During my undergraduate years I read a great deal of fiction, especially novels by Herbert George Wells and Hermann Hesse. Rarely did I fall asleep and not get my nightly fix of these two outstanding writers. In nearly all of his books, Wells displays an uncanny ability for creating masterly opening sentences that never fail to draw the reader into his world of fantasy and make believe, and nearly always written as if he was relating real life events.

 

For me, Wells’ best work is The Time Machine, though I sometimes wish that as imaginative and entertaining as the book is, it could nevertheless have been a more satisfying read had he also included an actual theory of time travel. When the film was finally released and you could see the man sitting in the machine and fast forwarding himself into a dim and distant future, it became clear that real matter machines will never be able to unhinge themselves from the present moment in time no matter how much we wish they could.

 

Hermann Hesse wrote exceptional books such as Steppenwolf, The Glass Bead Game and Narciss and Goldmund. In my opinion, he had unique insight into the human condition though I suspect that his wife’s schizophrenia and his long association with psychotherapy and his personal friendship with Carl Jung were probably not insignificant factors is shaping his view of the world.

 

The Glass Bead Game rates as one of the best fiction novels I’ve ever had the pleasure to read, though when it comes to analysing just what the game itself is, some of the detail at the basic, fundamental level is not easy to fathom. However, what Hesse emphasises in the book and which he is able to describe with truly dramatic effect is the elitist atmosphere such intellectually gifted characters are presumed to generate.

 

There is therefore a difference between writers who are capable of romanticising and moulding atmosphere using a profound adventure (such as time travel or a particularly complex game that uses mathematics and music) and someone who can actually get into the guts of such an adventure and then describe it with the same dramatic intensity and skill as the author of a novel of fiction.

 

The title of this essay is Peering Through the Primal Funnel. Ideas for it began popping up in my mind soon after dispatching two of my emails to Drs Yurth and Janov. I was going to call it Peering Into the Inner Eye, but after reading Dr Yurth’s reply, although short in length contains so much that is literally mind-boggling; every sentence forces virtually a fundamental rethink of everything; not only do his revelations totally and utterly overthrow conventional thinking, they’re also completely at odds with the living experiences of everyday life.

 

In all of this I have to conclude that the effects of primal therapy are as Janov and Yurth proclaim. I estimate that I still have a good 40 years or so on this planet, and had I never read any of their work, I can easily imagine living the rest of my life reasonably happy, idly sitting in my back garden on a sunny afternoon watching the flowers grow and content in the knowledge that I have lived a pretty good life.

 

The only problem, where on earth have the past 61 years gone? It seems like only yesterday when I was a chubby toddler crawling on the kitchen floor looking up at my mother and wondering why she seems so distant form me all the time.

 

In any event, I am sitting here right now typing this at my desk, and yet I am also looking up at the kitchen stove some time in 1947 perhaps, the hand mangled washing machine next to it and then the sink. The image of the entire kitchen of that little prefabricated dwelling with its small living room and two bedrooms is etched into my mind as clear as daylight, almost as if I am back there right now. My mother, she is standing by the sink and she appears to be distressed by something. She’s peeling potatoes, her mouth is taut and are those little tear drops I can see welling up in her eyes? Daddy walks in.

 

At some point she picks me up but she is not looking at me. Instead, she is looking to her left my parents now making sounds as if to resume an ongoing argument. I don’t like it, for some reason it interferes in ways I do not comprehend.

 

Another event that lingers in my memory. I am sitting in the hallway. I am still a toddler. I know that, because I can see myself sitting down. Isn’t that strange; at the age of 61 years, I have an image of me as a toddler watching me as a toddler. My mother walks into the hallway and just as she is passing – Bang!  - a resounding thump and a sensation of moving air as if something has just narrowly missed my head. She stoops to recover a pair of scissors that are now lying by my side. I could see she was carrying a small basket of sewing items – needles and cotton etc. But she walks away nonchalantly, almost as if I was not there. I can still sense a kind of speechlessness inside me.

 

61 years on and nothing has changed.

 

It wasn’t until I reached the age of perhaps seven or eight that I became aware for the first time of a deep seated feeling of isolation; as if I have been deprived all my life of simply experiencing the beautiful feeling of just being alive that if nothing else does appear to have been severely compromised.

 

This life! It perplexes me, but really, it shouldn’t.

 

Dave Yurth writes: And when we have conquered our fears ….

 

Art Janov writes on his website: When our patients go back to the most primitive brains in their reliving we see those ancient brains at work….

 

If our ancient primitive ancestors had eyes to see, the images of which were somehow recorded in their brains as memories, could we not also see what they were looking at?

 

Variations on the Maharishi Model: An Integration of Consciousness and the Unified Field by Dr David G Yurth PhD – [available on Internet]  p3 …. All the actions of consciousness take place on a level far smaller even than that of neurons ..  The cyto-skeletons of neuron cells have been demonstrated to be comprised of well ordered internal arrays of microtubules. The structure of each of these microtubules consists of a symmetrical array of hollow tubes, each of which, in turn, is made of thirteen columns of tubulin dimers.

 

Elsewhere David also writes: ….there is a place, at a certain scale of organisation, where the exercise of conscious choice, merely the act of observing something, exerts a quantifiable, irremediable effect on the thing or event that is being observed.

 

Can I observe myself?

 

Following a couple of sessions of hypnotherapy that I had some years ago, I felt as if I’d achieved an objective, which was to satisfy myself concerning certain attributes or memories of the first year of my life, and how closely or otherwise they agreed with the pronouncements of my father who was adept at generating very vivid images of this period in my life.

