Artist as Psychopomp – Tune in Mon July 11, 2011 – Monty Taylor – Living Consciously
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Artist as Psychopomp – Tune in Mon July 11, 2011 – Monty Taylor – Living Consciously



FROM MONTGOMERY TAYLOR, ABOUT MY GUEST APPEARANCE ON HIS SHOW
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JOIN ME! Monday, July 11, 2011 at 12:00 NOON
www.talkingalternative.com

Call in live: 877-480-4120
Hello Everyone,

I hope you can tune in to us this coming Monday, July 11th at 12:00 NOON EDT (and call in with any questions you may have during the live broadcast). If you are busy at work, tune in anytime that is good for your schedule or time zone by simply clicking on the archive of any of our past programs. The website is: www.talkingalternative.com and my program is called โ€œLiving Consciouslyโ€.

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Hereโ€™s a summer reading project that makes a difference!
(The recent series of solar and lunar eclipses continues to bring to us a future of revelations and insights.)

First, here’s a new word to add polish to our vocabulary: psychopomp. According to the dictionary, a psychopomp is a guide that conducts the uninitiated Soul between realms of consciousness and different stages of cosmic reality. In Jungian psychology, the psychopomp is a mediator between the unconscious and conscious realms. It is symbolically personified in dreams as a wise man or woman, or sometimes as a helpful animal. In many cultures, the shaman also fulfills the role of the psychopomp.

We donโ€™t always expect to find psychopomps in the field of art and literature, but consider this perspective:

When looking at art throughout the ages, a little interpretive trick is to look for the character in the painting or sculpture who is holding a staff. This is the esoteric symbol showing that the figure in question was serving as a guide to a destination of fuller self-realization. In art of ancient times, Hermes is often seen holding a staff or cadeusis to identify him as such a guide. After all, Hermes (Mercury) was the only Olympian that could go from the heights of Olympus to the depth of Hades(different levels of consciousness) without restriction. He was the Divine Messenger that could communicate with every level of human psychic evolution. Later, in the art commissioned by the Catholic Church, the Saints and even the Christ were depicted carrying staffs to portray them as guides to the Heavenly Realms.

But who left us the legacy of these messengers? It was the Artist! It is important to remember that people could not read and write as a collective society until very recent times. So, it was the symbolism in the art of temples, cathedrals, and sacred places that conveyed the message.

This week I will have as my guest the visionary writer TRACI L. SLATTON, who steps into just such a role from the unexpected realm of the written word of fiction. Using written language the way a painter of the Renaissance uses crushed pigments of meaning and fine shading of emotion to transport us into time, both past and future, she celebrates the immortal voyage of the Human Spirit. Her latest books take us to the brink of what we think we know about time.

Traci Slatton’s works share a theme of linking the worldly perception of our existence to the transcendental. Her novels have been translated into over seven languages. Her recent books “Piercing Time and Space” and “Immortal” foreshadowed the current release of her most recent novels “Fallen” and “The Botticelli Affair”. They bring us into a world of insight and our relation to the endless cycles of time as we know it. After all, 2012 is rapidly approaching!

Traci Slatton is married to the pre-eminent sculptor Sabin Howard, whose widely-collected bronze sculptures champion the ideals of the Renaissance and their role in connecting us to the value of classical esthetics in our present reality.



Please let your friends know about this wonderful program that is such a joy to host. And please, if you can catch it, let me know your ideas for future program topics.

You can also join us on Facebook โ€“ Talking Alternative Fan Club, Twitter โ€“ @talkalternative, also at LinkedIn or IM us using AIM Messenger: talkalternative@aol.com

Best wishes always, Monty
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Montgomery Taylor
MontgomeryTaylor22@nyc.rr.com

JOIN ME! Monday, July 11, 2011 at 12:00 NOON
www.talkingalternative.com

On Paul’s 80th Birthday
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On Paul’s 80th Birthday

Paul’s 80th Birthday

We went to the Cape for my friend Paul’s 80th celebration. This afforded the opportunity to play on Thumpertown Beach before attending his party. It was wonderful to see him looking so happy, and to reconnect with some of his lovely friends whom I have met along the way.

