Core Energetics by John Pierrakos, and Paranormal Perception
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Core Energetics by John Pierrakos, and Paranormal Perception

I know a woman who lives in the bell-jar of analysis. She’s a fine person, brilliant, successful, and lovingly committed to her children, though she seems not to like other women all that much. I have a few foibles of my own and I like her, snarkiness and all. It’s just that having dinner with her is a marathon of hearing about her feelings, her feelings about her feelings, her thoughts about her feelings about her feelings, her analyst, her feelings about her analyst, her thoughts about her feelings about her analyst… It’s a closed and airless world, fundamentally solipsistic. Masturbatory.
 
I have serious qualms about contemporary psychotherapy as it is generally practiced. There’s a lot of horse manure that’s taken as gospel by therapists and by people influenced by therapists. In fact, psychotherapy is one of the current sacrosanct priesthoods, along with “hard science.” Some months ago, I told a few psychotherapists that I didn’t believe in group therapy. Boy oh boy, did they get unpleasant. They wouldn’t admit it, of course. The most self-unaware people in the world are psychotherapists. But it was a lot like admitting to an Inquisitor that the Holy Trinity is bunk. Be careful when you poke someone’s sacred cow!!
 
Ultimately, I don’t think talk psychotherapy works. It’s brought general silliness and brainlessness into the culture. It’s an exercise in narcissism, self-indulgence, and inanity. People are afraid to think for themselves, and they are afraid to use their discernment–because “everyone is ok” and all that drivel. Values have been discarded in favor of bland lack of judgement that masquerades as tolerance. Personal accountability has been sloughed off.
 
So what does work? Because people need help: we are all suffering, to some degree. Orgone boxes work. Everyone should build one and install it in their living room. Sit in it for an hour a day and open the flow in the body-mind-spirit-psyche unit that we call our human self.
 
Orgone boxes work because of, as John Pierrakos writes, “Three main theses… the first is that the human person is a psychosomatic unity. The second is that the source of healing lies within the self, not with an outside agency, whether a physician, God, or the powers of the cosmos. The third is that all of existence forms a unity that moves toward creative evolutions, both of the whole and of the countless components. … The basic substance of the person is energy. The movement of that energy is life. The freer the energy movement…the more intense the life..”
 
Sitting in an orgone box is like charging a battery, the battery being the human being. As the person is filled with energy, blocks to free energy movement start to shift and dissolve. Those blocks are multidimensional: they affect the body, the mind, the emotions, and the spirit. They have to affect all those dimensions because those dimensions are yoked together, inseparably. There is no possible way to change the mind without also affecting the body, spirit, and psyche. And so forth. On the psychological level, a block is a neurosis or phobia, etc. With the free flow of energy movement restored, those can melt away like ice in hot water.
 
Orgone, as Wilhelm Reich defined it, is primordial cosmic energy. The Chinese call it Chi. The Hindus call it Prana. The Japanese call it Ki. George Lucas called it ‘The Force.’ Physicist William Tiller calls it the Quantum Domain. Everything is energy, and orgone is the fundamental, root energy substrata.
 
There are a lot of implications to this axiom. If you posit that everything is energy and start to pursue that into the realms of human consciousness, a multitude of seeming paradoxes, puzzles, oddities, and anomalies arise. One of those strange consequences of energy and consciousness is paranormal perception. Patanjali called them siddhis and warned against getting distracted by them. But everyone who meditates regularly eventually, whether after 20 years or 20 minutes, stumbles onto clairvoyance, clairaudience, precognition, telepathy–past life recall.
 
I read with some amusement an article in The New York Times (Jan 6, 2011) that described the angry furor over a paper that gives strong evidence for extrasensory perception. These kinds of papers are published all the time, attracting little notice. This time, however, it’s the prestigious Journal of Personality and Social Psychology which is publishing the study. Some traditionalist psychologists are just outraged that a study that passed a stringent peer review would be published–when the study shows evidence for ESP. Remember what I said about poking people’s sacred cows?
 
