Poetic Psychology

Poetic psychology is not a theory; it is a way of experiencing your existence through the eyes of the unconscious – the instinctual and imaginal intra-psychic landscape of human nature.

There are, ultimately, as many ways to describe poetic psychology as there are images in the psyche.

It is these specks of unconscious fiction that I love so much, and it is upon the request of the psyche’s imagination, and thus for the sake of its independence as much as my own, that I recorded the imaginal memoires of my life as a figure in its poetic fantasies.

Carolina is not a person, but the image, the dream, and the vision the primal psyche has of one woman’s nature.

Being a reflection of unconscious in-sights, I experience myself through psyche’s eyes, and my existence is thus marked by perpetual initiations into an imaginal and deeply instinctual understanding of humanity.

To the primal psyche, you see, the question of who you are in the world is moot.

What is the image that reflects your distinctive materiality?

That is the question underlying the force of its existential drive and the riddle that holds the key to the revelation of your individual character.

It is the evolution of this organic image - psyche’s reflection of your innate properties - that will instinctively draw your attention towards it all your life. It is this figment of the primal psyche’s very own imagination that will turn out the red thread of the narrative that is your memoire and growing into it will define how meaningful an individual story, a myth in its own right, it becomes.

As random chance would have it, I was expelled from the suffocating confines of the two-dimensional, disjointed, and half-blind ruling attitudes of modern, Christian consciousness when I was only a child, and I have been wondering, joyfully adrift in the margins of 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 deeply I fell in love with the unconscious and its extraordinary imagination. We finally reached that piece of land in the cosmos where my image was created and I live there now, enamoured, and overwhelmingly delighted with the depth of the reflected life and the intelligence, wit and sophistication of 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 live:

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 imagination and

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

We are all images of psyche in our family, you see, intricate instinctual patterns shaping a piece of the wild landscape 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 has often been insufferable, and I will always feel the remnants of it in my spine, but fortunately my family removed my heart and burnt it for me, whatever feeling of self-consciousness, of 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 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 I understand it - I can see what they saw in each other that made them want to be co close. I know that they have the same origin and that they are so compatible and intimate, because they come from the same place. I get why they were the ones that could touch one another, and change the destiny of the other, where no other instinct in the psyche was able to.

My parents always make me feel like I am the apple of their eye and that this is the most important thing for me to know, however I can tell how loyal and committed they are to each other and our family just the same.

They are the coldest, cruellest, and most frightening and yet the sanest and most sanguine and sagacious of psyche’s imaginal forces, and it is the inconceivable terror and the spectacular beauty 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.