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 ….