angels speak

Angels speak a middle language not entirely of this world and not entirely of another. Middle language is a prayer to the nuisance of what is. The writer and the poet speak not to the world but for the world. Middle language is the eruption of flaming emotion doused by chards of frozen, winter ice. Matter informs consciousness and consciousness informs matter at the cosmic level of interaction.The internal landscape is as vast as our external universe. It is the world of the eternal kingdom that comes to save humankind from its own self-destructive powers; it comes to show the way of Nature. Words help to construct incomplete images, one psychiatrist says words trigger photographic tin-type images that hold the key to a memory, a joy, or a trauma. We write to see clearly. We are reporters of life as it transforms itself, first in middle earth and with deliberate awareness in our souls. It attaches and moves through everything as waves and particles of energy. We know we are alive. We can feel emotion in the body. We can even move emotions through concentrated breathwork. Words are to humankind what song is to morning birds. They provide directions and choices, choices that come from our multiple authenticities. We are fragmentations of right things, floating in weightless space or a flowing river. The same river is always different, water is a metaphor for life, a poetic image of mountain springs, and frozen glacial ponds. We are puzzle pieces until we finish arranging and re-arranging our animate inner landscape, one piece at a time into a coherent self, a linguistically and intuitively aware connectivity to body and mind of our multiple authenticities. 

 

(Freud, 1912, p.115)

“The analyst must turn his own unconscious like a 

receptive organ toward the transmitting unconscious

of the patient.” (Freud, 1912, p.15)

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I know it’s Freud, but lets give him credit, (1912).

A segway from the unconscious… unconditional love emerges. 

Tune your internal landscape to open,  and 

allow for whatever the universe is emitting to enter 

wholeheartedly, let her in unconditionally.  “Turn your

receptive organ toward the transmitting unconscious.”

Language Acquisition is to human what flight is to bird.

I forgive you,

I thank you, 

I’m sorry,

I love you!

Unsoluble love, Unrequited, Unconditional love,

floating on the wings of a bird, 

effortlessly emerging as

wisdom becomes brighter than knowledge.

“How infinite in reason.” said, Hamlet.

A Paragon of Animals, Like the rise and fall of the 3rd reich, 

   Was Michael the Archangel originally from Ukraine?

I plant white pines.

I help them along,  when I see a bare spot I tuck a sapling in the ground 

not far from where the grandfather stands and will be laid to rest someday. 

Preserving the kingdom for evolution,

my bones will decompose here among the

native furs.

A nazi symbol attaches to a hammer and sickle. 

White clouds and willows rustle in the wind.  

The War of the Roses

Those unconditional cousins 

of the English Monarchy.  

Was it envy, was it greed, was it one of her parts

that killed Mary and not Elizabeth herself that

murdered the Scot. 

Magnificence only goes so far. 

Unconquerable  Love, 

Lust-less love, unfailing love; 

   –unsalvagable love 

Ukraine Love, Unconditional

Blue and Yellow love 

sewed in the liberal pride flag.  

To thee, I sing. 

another Ink-Ling of human development

This Day

Collected Sabbath Poems & New, 1979-2013,

Wendell Berry

1985 (the first and last stanza) FOR: MEL

Not again in this flesh will I see

the old trees stand as they did,

weighty creatures made of light, delight

of their making straight in them and well,

whatever blight our blindness was or made,

however thought or act might fail.

Though blindness may yet detonate in light,

ruining all, after all the years, great right

subsumed at last in paltry wrong,

what do we know? Still

the Presence that we come into with song

is here, shaping the seasons of His wild will.

I had an ink ling. It sounded like an Ode to Spring, so I
played with lines and squiggles instead of words.

April has been everything it can be. I found Wendell Berry someplace in my precious library, and I just love his old American way of hanging on to Transcendendtalism long after the cultural was fashion in America, at its best of years. But, by 1985 Berry saw the evolution of humanity trying to keep up with the evolution of Corporate Capitalism. A new guilded age was being ushered-in by the Tea-Party, twenty-five years later it is inevitable: the corn fields and the wheat fields are turning into sub-urban malls designed to have a short life, left to decay. Not like you, or i, or an old barn returning from Dust to Dust, rather, like steal beams rusting into asbestos and cement seaping through the tar and dripping with toxic paints.