So what to do if you’re not up for parking an orgone box in your den, in front of the treadmill that holds your dirty clothes? We are relational creatures, after all. It is human to want to move your energy in concert with another person. Then find a core energetic therapist. Go to a Barbara Brennan School of Healing trained healer, someone who is in supervision.
 
I was lucky enough to have a session with John Pierrakos before he died. He was a sparkly, gray-haired elf of a man, radiating both kindness and genius. I worked in my underwear and never before or since have I felt so safe, and so understood. But he teased me a little, too. “Traci has to know,” he told me, in a voice that was both amused and compassionate. I think of that often, especially in regards to foibles and personal bell jars.

Hereafter: Compelling, heartwarming
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Hereafter: Compelling, heartwarming

At some point, during the birth of my last child, I passed.

My now 5 year old munchkin’s head was too big for my pelvis, something my doctor and I only reluctantly concluded after a long span of fruitless pushing. I’d delivered two babies properly, after all. We were confident I’d be able to do it again.

It was supposed to be a 1 hour c-section. It turned into a whole night affair. After my daughter was pulled out, the doctors brusquely hustled her and my husband out of the operating room. I don’t remember much after that. I woke up once when I wasn’t supposed to, asked a question, and watched a group of doctors jump, startled. In retrospect, that was funny.

I was told that there was a lot of bleeding that couldn’t be stopped. A surgical team was called in, not once, but twice. I was given a transfusion. Later, a few times, I asked my doctor what really happened. All she would say is, “There was more blood than I’d ever seen before.”
How do you know when a medical procedure has gone terribly wrong? When doctors clam up with a sick expression on their faces. They don’t want to say a word because they fear litigation. I wouldn’t have sued. I had a healthy baby. I like and trust this doctor, she delivered my older girls, too.
On some level, I know what happened, and not because a team of surgeons showed up the next morning, demanding to operate because they’d never found the bleeder. I refused. I intended to nurse my infant. Another operation jeopardized that. They got pushy and I pushed back, and we called in my OBS, who brokered a deal: if my blood pressure didn’t drop over the next several hours, there’d be no operation.
My blood pressure remained stable, as I’d known it would. During the worst part of the previous night, when the doctors wouldn’t tell my husband what was going on and then he suddenly felt my absence, he phoned my healer friend Thomas. “I need your help,” Sabin said. “I don’t want to raise this baby by myself.” Thomas called Gerda, she called someone, and a healing circle was set up. And not just any healing circle: my friends are powerful, long time healers–healers of healers. And I was lucky they were.
Before the circle worked its magic–and the surgeons and transfusion worked theirs–I experienced something. I haven’t spoken of it much because it wasn’t the classic tunnel-and-white-light experience that gets a lot of airtime. Also because I didn’t know what to say about it. Even I, who have spent serious time and effort researching the far bounds of mysticism and consciousness, I didn’t know what to say about it. Also because it was a deep thing. It’s hard to discuss.
But my experience is clearly alluded to in Clint Eastwood’s new movie HEREAFTER. I listened with shock and relief as the Swiss doctor described exactly what I experienced. It was an electrifying and humbling moment.
But I wouldn’t have needed the personal validation to enjoy the movie. HEREAFTER is poignant, sweet, intense. Three people deal with death and the afterlife in ways that are somber, human, and deeply affecting. There are some funny moments; the boy Marcus’ journey to make contact with his dead twin has some painful comedy to it. There’s a rumor about Matt Damon and an Oscar run. I think he deserves it. His reluctant psychic is pitch perfect. The French journalist Marie is extremely appealing, and the French language scenes work exactly right.
I liked the brief mention that researchers into the afterlife face pressure and even censorship by religious groups. That rings true to me. What I experienced the night my daughter was born–and what I’ve experienced in altered states during meditation–has nothing to do with any religion. I mean, I don’t mind religion, mostly, except when one religion is persecuting another. I just think that Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, Islam, Buddhism, etc. have almost nothing to do with the life and existence of the soul. They’re just taxonomy seeking expression.
The screenplay feels classically screenplay-ish, by which I mean that it’s well structured, follows all the rules, and will be analyzed to death by screenwriting classes. But that’s not a bad thing. I like structure. When it works, it gives a story its power. The interweaving of these three arcs, and the redemption that the three protagonists experience because they come together, is cathartic, transformative. I was deeply moved. Everyone in the audience seemed to be, also. Perhaps my husband Sabin said it best, when we walked out: “At last, a Hollywood movie that’s not for retards.”
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A Day in Florence