Eighty is a milestone, and Paul gave a speech that began somewhat morbidly. His is a life that has seen both devastating tragedy as well as brilliant accomplishments and victories. Fortunately, his speech morphed into a more humorous exposition. He was his irascible self, exactly the man we had come to know and care for. If his words weren’t exactly uplifting, seeing him be fully Paul, with his foibles and his lovableness, was an affirmation of the core of the human experience. We are here to be imperfect. And to be loved.
I also owe Paul a debt of gratitude for modeling for me what it means to be an author. I was born to be a writer, but until I got close to Paul, I didn’t have a clue to what that meant.
So in honor of Paul’s 80th, I post herewith a poem I wrote for him more than 20 years ago. I still consider him The Good Man.

THE GOOD MAN

for Paul

His face conceives of the sun, gilded by flycasting

For manifold days off the crooked finger of the Cape,

Often around the jettied mouth of the Pamet.

Along those teeming shoals lie blue barnacled oysters, buried

Littlenecks, razor clams, one shard of whose sweet sharp

Crescent slit open my foot in the ebb tide. He sat me down

In the bright ankle-deep water, then trudged off

Across a glittering gilt sandbar, an oasis sculpted out of the flux,

For a band-aid and antiseptic wipe. Two terns

Fed each other, even the greedy white gulls, his favorite

Harbingers of humanity, for once stood peacefully watching

The wind ruffle in from the Bay.

Back home in his tower

(He built it on the earnings of years raking muck up

To publicly expose the threatening unseen)

I showered first, while he watered the pink tomatoes,

Curly beets, tiny triangular hot peppers and fragrant basil,

All fertilized by fish mulch, before he washed off

The luminous sticky sand of the dayโ€™s

Adventure. It took him an unhurried hour, maybe longer,

To nurture his green creatures to his satisfaction,

This general succoring in the prosperity of time.

ย 

by Traci L. Slatton

Eat, Pray, Love: the movie; Pray, Stay, Love: the life
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Eat, Pray, Love: the movie; Pray, Stay, Love: the life

My rascally and delightful middle daughter wanted some daughter-mom time, so we went together to see EAT, PRAY, LOVE. I haven’t read the book. The movie was charming, often poignant, touching enough to forgive the places where it was too facile. Julia Roberts was wonderful in the lead role. What could be more delectable than staring at creamy warm spaghetti carbonara, or more uplifting than watching a seeker wrestle honestly with the Guru Gita, or more heart-warming than watching love come to a supplicant studying with a Balinese priest?