Please Wabi-Saii show me the beauty in this decay. I want to see it. I want to touch it and feel it the way I did when I was ten.

I saw that boy recently. He was four years old. He was gifted to me by a spirit guide named Mel. All I know about her is her given name, Mel. She narrated me down a rabit hole and I fell into my inner landscape, I love it it ther. He was so small, just walking down the side porch stairs leading to a gravel yard (stone, screws, nails and glass) a car park area for the Canadian Style triple-decker that is iconic of the early 20th century.

He was wearing a three-quarter herringbone coat with a matching herringbone hat with a very small visor and, also of herringbone button smack on top of his hat. He was heading toward his friends house and I saw his face light up with a glow when he saw him come down the steps that led from his house to the dirt road between them. .

We played in the, Italian Field, among oily street run-off water, the rag-weed and the golden-rods. I remember a bow and arrow, and the arrows had rubber suction cups and you knew you could not possibly hurt yourself or your friend. It was all so safe and innocent.

Then I opened my eyes back into the outer-landscape. I like it in both places.

Nature as the eco and Santa Maria as a guide

Wilderness and Snow converged on New England ushering out January with a right-sized storm.  It brought brilliant night skies and bright sunny days on the lake.  I am a fan of Tom Tompson, the famous Canadian Impressionist, painting the wilderness of northern Ontario. He gave Canada its wilderness myth. I love his work.

It is rugged with no pretense for finery.  He does not let himself be known.  His soul is represented in the casual and deliberate.  He arrived at Algonquin Lake and Region as the self-reliant man, an heir of Emerson, a forward branch of the Transcendentalist. A pantheistic atheist, someone who hears only one voice, listens to one’s heart, and follows curiosity and pursuing pleasure through a less-traveled path through the wilderness or poorly plowed roads of modernity, to where surburbia intersects wilderness.

I admire him and I don’t understand him. He reminds me to love only what I love.  True North.

I love to capture the beauty, the beauty that points even to an illusion of a higher self;

Beauty like in Chant, beauty like hearing a spring bird on a warm day in winter.  

And, sharing my creations along with the chants and vulnerabilities of human experience, these are a few of my favorite things. 

I have diminished my expectations of everything and that has made all the difference

long, deep, narrow & dark

A fresh breeze

A fresh breeze blew in from the west a place of intention, of sorrow, of bliss. It is a place that emits from where love emits.
Perspective blew in on the sacred wind, truth attached to my spirit/body, and connected to my dream quest.
Blowing east, moving forward to where today’s now meets tomorrow’s eternal now. My soul held in place allowing us to flow with the life force–gracefully and with gratitude.
AL D

Teach me how to gather,
Let me find forgiveness
Releasing hurt and anger.
Let me heal my body,
Help me find the courage
And serenity of enlightenment
And Wisdom.

Let me honor my sacred promise
To be loyal to my healing quest.
Let me not desert my medicine,
Santa Maria a trustworthy guide;
Nor desert the beating heart within
My breast.
Adapted from Jamie Sam’s
A medicine man.

Books are adept at speaking for themselves.



And, as the days became weeks and the weeks became months it began to feel that life as we knew it would never return; no more than the depression before the war and the spike in the economy post the war was ever to return.

People are transformed when forced by nature to bend in a new direction. We are bending toward an austerity such as we have not seen, perhaps since the Civil War.

It occurs to me that the idea of runs-on-banks might be as much a reality as runs-on-toilet-paper, no pun intended.

Around the time that a global migration was starting to take place, we had witnessed wars and famines, and brutal dictatorships in the Middle East and Africa. We had witnessed wearing face masks by China, due to over-industrialized pollution. The military-industrial state that Eisenhower had warned about was, in large part, occurring and running the world economy in 2020.