So much has been written about Florence that I find myself intimidated… Also, I can’t figure out how to post a picture using my iPad. The little critter is great to travel with, but its functionality, hmm.

So yesterday I stood in the National Museum of the Bargello and quivered. Michelangelo’s Dionysus, Giambologna’s Mercury. A few Bernini pieces. Giambologna’s Oceanus, which I liked much more than his jokey, overexposed Mercury–though I will say that the Mercury in its three-dimensional concrete presence is much more beautiful and powerful than FTD gives it credit for. And isn’t that just the quality of sculpture that makes it so compelling: its presence, the way you bring yourself to it, take a breath, and be here now. And do you know, they are showing Leonardo’s St John the Baptist at the Bargello?! There is another piece of art whose beauty and mastery demand that the viewer shows up and be present.

I am a few minutes from jaunting off to the Uffizi, where I will be ravished by Botticelli! Later today to Santa Croce for the Giotto frescoes. Maybe I will have time to track down the Michelangelo crucifix which, with its elongated physique, is so different from the rest of his work, which shows always the stress and compression of powerful downward anxiety and anguish.

The day really started the night before, at the most delicious restaurant il Santo Bevitore, just over the Ponte alla Carraia, which served the most beautiful glass of Brunello di Monticino. It was dry, round, smooth, rich, luscious–everything wine, like life, should be and seldom is. Last night I had a wonderful meal at the restaurant Buca Mario. I almost left because of a group of 26 American tourists swarming ahead of me, but I hung in there, and I am so glad I did! And I would be remiss if I did not mention the wonderful Hotel Albergotto, where they are incredibly pleasant and helpful and my room has a large bathroom.

Pictures to come later…

Mating Season by Jon Loomis
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Mating Season by Jon Loomis

Mating Season by Jon Loomis
Mating Season (Frank Coffin Series #2) by Jon Loomis: Book Cover
The Provincetown Library was closed, so I betook myself across the street to the bookstore. I rummaged around and my curious fingers landed on HIGH SEASON by Jon Loomis. Next to it was its brother, MATING SEASON.
“Great books, FAB-u-lous books,” said the frilly man at the cash register. “So much fun to try to figure out where he’s writing about, here in town! We’re all waiting for the third book.”
So I bought the books. (Attention: I did not have a discount card, go Independent Bookstores!) Unexpected treasures: funny, beautifully written, sharply drawn characters, decently plotted. Loomis is a poet as well as a novelist and his prose is at its finest when he’s describing landscapes and sky, ocean and beach. But the prose doesn’t slouch anywhere. And there’s a strong, sticky sense of place, with the kind of deep saturation usually only seen in a Southern novel–except that Provincetown is not Southern. Provincetown is, well, uniquely Provincetown.
I most enjoyed Loomis’ obvious affection for the foibles and frailties of his all-too-human characters, and the charitable and amused tolerance with which the author seems to regard the human species in general. The protagonist Frank Coffin, with his eye tic and his flaccidity in the face of his girlfriend’s desire to get pregnant, his fear of death after his stint as a Baltimore cop, and his aversion to boats that flies in the face of his seafaring heritage–well, Coffin is rueful and heroic and decent without being either an anti-hero or a Captain America.
Several scenes made me laugh out loud–and I really love to laugh out loud while reading. The murder mysteries are absorbing and reflective of human vice. I recommend these books. They’re great: buy them, and enjoy.
Daniel Silva’s THE REMBRANDT AFFAIR
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Daniel Silva’s THE REMBRANDT AFFAIR

