Poetic Psychology

Poetic psychology is not a theory; it is a way of experiencing your life through the eyes of the unconscious psyche - the instinctual, sensual and imaginal reflections that animate the inner core of the boundless elementary constellations making up the material dimensions of existence. 

There are, ultimately, as many ways to describe Poetic Psychology as there are patterns in intra-psychic sensations arising from the infinite dark matter that defines the unconscious universe. 

It is the images - the specks of unconscious fiction – and their strikingly elegant and sophisticated intra-psychic sensuality that I love so much, and so I accepted my part envisioned by the psyche’s imagination and recorded the imaginal memoires of my life as a figure in its poetic fantasies, to honour it.

 Carolina


Carolina is not the person, but the image, the vision and the sense the primal psyche has of the interior design of one human’s nature.

Being a reflection of unconscious insights, I experience myself through the psyche’s imagination and my experience of life has consequently been shaped by imaginal and deeply intuitive contemplations into the poetic basis of the unconscious drive and its autonomous relationship with the material dimension of existence.
 
To the original psyche, you see, the question of who you are in the world is moot.

What is the fantasy that mirrors and animates the distinctive constellation of your essential materiality?
 
 That is the question underlying the force of its existential drive and the creative brief that determines the design of your individual character.

Not only do the ongoing revelations of this piece of fiction - psyche’s evolving reflections of your inert and neuro-sensory properties - instinctively draw your attention towards the unconscious’s movements all your life. The figment of the primal psyche’s very own imagination will turn out the red thread of the narrative that is your memoire and owning the image as which you are cast will define how original a story, a creation in its own right, it becomes.

As random chance would have it, my psychological body rejected the ruling historical attitudes rooted in the suffocatingly narrow confines of Judeo-Christian consciousness from when I was only a child, and I have been wandering free and joyfully adrift in the margins of collective awareness ever since.

Like a dog that locks in a smell, follows it without it knowing and loses any sense of surrounding, I perceived the most enchanting sights and movements before I was even conscious. 

I felt compelled to follow them and, in a draw of extraordinary luck, I forgot and never found my way back into the centre of civilised unconsciousness again.

As I grew older and the more we travelled, the more akin I realised my nature was with the unconscious and its extraordinary imagination.

We finally returned to the Alpha, that piece of land in the Cosmos where my image is rooted and first started to form, and I live there now, enamoured and overwhelmingly delighted with the depth, the sensuality and the sophistication of the unconscious’s reflections of life and psyche’s revelatory fantasies and fictions.
 
To maintain this original home is my work and the foundation of my existence.

My imaginal memoires are dedicated to the two extraordinary psychological reflections that found and drive my nature and the greatest of all the loves of my instinctual life:

My mother - the beloved granddaughter and aristocratic heiress of the densest and most luminous shade of the unconscious' Original black - the existential dark matter of the psyche's imaginal drive and 

My father - the cunning general, imperial patriarch, seasoned warrior, and most beautiful image of the divine stars founding the Cosmos of primordial Roman-Greco consciousness. 

We are all images of psyche in our family, you see, intricate instinctual patterns reflecting one piece of the wild landscape in a material dimension of human nature. 

I wish so often that I did not have to leave my home, that my mother did not have to abandon me, when I was so young. 

I wish I could have stayed on our land, with our animals and our large and close-knit family without ever having to become conscious, civilised, and cultured. 

I found it very difficult to be apart from them, and it is only because they reminded me constantly where I belong and that I had to keep going that I could bear the separation. 

The pain was often insufferable, and I will always feel the remnants of it throughout my anatomy, yet fortunately my family removed my heart and burnt it - whatever feeling of self-consciousness, whatever barrier and resistance to remembering what I was, was left in me. 

These days I cannot feel the agony anymore, only the silent pulse of where the centre of my longing for them used to be. 

Telling the tale of my parents, and of my family, is what keeps me warm. Maman was keen for me to do it for that very reason. Keeping the fire lit on the images of our existence regulates our cosmic cold-bloodedness, my mother’s and thus naturally my own. We feel well that way – the gut intimately close and firmly attached to the depth, the essence and the pulse of all original movements arising in the unconscious. 

Narrating the story of my lineage greatly pleases my father, who built, who owns and who is my house – my intra-psychic home. It was our patriarch who taught and forced me to fight ferociously to withstand his stunning and indestructible Masculine frame. A battle which, once won, would earn me my very own unbreakable mental spine. 

They are a stunning couple, maman and papà, and even though they are extremely demanding with their children, they always guide us, show us profound respect and at all times have our back. 

My parents don’t hide the fact that I am the apple of their eye and that this is the most important thing for me to know, however it is obvious how loyal and committed they are to each other, our land and our family just the same. 

They are the coldest, cruellest, and most cunning and yet the sanest and most sanguine and sagacious of psyche’s imaginal forces, and it is the inconceivable terror and the spectacular resilience their relentless drives instilled in me in equal measure that made me grow up, that set me free and that turned out what I Am. 

I love my parents madly and I am so immensely grateful for everything they and my family have been and done for me.

Maman and papà, I know you have at times been worried that your demands would push me beyond the brink of my iron imaginal resilience, but I want to tell you, again, that there is not a creature or a thought in this world that will ever come between me, the Cosmos and the universe.