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Posts Tagged ‘consciousness’

talking tree silver2

GAYATRI

They are there again-
Whispering voices
Measuring word against feeling,
Shaping edges, building coastlines,
Collecting drift for rafts,
A vehicle for mind,
A conveyance to elsewhere.

In the grey flow,
The river before dawn,
(Accompanying the purposeful padding
Of cats seeking a perfect
Place to curl or watch),
There they stand midstream,
Upright, silent upon silent,
Chant snaking over the water’s lap.

I shall go to that ocean’s edge:
Hiss of sand grains stinging
The dry marram grasses.
Listen to the wide waves roll in,
Their deep rumble of the miles
Through the soles of my feet.
Watch the cloud build and fade,
The cry of gulls, tasting salt.

In cold dawn
For whom does the blackbird find
Its mellifluous river?
For whom does the raven call
Across the wild moors?
And for whom,
On his columned tower of air,
Nearly beyond sight,
Does the eagle send out
His long, descending cry?

To reveal the truth:
Nothing but the interior,
Masked by, revealed by.
A prison of the recognised,
Of memory, of habit
And well-trod pathways
Reinforcing a clutch of clues.
To reveal the truth:
Nothing but an exterior,
A view devoid of viewer,
A shaped, echoing chamber
Of what is not elsewhere.

Emissaries of the void,
Mediators of re-orientation,
Skilled in gematria,
Consulting tables of correspondences,
The magical hours of day and night,
Sigils of the planetary spirits,
The magic squares, tablets
Of the Thrice Great.
Translators and interpreters,
Riding the words spluttered
By the depths, by the flocks
Of wild thought scattered
By an eye upon a lituus.
Measurers of geomantic force –
The will of the interior dragons
Of elemental necessity.
This they are.

(Or so the child, over-tired, set to sleep on chairs,
Believes, mishearing the backroom boys at their
Smoky, affable, night-long poker game:
A wash of rising, falling stories, subdued bluff
And laughter, silence and staccato curse.)

Through that long, slow flow,
The grey river, never ceasing.
The memory of ice-fields, ancestral shrines,
Ghosts of prayer flags, squalls of chant.
Bone thin fingers, urgent, prising apart
To get one more view, to reveal
A fall of trigrams, a cipher, or
A terma, space-hidden.

My own dear companions:
Weather-wizards,
Shepherds of storm and lightning,
Weavers of reeds and grasses,
Compounders of root and petal.
If it is you, then blessings and apologies.
Out of step, out of time,
The world waits no more
For eloquence or art
That weaves mind and matter
By the fireside.

We are blackbirds
In the cold dawn;
Ravens crying out fierce joy
And ineffable sorrow to empty hills;
Eagles beyond sight,
Forgotten by the grass-eaters,
Turning upon an exhalation of air,
A gesture of word,
An alchemy of heart and breath.

A pinch of insignificance,
A deja vu,
A rusted key
To a forgotten door
Within a buried ivy cave
In a twilit,
Twilit world.

For no-one but ourselves,
Ourselves to ourselves,
We raise cupped hands,
Let the clear water fall sparkling
In sunlight,
Let the hymns rise and fall
To the sun, the world,
The watcher within,
Purified, cleaned, emptied,
Made silent once more.
Silent in mid-stream.
The lapping waters.

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GODDESS OF GREAT TIME (Mahakali)

Time,
Great Time,
Not the small time that wriggles,
That evaporates, that divides,
Slows, quickens, dissolves matter,
Nor crumbles the certain little boundaries.
Not the time of long ago,
Nor the time of memory-
Not the rope and web
Or stories that buoy up why and why not.

Great Time,
that remains.
Great Time,
the horror and remorseless.
Great Time
where any silence
Would be excessive demonstration,
Where qualities, incoherent irrelevance.

From outside,
(that mistaken myth of outside),
It is a wall of annihilation
Void of edge and shade
A denial of everything.
Senseless, unable to be apprehended.