Migration insurgencies we’re taking place at our border with Mexico. White nationalism was creeping into our politics and the green, environmental & progressive movement had been voted into 2nd class citizens due to gerrymandering and a multitude of other corruption charges, underlined in the Impeachment hearings and the Supreme Court nomination process.

In the new world order, we have a middle-eastern like Caste System, though granted, with less restrictive boundaries at the fringe. In general, we would see four major classes:
1. The Uber Rich
2. The politico-corporate elite
3. The professional Haves &
4. The poor and working poor.

We are living under the rules of a political regime that aspires to cater to the Ubers and the politico-corporate world-class. The Trump Republican Party since Reagan has moved further to the right and by 2016 was beginning to embrace the likes of Steven Miller, Fox News, and Medal of Honor recipient, Rush Limbaugh.

Republicans had, under the law, stolen two elections, one Supreme Court justice, and had succeeded in manipulating election results in such a way as to create great division between those who have and those who have nothing or very little. The code of law we live under has trouble serving Justice. Along comes a lone maverick, sociopathic corrupt, mob-boss Republican candidates. There had already been a Sarah Pallin, the Alaskan country girl who could see Russia from her house. This was around the time that the political cartoons talked about putting lipstick on a pig.

We had not begun to see the direction this was taking. The lines had been drawn. There had been a nigger elected as president of this great country. It was time to reverse all the gains “The People” had made. The erasure came in the form of eliminating taxes on the Ubers, then enacting a multitude of executive orders attacking everything from clean water to Gold-star families.

Breaking with our humanitarian traditions America was at the forefront of political and domestic abuse. With migration at the south and our government deliberately harming relations with Canada to our north, with withdrawing from NATO, and the Paris Accord; and aligning with Oid rich Saudi Arabia, we entered an era where the aspects of good and evil were taking shape as definitively as any cultural and religious war had done in the past. Mr. Trump lacked leadership skills, lacked intelligence, and lacked a moral compass. What could possibly go wrong.

86 Sanctuary Rd, Charlestown, Rhode Island, United States

moon-glow

The ride from New England to Hutchinson Island is 22 hours long..that sort of includes the pee stops and the watering the dog stops and the occasional get-a-bite to eat stops.  The EOS convertible is not nearly as comfortable as she is pretty.  The dogs were gracious, the inns and motels were more than adequate, and here we are softly arrived at the biggest moon in decades glowing across the Atlantic like a beacon creating a road to eternity.

It is a Blessing to Be.

It is a Blessing to be here.

It is a blessing to be here now.

It is a blessing to be here now, together.

 

This Unitarian chant has become a way for us to remind each other that we are indeed fortunate to have a friendship that lends itself to just about anything that we decide that we want to do.  Then later that night we went back to see the moon and it had grown into a giant circle of white light.  I would like to know how many digital pictures are of this particular moon.  It was so advertised as a super-moon that

Scripting…We have sold our house on the Lake to Larry.  He loves it as much as we did.  We rented Roger’s house on the cove and banked the money in a simple CD until we were able to decided what we wanted to do.  We both prayed on it and it seemed that ll we could think about was wanting to live  here and wanting to spruce up the property..We want to  plant a host of traveler palms and we want to add flowers.  And a back porch and a french door from the back bed room and a hot tub….

Manifesting…I am here and David said that they have changed plans–they are going to look for something that is complete and they want to stay where they are until their son grows up…They want to money to improve the house they are in and we are the prime candidate in their minds for us to purchase from them…..

We moved down here in 2012–and my practice is limited to those people that i see over the phone.

it all begins with desire

Psychoanalysis & The Mindful Laws of Attraction:

I am fascinated by the law of attraction, a kind of magnetic manifestation, a drive, a force, that pulls & pushes toward life and creativity. This notion, is essentially activated when desire and curiosity mingle in the mind and create a kind of restlessness toward the idea of more or new. Magnetic attraction is not a disturbance of Peace within; it is a sensation, like libido, that pulls and pushes one in the direction of progressive thoughts and images.

