Ill-starred

Arriving in Germany, I took a room in bohemian Prenzlauer Berg in the former East Berlin, which retained lingering signs of Communism and even some of World War II. It’s an interesting city!

I sent out CVs, although the work visa I’d been promised prior to leaving had evaporated, but nobody was interested; and anyway, I was in no fit state to work, having just entered the Dark Night of the Soul. I was crying a lot every day about my broken heart. (When your heart has gone out to another, that person must then be around you a lot in order for you to live.) I realise I am dying, and it won’t be long now.

I start thinking fast, like my life depends on it. I remember coming face-to-face with ‘It’ while tripping on Sunshine and writing interminable essays on consciousness in my Philosophy Degree. I also remember at the end of a long and beautiful nitrous oxide binge in Richmond (laughing- or happy gas), an old man pulling my head out of a bag of stars and space he was holding in his other hand and asking me “Well, my friend, how was it?” The fact is, this world has come from somewhere, I figure, and that Source is conscious. Must be a person, and that person must be Divine. (Did I push my girl away to get the bright, protective Hobart presence back into my life?)

I get on a tram and head down to the Deutscher Dom on the Fischer Insel in the Spree, go in, get down on my knees and make a deal with God.

At home that night or the next, crying, I perceive that the individual is an action I am doing, and that that is why I am sad. In that moment, I stop doing it, come undone, and am directed to my bed, where I lie down and the Holy Spirit comes into me (aka Shakti).