From inside
Great Time sustains itself in itself,
A round vowel of circular breath
With no flow nor any sound.
Before
and between name.
Before
and between space.
Before
and between desire.
Before
and between despair.

Looking for Great Time
Here or here,
Looking for its dark matter,
Looking for its dark space,
Looking for the reason, the cause,
The origin, the point of entry:
Weighing shadows, calibrating the edge.

Her necklace,
A string of heads, lolling, vacuous.
Take it as a clue, sir.
Great Time will deny the slyest philosopher,
The most particular investigation,
Will eat the reasons why,
Will collapse the measurement.

On the tip of that red tongue
Dancing, tingling,
Feeling without saying,
Lost ullulation, glossolalia,
Speaking in tongues, hanging,
Screaming.

Do not wish on yourself
The nightmare of never.
Do not break that fine, thin porcelain,
Genteel mind, translucent void.
Between, before, beyond.

Great Time:
Where you are not looking,
The smallest omission,
The inevitable victory
Of the insignificant.
Aeons and galaxies
Are its shadow,
Its laughter.

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MAHARATRI – Great Night

Continuing my exploration of the Mahavidyas, this piece tracks and picks out words, phrases and ideas from Danielou’s work. I don’t know how it will stand by itself for those not familiar with any of the imagery or symbolism, but for me it is acting as a trigger and an introduction to how both visuals and text might develop in the future.

Object of transcendence. Maha Ratri 1

1
Eternity, ten nights long
Five for the god,
Five for the goddess.
The power of Siva –
To know it, one word,
No other word were needed.

Ten objects:
The divine night, destiny mapped,
Destruction mirrored,
Fear revealed.
The power of time,
The last manacle of sky iron,
Melted, irrelevant in the bliss
Of our supreme nonexistence.

2
The state of deep sleep,
Our little dream, ocean’s drop
Of perfect quiescence,
Nothing remaining,
Not time acting on,
But time itself:
Absolute night.

Beyond the beyond,
Sleeper withdrawing
Into the power of time,
Itself.
Immensity,
A diadem of illusion:
Licks of lightning
Flickering
At the corners of the sea,
Surface, iridescent, unmoved.

This absolute night,
The night of destruction,
When things
That are not things,
When the objects
Of our philosophies,
When even the bare bones
Of is and now,
Slide and smudge
Decorating no longer
The resounding passageways
Of thought,
The geometries
Of measured edge.

For there is now one thing
That is the only thing,
A no thing,
A perfect surface
Curving to infinity,
Our lady
Of the spheres,
Resplendent emptiness.
The little light
That does nothing but divide,
Distend, distort,
And shatter into matter
Finally engulfed,
By the Giver.

Returning in the evening
All the birds nest in happiness,
All nestle to the welcome night,
Enfolded by calm.
All, all come to rest
Upon her lap-
Mother of Happiness,
Mother of Night.

( I shall step into the still,
mild darkness,
the rush of silent air,
fragrant after a day of rain.
Feel my purpose dissolve,
my need and reasons waver,
words and names becoming uncertain,
then soon submerged.
Passing clouds,
passing clouds).

3
Time
That tears asunder
All things,
Destroyer of worlds,
She herself
Is your dance.

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SKY RIVER

Three days now the sky
Has been a rushing river of airs.
Caught in its roar
The bright moon day by day dissolves.
Now a thin cold lip,
An edge of ice fast melting.

Here’s a line, here’s an image,
Bold and clear, easy to recall,
Easy to frame.
But gone and shattered,
A leaping fish, up and shining;
A crystal hung in the sun
Never the same patterns of spinning colour;
A stream, a burble of tumbling,
One melody caught but then lost,
A fugue of endless forgettings.