The Image below is just such a manifestation.  The natural beauty of a rocky cliff jutting out into the magnificent Atlantic is the backdrop for an equally beautiful sensation, the deep and abiding love of innocent, gentle children absorbing nature and beauty.  These perceptions, these images of love and innocence stir the consciousness toward the flow of well-being.  In this image the children look out onto the sea, and I look out onto them as they look out onto the sea.

I am gratified twice…..


author: aldussault, co-creator

I Am a co-creator.  The Universe allowed me to live and be born onto this fragile planet.  Evolution landed me here.  I will be eternally grateful for having had the opportunity to live and study and create with a bounty-full of wonderful people who also enjoy the humanistic and spiritual aspects of being an artist.  I am grateful to have been endowed with a sensitivity that allows me to catch glimpses of the eternally aesthetic.  From time to time I have allowed the muse to pass through me; and when I have, I get to share that moment of found beauty, free of original sin.  Truth and Beauty are never sinners.

Original Sin–the sin the Greeks called, “missing the mark,” is an aspect of the piece of work that is man.

“It is glory to have been tested,” Henry James told us, “to have had our little quality and to have had our little spell.”

“A second chance, that’s the delusion, there was never to be but one: We work in the dark, we do what we can, we give what we have.  Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task, the rest is the madness of Art.”

Mindfulness & Art in Psychoanalysis.

Mindfulness in Psychoanalysis. 

Iphotoimpression.com, is a service that takes from psychoanalysis the drive to create, and mixes it up with multi-medium arts and philosophies to arrive at instructions for a life well lived.

Ego and Instinct together create our particular brand of perspective and consciousness. It is from this seat of consciousness that we evaluate every thing we see, every thing we do, into the binomial system that we have evolved:  (0 or 1).

 (I like it, I don’t like it, I like this, I don’t like that, yes, no, I like this, I don’t like this. )

The meaning of the mindful law of attraction to psychoanalysis resides in the arena of drive and desire. The sum total of our “no’s & our “yes’s,” Becomes the aim, or direction of the instinct.  

What you like and what you don’t like changes over time. As long as you have your consciousness, the seat from which you observe both internal and external data, you are evolving.  You are in a state of flux, of flow–flowing.

If your consciousness is not disturbed–you are safe. As soon as the organism is disturbed either from within or without, you experience the intrusion of stress, a slight nod from the adrenal system that subjectively we experience or ignore. (It’s probably a binomial thing).  Nonetheless, it gets louder over time.  A wound that starts out as a minor stressor can grow exponentially into an attack of anxiety–A complete overload of the immure system.

Stress is the biological response to anything that impinged on you in any way, from light, to heat, to sensation, through to thought, mood and feeling & more. We measure stress both through quantity and quality.  How much stress do you feel and how intense is the feeling?

Stress is biology. Anxiety is your conscious response to becoming aware that your biology just did something, or said something; it communicated to the aspect of you that collects and assesses that your attention is required. 

Emotions can be as smooth as a mirror-lake in the mountains, or they can churn like a restless sea in a wind blown storm. Emotions are classified first as pain or comfort and later are further classified by intensity. 

A pain can come from a sliver or from an ax; the range is regulated by how much, and how fast the Adrenalin is pouring into the system and how fast it is being absorbed. 

This is a bit like learning the meaning of shutter speed and aperture on a camera. Most of us have that feature set on either auto or a programmed mode. 

A story to go along with an idea:

Let me continue with a short story.  A old patient wanted to re-gain her spirituality; however, many years before she had had a major falling out with the Church, and eventually with all churches, indeed her fall-out with the church became her fall out with her God.  

She obsessed over her anxiety, she cried that she was alone, she pushed away anyone who tried to help her or even tried to get close to her.  Her heart was entirely closed to the idea of rekindling her relationship with God  or of attempting intimacy with anyone.  She saw beauty but could not let it in.  She turned away from truth for fear that she would be hurt by knowing it.