It left me with a feeling of longing, for the quests I can not take. When Liz/Julia rented her apartment in Rome, I leaned over and whispered to my daughter, “That’s what women who aren’t mothers get to do.” Her big eyes widened: she hadn’t considered such a thing, hadn’t anticipated that I would articulate it.
So I had some envy, too. I had my oldest daughter twenty years ago, and my littlest is only 5. I will be almost 60 when she goes off to college! Here I am, with wanderlust in my soul and my passport always in my purse, just in case today I get to fly to Paris or Sydney…
Yet I have remained faithful to my commitment to be a present and caring mother. Not a perfect mother. That was never my goal. But present, loving, supportive, caring, involved: that was my goal as a mother. To be someone whom my children know they can depend on. When they’ve had mono and Swine flu and bad grades and drug issues, I’ve been there. When they need to hear a lecture about the importance of writing thank you notes or of following through on promises or of doing the right thing when their peers are operating otherwise, when they need to hear a pep-talk because the latest poor choice in guys has dumped them, when they need to hear that they are loved and valuable no matter what–I’m there. If they ever get Ebola or a divorce or need a kidney, I’ll be there, to nurse them or give them my kidney. I never had that kind of support so I made damn sure my children did. From me.
Of course, it matters little to them right now. The older ones are entangled in teenage stuff of great importance: separating, provoking, blaming, individuating. They want to assume adult prerogative without taking on the responsibility that goes along with it. They don’t want to think about the impact of their actions on the people around them. The little one is in that blissful “mommy is wonderful” stage, but she has a cussed independent streak ten kilometers wide. I’ve been around the block. I know where that will lead. They have charmed lives and don’t know it. I haven’t done everything right as a mother–why should I have to?–but I’ve been true to this commitment: to be there for them.
Which often means that I haven’t been able to be there for myself. There’s a kind of …noxious myth… toxic fantasy… of post-liberation feminism that women can have it all: sexy loving marriage, children, dynamic career, fulfilling friendships, self awareness, a full night’s sleep. How awful to scourge ourselves with this chicanery. Was this what our mothers and grandmothers intended, when they battled for us to have equal pay for equal work, and the right to choose which work we want to do?
I have made choices. Other things came second because my children come first. I have a friend who made zillions of dollars and is raising two kids; she is scornful when I say that I would have written more books if I hadn’t had children. But there are things in her life I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Let her turn her nose up.
So I’ve done what questing I can, internally. I’ve made the trips I can, abbreviated though they are. I’ve explored every possible avenue I can, under the constraints that I’ve taken on. Love is not merely a big oceanic feeling. It’s not just the deep erotic merging with a romantic soul-mate–though I enjoy both of those facets of love. Love is also the dignity of steadfastness. It’s waking up every morning to a daily grind of commitment and responsibility, and still finding something to laugh about and enjoy.
I couldn’t love a man that way, but I do love my children that way. And what I’ve learned is that I must love them that way without any expectation of gratitude or acknowledgment. Because chances are, no matter what a mother does for her children, they will not appreciate it. At least at certain stages of their lives. This is why I’ve come to revere the Bhagavad Gita: “Do the best you can and release the outcome.”
An old friend of mine periodically sends me emails… Meet me in Maine, meet me in Budapest. As if I weren’t married. As if I weren’t tempted. As if I didn’t enjoy my time with him enough to consider it rather wistfully. But it’s not even about him. If I ran off to Bali by my lonesome, would I find a hot young guy to get naked with in the water, or a soul-stirring companion like gorgeous Javier Bardem?!?
But this week, as my husband and my littlest daughter and the dog and I drove to Cape Cod, and the dog freaked out and my husband had to remove him from behind the car seat and doing so, ripped his (husband’s) fingernail completely off his finger, and so I had to drive, which became 8 hours in traffic with my daughter barfing and my husband bleeding profusely and criticizing my driving, I thought to myself, Good times. Would I trade this life for Eat, Pray, Love?
The answer was, Maybe. And then, later on, when my husband’s finger finally stopped oozing crimson goo and he kissed me and thanked me for my patience, and my sweet little one wove her arms around me and told me I was the bestest in the whole world, and we ran along the Cape Cod Bay laughing as the dog chased seagulls, and then when the aforesaid husband and daughter got into an indignant argument that tickled my appreciation for the absurd so I couldn’t stop laughing–the answer was: Maybe not.
The Power by Rhonda Byrne
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The Power by Rhonda Byrne

The Power by Rhonda Byrne

Rhonda Byrne, author of The Secret and now The Power, is close to people who are close to my husband, so I had the good fortune to meet her. She was lovely, with the contained grace that I associate with people who live from a strong sense of purpose.

Byrne advised me to read The Kybalion by the Three Initiates and The Secret Teachings of All Ages by Manly Hall. With my insatiable reading lust, I acquired the books immediately. I devoured them promptly. I’m glad I did; the old Hermetic teachings have a lot to offer. The sense of paired, complementary qualities reminded me of the Kabbalistic Sephiroth winding along the Tree of Life. I love these ancient, eternal paradigms of thought!

