ve discovered that not being shackled with the exceptions of others allows me to find out that I was indeed crazier than I thought (my personal thought in this case), and that I could indeed command the weather to a degree, and that actually telepathy wasn’t so complicated an act once one quietens up.

I guess this last paragraph calls for some elucidation (as throwing big statements to the wind might seem empty): we think that our thoughts are ours simply because we hear them as conversations inside our own heads, it’s a voice that “we” hear, meaning that it belongs to us, the simplicity in being able to become telepathic is very plain, all one needs to do is turn things around, what if the barrier of “me” – that individual being, was actually a construct made around meta physical relationships, maybe there was no clear boundary, but a set of receptors, couldn’t it be that the things we hear inside are not ours, could it be that those thoughts originate somewhere else? Could they be the thoughts of others?.
The complexity of social relationships on energetic level means we never have time to quieten and slow things enough to have a real look, but if one could take each thought to its root one would find out ….. that except the fact we repeat things over and over, at some point in the thought’s origin, there was an energetic interaction, a line that was given or taken, the rest is just repetition or a reaction on our parts, a masking of sorts, designed to keep us in the dark ages by thinking we own our thoughts, it is a construct that shuffles things around and repeats things over and over, based on our image and feeling of self import. But that is all, in fact this construct is very foreign to us, so if we learn to listen in carefully and so isolate the “live” threads inside the pattern and repetition we stand a chance to make a head out of the tail we grow between our shoulders.

Maybe I didn’t really make anything clearer,  what I’ve discovered, is that there isn’t such a thing as thoughts, the thinking process  itself is made up of an overlay of mechanisation, which is also the construct that makes us think our thoughts are ours, but it is also constructed on top of an inner core, that inner core has deeper energetic truth, what makes things more complicated is that we hear the thoughts of others, meaning we can hear the mechanisation of other people’s thought process, or we can hear the thing itself, which is in simpler words the thoughts of something that is not a person, some people call the ability to distinguish between them all “seeing”, for Native American pipe carriers, hearing the voice of the thing itself, could be when the pipe “talks”, or when the spirit does.

The actual method, if there is one, that I took to get there, was sitting and gazing at the hill in front of the bus, that quietened up the repetition of my own thoughts enough, than I took each thought and turned it around, meaning – if I thought of someone I would turn to see that it was actually them thinking of me, but here lies the hard truth of this practice, that in order to be able to truly turn your thoughts around you must learn to conquer the reactive part of the self, and make sure that the thought wasn’t originating in the mechanisation of your own mind, it is hard but it is possible. In order to really be able to do so, one needs to conquer the self, to stop needing and wanting, to be able to withstand whatever it may, in order not to allow that foreign installation we call our minds to take precedence, or one can go at it directly, by willing oneself to not think at all, to know will before it turns into words in ones mind, after all words are just surface thing with us,  and thinking is much clearer without words.

To be continued ….

Diggers and Dreamer (part 1)

Below is an excerpt from a book.

When I was 19 I had a profound experience that left me “psychically” open. I thought I was going crazy, it was either that or that I developed the ability to read other people’s thoughts. To make things worse, I became convinced also that I can control the weather to a degree. In Native American society a pipe carrier (peace pipe or medicine pipe) would have had rings on his medicine pipe to demonstrate that he can summon the winds or hold control over the weather, but in our society the notion of such abilities is an aberration – I have had the fortune to find people who have rings on their pipes, and this is the story of that beginning.

I had just returned to Israel after traveling over Southern Europe for almost a year.
Together with a friend exploring in the north of Israel, looking for a place to live away from society, I was really losing the plot, I could hear thoughts inside my own head. I guess the fact she was little unstable herself didn’t help. We roamed the hills and conjured magic, calling rain and sun and exploring communication abilities that meant either one of us could start a topic and the other would know what subject was meant without needing a point of reference, it went as far as having silent conversations, yes telepathy.
Being poor we also practiced the art of magical begging; how to get people to give you what you needed, and if you wonder, this type of sorcery only works for those in need, as otherwise something else takes over Maybe “need” is a sort of cleanser, but it sure is closer to the story line than “want”, even though it isn’t it either – the core we are after here is the calling of intent.