During one session I asked her what she thought what  might happen if she walked into a church to help her remember the smells and the sensual delights she felt when she was wrapped by a location that had previously held the peace and serenity she was wanting again.

Absolutely refused.  She was so frightened to hear rejection from any authority that she let no relationship pass the gate where her heart, her passion, for life lived in a small quiet corner, in the recesses of her heart & mind.  

Old anger had become a fear of feeling.  What if she heard something she did not want to hear?  What if someone suggested that she begin to proceed on a healthier path?  As long as she alone knew the source of her withholding, no one could extract it from her.  All the resistances to changing were stock-piled behind a concrete wall of stubborn will-fullness.

In the next session she said she saw no need to come back to analysis since it was clear that I did not know when to stop.  Her last session had produced too many feelings and she was not going to pay me just to feel worst than when she came in.

I had been accused of attempting to crush her rationalizations with mere emotion, and emotions only lead a person to unreasonable positions.  

Under the totality of the narrative, the patient had created and was using all her energy to keep away feeling, leaving her with no room to create a life that might include joy, if not peace.  She was locked away, but I had picked at the lock and that sent her back in service of her ego.   I could not be trusted if she thought that the analysis would influence her.  Above everything else, she knew she did not want to be influenced by anyone.

I told her that I so despised authority that I stopped listening to myself a long time ago.

She wavered in the transference between loving to hate me and in thinking I might be as crazy as her.  That created a strong enough bond to keep the transference on a steady course.  There would be time, time to see what the relationship will look like when she begins to recognize that what she shouts most vociferously about is being a victim of her own circumstances.  She told me she abhorred victims and she thought she could chew them up and spit them out before they knew what was happening to them.  The delusion lies not in the accuracy of that statement but in the idea that it was she who was most hurt, most devastated by her sabotaging intimacies.

What is art and what is psychoanalysis?

Attachment_1.jpeg

There are two themes in the above introduction to this essay.  One involves what it is like to practice the art of psychoanalysis, and the second is the theme of art for art sake.  I am inclined to believe that the two marry very nicely.  Psychoanalysis has a lot in common with art, both require a lot of technical training and both have foundations in altruistic aspects of being humans.  I am very interested in humans, they interest me as much as the other parts of nature do.  Pine trees and red leaf maples are gorgeous like some humans are.  Filthy dying swamps and the smell of low-tide also have a wabi-sabi kind of charm that smells like other aspects of humanity.

Perhaps it is in the attainment of a goal that the two disciplines meet.  When I am involved with a digital painting or with a patient, nothing else is around to distract me from my mission in the moment: do the best that I can to represent and impress truth and beauty.  I use the word impress as the root of the word impressionism.

Psychoanalysis has a lot in common with impressionism.  Transference between the patient and the analyst  is emotional impressionism.  The painting above is an impression of Canada a place where much of my love is stored among the antiquities of my ancestors–poor farmers creating large families to populate the cold northern part of America, baptized as much by native Americans as by the English or the French.

To think like an artist and to think like an analyst require similar talents.  Both causes require talent and both causes require time and dedication as well as a deep respect for the wisdom of witnessing as a form of cure for the existential conditions that humankind faces today in 21st century civilization.  So many minute decisions are involved in the exact shade of color that is chosen and so many minute decisions are involved in deciding when an intervention is called for and when it is best withheld.  

The disciplines of psychoanalysis and the disciplines of art require tremendous consideration be given to the subjective. Both disciplines necessitate boldness as well as empathy and contemplation. 

Both require a gentle application of knowledge and neither can be rushed.  There is a form of the sacred to both endeavors.  In each form there is great desire to contribute.

Color, mood, form, lines, boundaries, choices, and “decisions and revisions” are always at play. 

The interesting part is knowing that I never know the out-come before I star; I do not know the out-come until I am finished.    I think both aspects of me have enjoyed the moments during which I was engaged.  Both applications of myself take me out of my shell, my solitude, my narcissism, long enough to find and express joy in the process as much as the product.