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The First Spark

By Roya Monajem, Tehran


Let us begin this piece with another poem by Mali Mostoufi apparently written after the last piece of mine posted here.



I see your Statue,
White and bright,
Turning around,
Your back to our past,
Looking in the Mirror.

Now you have possessed,
Your two arms and hands,
Arising them high,                   

Reaching for sky.

( Is that you or me ?... )

Have you fallen in love?
Who is the majestic Image,
Worthy of your heart?
That leaves no space,
Or not a place,
For your lovers?
Venus !

You were no Man-made,
But you are the shade,
Of our own Muse,
From our dreams.

Our Persian dreams.


I posted her poem, because I thought it would be a pity if I stay her only or just one of her few readers of her poem. After all Payvand's readers are either Persians or those interested in Persia, and thus share our Persian Dreams.


It was midnight, or perhaps early morning when I woke up from a deep sleep. There was this compulsive urge to get up and write. The urge was felt in every cell of my body. Writing has been the greatest love of my life; the ideal lover. It was an amazingly strong temptation.

Yet, immediately somebody else in me started to oppose the idea. "You promised not to write unless you learn to write actively, that is, consciously." Then the other one - the one in love - almost instantly took over again. Even the thought of getting up and turning on the computer and feeling the keyboard under my fingers and... put the whole body into flame. The temptation increased.


"No. I don't want to..."


And again the craving and again the aversion; and the familiar relentless struggle, and the pendulum like vacillation between the constant 'wanting and not wanting,' 'like and dislike,' 'love and hate,' in one word, the usual unconscious suffering.


A voice inside took over: "For how long more?" "For how long more would you like to continue the postponement of going beyond this everlasting this cruel war inside, this 'advanced schizophrenia'?" "For how long more you like to continue this absurd divided life between innumerous "I"s inside?" "For how long more you like to waste your life and energy on this seemingly never-ending war?"  "For how long more...?"


A deafening echo of this familiar mental conversation started to spread all over the body.


What can be the 'synthesis' of this psychological antagonism of 'like and dislike,' 'love and hate,' this sick schizophrenic state?


Instead of responding to one or the other - which would definitely continue the struggle on another level - I tried to actually sit in the middle - as though as a third person- and watch both and the 'I' divided between them. Then suddenly a flash of light, which apparently dissolved and resolved the struggle, the war instantly! It was as though the burning desire 'to write' and 'not to write' turned into an ecstatic fire that in turn killed both desires. Everything turned calm in an unprecedented way. The mind was empty of thought. The psyche empty of war; sleep took over.


What a strange peace and serenity! Was the first observation of the next day! Immediately the mind was provoked. It is in its essence not to bear the unfamiliar.


The habitual intelligent-service-like interrogation and analysis naturally began.


The Mind appealed to its associate, the memory. "What other times did you experience this peace, serenity and calmness after a good night sleep?"


The closest experience was the rare incidence of a 'loving love-making.'


Yet it had many different shades as well, such as unfamiliar inclination to stay silent, unfamiliar desire to sense it and feel it, instead of analyzing it, unfamiliar emptiness of mind and memory, unfamiliar lightness and...


The most beautiful part was that even when the mind succeeded to interfere, there was no memory of what exactly happened and how it happened.


Would I be able to repeat it each time a similar struggle arises? How did it happen? Is this calmness a sign of transcending this life-long schizophrenia?


Wow, such a sweet taste in the mouth, such a beautiful smell filling the air of the garden of 'being.' Everything inside and outside seemed unfamiliar, despite their familiarity.


A couple of hours later, when sat to work on the translation of "Gurjieff's doctrine," and remembered the urge to write for Payvand, there was a sudden attack of anxiety, doubt, suspect and fear.


Poor Roya was scared to death of even this first spark of 'doing something a little bit consciously.' Now she could clearly see what an illusion she lived in when she 'resolved' that life-related psychological fight between the 'opposite desires,' by giving in to this pole or the other. It was mere bullshit that she assumed she was doing a conscious voluntary act, since it never made any difference whether she 'chose' to give in to the craving (like), or to the aversion (dislike), as one always and definitely regenerates the other. Surely, this can't be a conscious voluntary act in the real sense of the word. A conscious act means being able to go beyond them both, to stop their perpetuation, particularly or at least when we have realized that they are the two sides of the same coin.


In fact, true consciousness would mean to realize that we never do anything, but everything is done in us and for us, by the psychological processes implanted in us since birth by outside - both natural and social environment.


Such an absurdity to think that it is us 'thinking,' when by just a very little attention, we can clearly see how we do not have any control what-so-ever over the thoughts that come and go depending on the inter-relationship between our immediate environment and the unconscious mental associations each aspect of this environment -received through our ordinary senses - gives rise to.


I would not waste your precious time any longer to read the stuff of an ordinary unconscious being at least not until another spark of consciousness.


... Payvand News - 5/6/05 ... --

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