A Journal of Inner Work and Therapeutic Arts
Immanence and Identity in Plural Personality

Studies Index...

You brought us all together...

26 November 2012

They appear unchanged, except their circumstances, and their lives continue independently.
I know them all, but cannot remember their names.
I haven't seen them in twenty years or so.
That's why it's so strange I should meet them all again.
Not an act of volition on my part. This is simply happening.

She is a powerful actress, an earthy beauty, dark eyes and long dark hair, dressed in red.
Observed unaware, she seems only partially there, tenuously present, anxious and uncertain, bipolar perhaps?
No, she is none of these. She is a channel, rather, one who receives.
I was with her recently and I can see her now, through the transparent outer walls of her art nouveau apartment, floating through time, deep in meditation she sits, eyes very far away, then up, swiftly moving, red gown flowing, bare feet gliding across the cool floor, reaching for something or someone I cannot see... in another time.
In the presence of others she is a Great Mother, a nurturing force and powers of mind-blowing intensity, Isis, Lilith, Kālikā, bringing joy and peace.

He is an older actor, I'd guess, in his fifties or sixties, it's hard to tell.
He's reached a stage of agelessness.
Hermetic eyes rise from the page to look at me, not threateningly, instead without reaction, as if presenting but waiting, no apparent agenda, emotionlessly.
Curly gray hair beneath a canted black beret, clean shaven, he wears comfortable clothes, a brown suede coat, khaki slacks and sits, one leg crossed over the other, in a comfortable dark brown leather chair among others randomly arrayed in public space on the lower floor in this less trafficked area of the local mall.
He is very familiar, yet I cannot place him. Is he thinking something similar, or simply mirroring me? Am I projecting?
As I open to memory, I sense this man knows much more than he shows.

We have known each other, worked together in the past.
As I begin to talk about where I am now, hidden memories of a group emerge.
"I am a starving artist," I say, relatively comfortable with the words as I speak them, amazed that I'm living such a stereotype.
He looks at me appraisingly, recalling events, leading but not telling me the answer:
"You brought us all together," he says. "In Paris."
Yes, yes...more than twenty years ago... We flew to Paris to perform, I think/say.
And the woman in red sustained us, her embrace, her joie de vivre — a balm we all recall.

And then he mentions a name: John Lee Horton — a man also spoken of by the woman in red.
The old actor encourages me to repeat the name, ensuring I remember.
John Lee Horton, now in government (the governor, a head of state?), who's just had a baby.
John Lee Horton, a dark solid man of many responsibilities, a self-sufficient loner, very well organized, efficient, saturnine, grim.
He works in a solid stone fortress at the heart of the city.
The majority of John's time, I understand, is filled with work and tasks at hand, but the baby demands a fair chunk too, and that's something new. Something he may even enjoy.
I can see him, working late into the night, seated with his back to me, a heavy-set man, well-insulated, straining the seams of his white T-shirt and dark overalls, seated on the floor of his second-storey office, complete darkness relieved only by the fluorescent desk lamp which casts a blue-white glow immediately below.
Working on what? on governance, the flow, the matter of control. And caring for the baby. A job to do, a man alone.
The light shifts, dawn is come, bright enough for me to see the many crystal balls, muted colors, rolling along a wooden track that terminates at old drawers where they are stored, or were stored, till the system changed. Now they're placed in large white plastic containers which keep baby at bay. That way the balls don't end up on the floor. More efficient, you see. Easier to tidy up.

Four actors and a new baby...
The idea of bringing together...
But what might be the play?