After a while we found an amazing spot in an old Syrian village (don’t get confused with the current Syrian crisis) in the Golan heights.
It was ideal: running streams and stone built houses, a whole village which had been abandoned. There were signs that someone had recently lived in one of the houses, and we later learned one of the kibbutz boys (I think maybe from Givo’ot Abashan) nearby had it with not having his own room and took to the hills, so we avoided that house, and chose a nice empty one, after all the village had quite a few to choose from.

Thompson gazelles where running free, and the local kibbutz had its cattle roaming in the hills nearby. It’s the part of Israel that feels like Europe (especially in winter) and being the old borderline with Syria on the slopes of the Golan, it also symbolizes a sense of being in between the attentions, and this is exactly where we wanted to be, (although at times I think we wanted to be across the border, at least attention- wise).

The Golan had always felt like a land of mystery to me, a place of strong rock and hills, wind swept at times, it was the land of giants called Bashan in ancient times, with stone mounds and circles, like Gilgal refa’im (meaning the wheel of ghosts or Ethers) in Arabic it is called Rujm il hiri, meaning the cat’s stone I think.
A massive stone complex bigger than Stonehenge, with an underground chamber; concentric rings of basalt stone, with a massive mound at its heart, and a secret chamber – I always thought those raised altars were the biblical Bamot, meaning stages literally.

The important thing is that I felt I have found the place I could integrate my current psychic situation as I was determined that only living away from others in a real isolated spot could sort me out.

We were both elated and hitchhiked to the nearby town of Rosh Pina to get some supplies, though just the basics, as we were going to live of the land as much as was possible – it being the rainy season, wild edibles were in abundance, mushrooms and mallow and even wild garlic grew on the slopes under the house. We made Bedouin bread in the coals and thought it was heaven, it was the ability to live without needing to be dependent on society, dreamers always have their oasis away from the world and this was ours, we found how to communicate without words. I could call the rain, we could get people to give things to us by a high form of positive begging, but more than it all we could live away from the choke of society and practice entering the other attention.

We treated ourselves to a coffee in one of the cafés in town and sitting down I got talking to a uniformed soldier who took some real interest in our story. I was a pacifist and had just managed to avoid the compulsory service, so the conversation was somewhat paradoxical, I was telling him how we are going to leave the world for a spell to live in the mountains, and the beauty of that spot….. Ho, on and on I went…
The guy listened and was real gentle with me, he seemed genuinely interested in our story.
Eventually he said – “I know the abandoned village of “Darbashya” well, but I have to tell you something…. I happen to be the local authority ranger for this area, and that Syrian village is a nature reserve that falls under my jurisdiction, I happen to be on my yearly army service (the men of Israel serve some time every year in the reserve army) for two weeks, but on Friday I’m back, so you have 5 days to enjoy yourselves but don’t let me find you squatting when I’m back”.

I was gutted, this proved not to just be some real hard luck, it was a confirmation that my worst fears are real, it indeed seemed hard to find an isolated spot in nature in Israel, but it was proving impossible to actually live in one.
I was lost, and I was losing my mind too and wasn’t sure I could cope with my new psychic abilities and I was afraid I would never resolve the craziness.

Maybe what scared me most is the idea that the only way is the mainstream way and I wasn’t ready to start considering things like paying rent and life insurance.

Salvation was to come from closer quarters than I expected and bring things into a deeper meaning. I told my father all my problems and he having just left the kibbutz himself, thought maybe I could live in the old quarry. He was the manager of the gypsum factory on the kibbutz only a short while before and good friends (actually business partners at the time) with the quarry’s manager. He said he will find out if they would let me live there, it was doubtful because I too left the kibbutz (actually expelled) a year before, but the quarry people were happy to help.

To be continued…