THE REMBRANDT AFFAIR by Daniel Silva
The Rembrandt Affair by Daniel Silva: Download Cover

My former father-in-law, whose qualities of intelligence, groundedness, and sanity have caused me to appreciate him more over the years, called me a week ago to discuss his grandchildren, my daughters. He thinks they’re great, and isn’t that the sweetest gratification for a mother? At the end of the call, he inquired about my writing. Then he brought up Daniel Silva.

“Why can’t you write more like him?” asked the father of my former beloved.
Or maybe he didn’t actually say it straight out–though I never mind when people talk straight to me. Maybe I projected the question into a heavy implication, out of my own writerly envy. My former in-laws, much as I admired them, had a talent for minimizing my accomplishments. Whatever.
Either way, Silva remains one of my favorite writers. This is no small feat: I read everything, literally, everything. I sat once with a literary agent, who, after running through, well, all of the pop culture authors, said, “Yikes, you really do read everything!” I could claim that it’s market research. I could say I’m keeping an eye on my competition. Both are true. Truer still is that I just love BOOKS. BOOKS ARE LOVE.
And I love story. Here is my current working definition of story: story is how your protagonist doesn’t get what he or she wants. The transcendence of story is how we attain enlightenment. In which case: I’ll be seeing you around for another 10,000 lives, because story rocks!
Daniel Silva tells a good story, and he tells it well. Line for line, his prose is wonderful, and it’s getting better with every book. I’ve been following his Gabriel Allon character for years. With every book, the characters get more sharply drawn, the prose gets more musical yet always accessible, and the plot gets more interesting.
Silva is growing with his craft. I love to see that, and I admire it. There’s a lot of drek out there. Most bestsellers are mind-numbingly badly written. If people are reading less, it’s the fault of publishers: why would anyone eat when they are being served crap? They lose their appetite.
Which makes Silva even more of a pleasure to read. Great characters, great story, great writing. And I’m not just saying that because he deals with one of my other passions, the Old Masters. Sure that gives Silva an additional 100 IQ points in my estimation. But I’d read a well-told story about something I dislike–like the IRS. Oops, did I say that out loud? I totally admire the IRS.
Pick up a copy of THE REMBRANDT AFFAIR and be fascinated. Be swept away. It’s compelling reading.
The Italian cover of IMMORTAL
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The Italian cover of IMMORTAL

The Italian cover of IMMORTAL

Italian cover of IMMORTAL

It’s that time of year for me: warm weather and sunshine, an urge to wear silky dresses that breeze around my thighs, fantasies about travel and escape and the Pinacoteca Vaticano and a lover who keeps me occupied for the whole hot lunch hour, when everyone in Rome goes inside. Nowhere on Earth is the sky bluer or the cypress trees more fragrant or the skin more delectably open to touch than in Italy.
Such naughty thoughts can only come from Caravaggio, that mad but brilliant painter of the late Renaissance. Murderous sociopathy aside, he knew better than any artist in history how to portray the rotting of the spirit. Sometimes I hate him for that. Other times, I am compelled to stare. Makes me think of that moment when fruit is just a little too ripe and soft, a little too sweet for the tongue and perfumed for the palate, a little bruised and burnished from the sun, but it hasn’t yet dropped off the vine.
So imagine my delight at this cover for Marco Tropea Editore’s Italian version of IMMORTAL: Caravaggio’s Narcissus! A wonderful painting. A pleasure to behold, and a feast for the senses.
Time for a plane ticket!