So, the points, the main points,
Quickly before they slide, again, away.
What and where is the wind when it is not blowing?
What and how is a river when it is not flowing?
What and why is the mind when it is not full of words?
How can we say anything is certain
When we fail even to remember
Our passionate dreams from the fading dark of dawn?

Nothing seems fixed in the buffeting swirl of mind’s river.
I am the possessor of the sight
Of a juggler with knives and doves
Enraptured, disbelieving, horrified.
But I is an eye
In a peacock’s tail,
A ripple and splash
Over a river’s wide shore.
My certainty, no more than that cloud,
Breathing and gone as it races southwards,
Seawards, forgotten on the horizon, no longer itself,
Melted, merged, a long sigh.

Hold here, hold here, anchored.
That is, perhaps,
To miss the point.
Consider this elegant and judicious thought!
Consider this cloud, this sparkle of light,
This aeolian harp. This sound
That comes and that goes
( in the forest is there even a roaring
With no ear to hear it?).
There is something,
But it seems nothing when held.
There seems something,
But it is only a dreaming of numbers and probabilities.
The wise having spoken,
The rabble clamour and grab those chiselled phrases
(lacking any memories of their own).

The wisdom of mankind:
A moon melting away into shade,
A wind rocking the rafters,
Shaking the valleyed woods,
Inchoate, a chord.
Hold, and it is lost, dismembered, forgotten.

The colours of the dawn: a sequence of shifts, no moments,
No savoured fragments. Only as the blink
Of an eye, an inability to keep
Attention,
A distraction of impressions.
Mind, a movement of itself
Outward into itself,
A brash Mozart
Of improvised narcissism.
If you are not now looking at me
Then what am I?
Give me worth
Or I am less
Than dust
On the tongue.

Dissect and sever
Dream from sleep,
Sleep from waking,
Sense from feeling,
Real from fantasy.
Dam the air, dam the stream,
Divide the slow curves,
Tree shaded,
From the racing weir,
Rock shouting and white.

This moment of perfect sky,
Three woodpigeons buoyed and floating
Down to the small green field.
A rip of blue.
Two gulls distantly weaving.
Cloud shifting from grey to pink,
Teased out,
Carded fine and white
Through the teeth of the fast cold.

Recording moments:
A needle stuck
Repeating the same few bars, the
Same few, the same.
Or a rabble of squabbling voices,
A heckling audience,
Swaying faces in the dark.
A consensus of insanity
Taken to be, of course, sanity.

The sky is pearl and golden.
Three day’s wind
Has smoothed out the light,
Has rubbed the hills green and smooth,
Has dissolved the moon.
That is all.

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lingam1

RAG AND BONE MAN

 

Misdirection.

Frantically waving

The world tries to warn :

Going the wrong way!

Looking out

When you should be

Looking in.

 

In the palace

Broken debris accumulates.

 

(Holding a red, wriggling

Worm of thought.

Articulated, reticulated,

Sinuous, slippery.

Transfixed now,

Sectioned.

 

It oozes

Phonemes,

It oozes

Pheromones.

Colours of, shapes of,

Moments of, pain of,

Pleasure of.

The demon (daemon)

Of Meaning,

No Archon this,

Nothing but Choronzon –

Crowley’s chaos beast.

Bright bubbles of edge

Bursting into void.

Clasping reality:

The cliff-face, wave-foam,

Everything

And nothing revealed.)

 

In the palace,

Silent, deserted,

Debris put by:

Collected are souvenirs,

Remembrances, clues,

Identifiers, histories,

Reasons, threats, excuses.

 

What has been rejected,

Labelled unacceptible,

Exerts as much gravitational pull

As the central proud combustion

Of signposted identity.

At the edge

We place the dark gods,

The Titans, the giants from before.

The ones whose names

We have all but forgotten,

The ones of the earth,

The child-eaters,

The self-generators.

 

With stick and staff

The thick-lensed caricatures,

Bewebbed stuttering scholars,

Chemical smudged whitecoats,

Steadfastly measure and dissect.