So, being favorably impressed with Byrne, and wanting to support her because she’s friendly with some of my husband’s favorite people, I ran out and purchased two copies of The Power. One for me, and one for my husband, who refuses to share both food and books. The first bit of territorial prerogative always surprises me. I had my oldest daughter twenty years ago and I haven’t eaten an entire plate of food by myself since 1990. Someone is always sticking a fork in and grabbing a bite. Lunch is my happy time, when I’m alone in the apartment. I can eat standing up and walking around, which I prefer, and enjoy my tuna and peanut butter sandwich in peace, with no grimy fingers trying to steal some.
But I understand why Sabin won’t share a book with me. I use them up. I ravish them. Books are comestibles and I scribble in the margins, apply post-its, and turn down corners. Once I’m done with a book, it wants to take a shower and a nap.
The Power is no exception. It’s juicy and interesting, ripe for plundering. There’s a lot here, most of it good stuff. Opening the mind and heart to love can only benefit people. Thinking in positive ways about what you want is wholesome. When you ride a horse, you have to look where you want to go, and that is subtly communicated to the animal, who then goes there. It’s the same way with your mind and your life. Your mind has to focus on what you want and love, and then the great beast of your life can trot in that direction.
In general, I like this “New Age” the Secret and positive vibrational stuff. It’s got flaws, like everything else in this marvelous, imperfect, blissful, agonizing world. Gossip claims that one of the guys from the original movie of The Secret is in jail. And there’s sometimes a lack of groundedness in these teachings; elements of fantasy creep in. “Blame the victim” arises.
My most serious qualm with this school of thought has to do with karma. As I currently understand it, Karma is a complex law with a long, long arc. I’m not so certain that it works so simply as “Do good and think nice, and because you’re sending good and nice vibrations out into the universe, good and nice will come back to you.” I think that sometimes what you did twenty-five years ago, or twenty-five centuries ago as a temple dancer in Egypt, can come back to bite you in the tushie. Sometimes we reap the fruit of a seed we planted eons ago.
Then there’s the relational dynamic. We have karma not just as individuals, but as members of our family, our generation, our country, our religion. We also have dyad karma. I am stretching the meaning of karma here to apply to the invisible field of thought and feeling, emotion and expectation and communication within which two members of a couple live. Eg, if you’re married to someone who thinks badly of you, or who is convinced that you embody a certain negative trait (which is probably their shadow anyway), it’s hard to overcome the stickiness of that. It’s easy to get trapped like a butterfly in a spider web. It can be just as toxic within a family or any other community, like a school. Structures of thought and connection arise, and they can be cages.
Still, The Power is full of truth and light. It is passionate in its desire to give to the reader and to improve the reader’s lot. I’m writing my personal reservations in the margins, but it’s worth reading. It’s always helpful to return to the fundamental touchstone of life: am I acting out of love or out of fear? That’s the choice. Love or fear. I like to read these kinds of books at night, so I’m uplifted in the hypnogogic state. I like to think that the positive impact on me will be more profound, if words about love and joy and peaceful abundance are sailing through my dreams.
I also recommend Mary T. Browne’s The Five Rules of Thought and Geshe Michael Roach’s The Diamond Cutter. Like Byrne’s book, they give to the reader. What all three books share, though The Diamond Cutter approaches it differently, is the need to discipline the thoughts. We spend decades learning how to read, write, and cipher, but we have to seek out the knowledge of how to use our own minds constructively. The Power can help with that.
Dinner with Friends
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Dinner with Friends


Prelude No. 5 in D Major

There’s a great moment in the movie INDEPENDENCE DAY when the always watchable Brent Spiner, playing wacky scientist Dr. Brackish Okun, in charge of the secret alien research project at Area 51, says, “As you can imagine, they… they don’t let us out much.”
I laugh every every time I recall this quote, and Spiner/Okun’s affect, and not just because I relate to the crackpots, conspiracy theorists, misfits, and geeks of the world. It’s because, as a working mother of four children, I don’t get out much. Not as much as I’d like, for sure. And my monastic husband has, as far as I can tell, few social needs other than watching the Tour de France. He’d be content to spend 7 days a week in his studio, sculpting.
I’m not sure he even enjoys conversation with me. He says that when I die, he’s going to have me stuffed and mounted, so he can enjoy the pleasure of my company: in silence. (Kinda creeps me out, that.)
Which makes it all the more pleasurable that we’ve found another couple we both enjoy. I like them because they’re smart, funny, and good-hearted. Theoretically that makes an impression on Sabin. I suspect that what he really enjoys is that they are both successful working artists and they have a lot to say on the topic of art.
John Link is a mad genius of a musician and composer, who has translated Chopin’s preludes into vocal compositions for 5 voices, guitar, bass, drums and violin. “As Chopin meant them to be played,” he claims. Lori Belilove is a mesmerizing dancer and brilliant choreographer, and the dynamic head of the Isadora Duncan Foundation. Her “The Everywoman series: The Red Thread” is one of most moving pieces of dance I have ever witnessed. Sabin Howard is the greatest living figurative sculptor. I write fiction. So we come to the table, literally, representing 4 arts: music, dance, visual art, and story telling.
Last Friday Lori and John came to dinner. They were subjected to my cooking but didn’t complain, though they had every right to do so. Really, my salmon aux herbes Provencal came out with too many herbs, and not the right ones. It’s hard to mess up baked salmon, but my native ingenuity was up to the task. I think they forgave the cuisine because we got involved in a discussion of critical importance: the nature of creativity.
Lori talked about watching some of her dancers choreograph, how they do it for love. They want to be loved and appreciated, and their dance is both an offering of love and a request for love. I had to ask about a pure creative impulse that is a kind of radiance, a flowing forth from the core. Sabin, who is fundamentally solipsistic, favored that paradigm. John leaned toward the relational model; he wants his pieces received by an audience, as I want my books read by people.
Performers like to perform, and John and Lori are both performers. Sabin as a visual artist does not perform. He intends to create a piece that will, literally, stand forever. Bronze sculptures endure for thousands of years. Sabin’s vision of beauty and humanity are meant to stand the test of time. Music and dance are meant for something else–perhaps to intensify this moment now into timeless, transformative immediacy–though, naturally, John and Lori would dearly love for their work to survive them, and their grandchildren.
So, this business of creating art: I think of it as a disease. An infection. I have to tell stories because they roil about my brain like a fever. One story is barely written when I am starving to tell the next one. Perhaps the virus of art is the next topic at dinner?
SONOS fills the home with music
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SONOS fills the home with music