 

Looking back, I am not at all sure what it proved, though I appear to no longer suffer from a minor urinary problem that prior to the therapy caused me occasional embarrassment. Plus I thought I’d also cured myself of an underactive thyroid, the source of which I learnt, following a bit of research on the subject, actually lies in the brain. Unfortunately the cure was only temporary.

 

In a letter that I subsequently wrote to the hypnotherapist, but which I never got around to actually posting, I describe my experience. Her technique was to induce in me a hypnotic state and then suggest I visited my favourite room and see where it takes me. After reading the above passage from Dr Yurth’s Paper, I wondered if I had accidentally stumbled on to something. Here is an extract from the letter:

 

Dear Dr Aujayeb

 

As it was a lovely sunny day when I left your surgery yesterday morning I walked the 3 miles home. A little later on however, I came over extremely tired and retired to my bed. So tired did I feel in fact, that I couldn’t help wondering if I was still inside the trance.

 

But once settled underneath the duvet, it seems to me that I felt tired but not sleepy. And so it was there that I entered my favourite room, and ah what magic, mystery and mystique doth define human experience.

 

How to distinguish, separate and identify the vivid images of symbology and make believe, the images of dreams, the images of real memories and the images of new never-before-until-now-seen memories?

 

In my mind I approach the room; cautiously I open the door and peer round, warily at first but there is nothing to be afraid of. Before me, a vast expanse of darkness and nothingness. On closer scrutiny however, I see in the centre of the room a black reclining chair and six feet away a large luminescent screen.

 

‘Tis but for a moment for me to see a man sitting in the chair. And then whoosh! He ejaculates a large stream of white fluid that hits the top of the screen and slowly covers it.

 

Millions and millions of sperm.

 

And then he’s gone.

 

I shift my gaze to the left and see a beautiful female apparition dressed in a shimmering white evening gown picking up a little boy and talking gently to him. The little boy is me. She is saying: ‘do you want to come on a journey with me? It will be ok, I promise you.’

 

On the ground to her left I see row upon row, column upon column of what look like pipes, myriad entrances into the world of my unconscious. My first thought – my unconscious is also now free to come to me if it so desires..

 

Anyway, my Guardian Angel and I, well, we slide down one of the pipes. The ‘camera’ for want of a better world is already positioned at its far end and so captures us coming through the ceiling and I am in a room that I am sure I knew once. I am looking around and recognising believe it or not the furniture, the colour of the walls, the general ambience of the room, and then I see the big face of my granddad – my mum’s dad. ‘Hey Lit’ he is saying to my mother – a phrase he uses do denote her as little one. Then he looks at me with his big smile, wide eyes and raised eyebrows and asks: Whereyourdaddy?, whereyourdaddy? – as a grandparent might.

 

And that was that. A mere snapshot, but a novel way of getting to it.

 

Every human is conceived from the fusion of a single female ovary and one of literally millions of sperm all of whom are vying for that special place in her heart. Are all those sperms carrying the same genetic memories of our dim and distant past? For, as unpalatable as the fact may make us feel, they are all carried in our father’s testes. Thus our real history, presumably with all the attached feelings and memories can only ever come from two places – our father’s sperm and our mother’s ovary from which we were conceived and from which we subsequently developed and grew.

 

Thus memories of past life can only really originate from these two sources. It is more than likely that people who believe they have been reincarnated and who claim to be reliving or remembering a past life are in fact reliving the memories of an ancestor through their mother or father who must also be carrying deeply hidden memories that belong to their parent’s lives and so on and so forth.

 

But it is the enormity of the thing that is so awesome. How can so much be contained in such microscopically tiny entities? What incredible arrangement of atoms and molecules must exist in order to contain so much information? Will mankind ever develop microchips of equivalent size that will also be capable of holding so much information?

 

Thus it appears as if the world of my unconscious is accessible via myriad arrays of pipes. But my history also lies through the world of other human beings – my parents, my grandparents, their parents etc.

 

My little boy – he is now back in the room – and he takes a running jump and hurls himself into the screen that was saturated with millions of sperm. And now he is swimming alongside them. But what can he see? I too throw myself into the screen; I catch him up, enter his body, make my way up his spinal column and through to his eyes where I now come to rest on his iris.

 

And now I see my father’s Dad sitting there as he once did, saying little and smiling at me. But now my spirit moves downwards to his genital area and then up his spinal column and into his mind.

 

And yet another direction as I forge a route from the single ovary in my mother’s uterus that later becomes me. I detour and am momentarily lost, for how am I to discover the route to my mother’s mind?

 

But perhaps the ovary already contains all I need to know about her ancestral history.

 

Before we can investigate our unconscious and our ancestral history, we have to discover what routes or pathways are available to get to those places.

 

It’s amazing what 40 minutes of hypnosis uncovered. In parallel with his I recently visited a spiritual healer who introduced me to a picture of the Eckasha Maharic Seal. Via deep breathing you focus your eye on the symbol – which looks a little like a pear drop – and as you inhale so you visualise the Eckasha symbol at the centre of your brain in the pineal gland. As you systematically continue to exhale and then inhale, you will the symbol to transfer itself down your spinal column to the centre of Earth’s core where you imagine it coming to rest on Earth’s Maharic Shield.

 

This is the beginning of what is regarded as deeply intensive spiritual healing. The Freedom Teachers tell us that we exist in 15 dimensions and have 12 DNA levels, though only 3 of which do we normally use. The exercise is designed to activate the additional DNA levels.

 

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