Over the course of what felt like a particularly dreary and inelegant winter, I fell in love: with Mozart.

The gifted and lovely psychic Mary T. Browne advised me to listen to Mozart. Classical music had been only a distant interest, sparked mostly by watching dance performances. But, trusting the ineluctable Ms. Browne, I played Mozart.
The more I listened, the more I was entranced. The music has a balancing, peaceful effect, a sweet joy that’s a welcome surcease from the heartache of watching a 15 year old go off the rails, and listening to the self-righteous rantings of an ungrateful 19 year old. “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child,” wrote Shakespeare, in King Lear. And how right that master of human psychology was, whether the Bard really was Anne Hathaway’s husband, or he was Francis Bacon or Christopher Marlowe.
The point isn’t that everything important or meaningful about the human condition is found in Shakespeare, though that is true. The point is that the Andante in C major for Flute and Orchestra, K 315, makes my life better.
So I experimented with ways to imbue my home with music. The Apple wireless system with Airport worked well, and the app REMOTE on my iPhone controlled the system nicely. But I decided I wanted a more integrated look, feel, and sound, rather than having a Bose speaker in the dining room and a Sony speaker in the bedroom.
Ecco, SONOS. The Bridge plugs into my airport extreme and transmits to all the S5 players throughout the apartment. The speakers have good quality sound. The SONOS controller downloaded perfectly to my iMac, and the Sonos app to my iPhone, so I can DJ the music even from the bathroom. As for volume: it cranks!
We’ve discovered Pandora radio and Rhapsody. My husband Sabin, whose grandfather was a concert pianist and whose musical taste is more complex than mine, has his three favorite stations: Spanish Guitar radio, AC/DC, and Dvorak. My wild thing 15 year old daughter plays Glee Cast and Sexy Bitch radio. For my little one, there’s the Magic Kingdoms and Small Worlds station on Rhapsody. I have, okay, no scoffing, Rod Stewart radio, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart radio, and my Yoga playlist which includes Krishna Das, Cynthia Snodgrass, Deva Premal, a rockin’ Halleluya by Congregation B’nai Jeshurun, and some lush renditions of mantras like the great Om Tryambakam.
The Sonos system isn’t cheap, but it works well. There are a few glitches. Occasionally the music drops. Usually that’s a quick fix by switching channels in the control panel. I initially ordered four S5 units from the company; three arrived, and one showed up in Memphis as an empty box. Sonos was nice enough about it, but they wanted me to wait for the investigation to unfold. They weren’t altogether pleased when I articulated my belief that the empty box wasn’t my problem and I wanted another unit shipped to me pronto. To their credit, they did ship the replacement unit pronto, at great effort to themselves.
So “if music be the food of love, play on,” and fill my home with love!