Never looking within

Never stirring the dusty dragons

The leering, prancing obscenities

The brilliant but quite mad molecules.

For, tell me if I am mistaken,

Is not the person but a bombastic dictator?

No democracy there, no credence given

To heart or lung or liver.

A hijacking by a handful

Of slick, white myelin-sheathed johnnies,

Serotonin spivs, smart mouthed,

Cocky seen-it-alls, know-it-alls.

 

These our trusted advisors,

These our judges, our jurors

Pretending po-faced objectivity,

Arbiters of reality,

Politic grandparents

Guiding us away

From the dark corners

The guts in the cellar

The stains and axe marks

The awkward questions

The nightmare realities

Of distinct extinction

Irreparable re-examination

Of priorities.

 

The patient sublimates.

The patient projects.

The psychopath, quite reasonably,

Believes a distinct view

Nothing but a gift, a duty.

 

Fearing that anathema

Of the Irrational,

The horror of insanity,

The embarrasment of pettiness

That dwells within,

A roil of unscientific, subjective

Oddness

(we all know it, we all know it

How can we not know it?)

Sweeping the dirty

And the improper continually

Under the carpet,

Rearranging the tired flowers,

A quite flick of the duster,

A spray of masking wholesomeness.

 

Spending nation’s worth

Probing the fractions of matter,

Qualifying,

quantifying statistical expectations,

Mathematically generated creatures,

Galactic searchings,

Subatomic manhunts

Whilst

Heroically

Ignoring

That one thing

We can call ours,

The architecture

Of thought,

Pulse of Memory,

Symbiosis of consciousness,

Monster of imagination,

The flicker of

Inward sound,

Power

Behind the throne.

We cannot, m’lud,

Declare the patient sane

Nor their acts judicious

Nor their perceptions true

Lest the evidence is forthcoming

From the Defence.

 

Is the ghost a demon?

Is it a god?

By their acts shall ye know them

By the world they allow

Not by their advertising campaigns,

Not by their multiple-choice questionaires

Not by their glossy manifestos.

 

Not by anything

But the evidence of their own,

Lonely, determined dive

Past the mechanoid elves,

Past the phosphorescent jellyfish

Past the trembling glory

Past the irrefutible

Past the last possible excuse

Past the only reason

Past the words and past the silence

At last to the bright halls,

The shining paths,

The alien, familiar gardens.

 

I hung for nine nights

I hung for nine days

Upon the World Tree.

Naked, I reached downwards,

Screaming I took up the runes,

Word upon word

Word to wellness

World was woven,

One Eye am I,

One view, completed.

concentric5

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Moonlight through glass

Beginning of the New Year, according to some counts. Woken, as fairly normal, by roving,climbing, cats and whilst in the velvet struggle to regain sleep, caught a tumble of words on constellated subjects. An attempt to recover the drift hours later is usually unsatisfactory – but then dreams themselves are always so much more coherent before the linearity of recall.

The first unrolled from the title of a collection of poems I am getting ready to e-publish ( “won’t take long, start with something easy”…). The title, “Moonlight through glass” is itself taken from a small relief sculpture I made about thirty years ago : just words carved in relief upon reclaimed hardwood floor tiles from an old dance hall. The image is one that satisfies, redolent with silence, serenity, emptiness, peace. An ambiguity of completion and loss. Its partner is the image of “Moonlight on rooftops”. Somehow the epitome of melancholy to me.

Yesterday evening I was playing around with images for the cover of said, slim volume. Getting into the flow, I was revisiting a couple of colour prints, modifying them for a dramatic black and white. Happily, it turned into a potential project all of its own ( or at least so it seemed in the fever of creation). A sort of abstracted yantra meets medieval woodcut, chats with Blake on angels and ghosts, then nods at the engravings of Gustave Dore ( he with the appropriate accent), with a reminiscence of Book of Lambspring and alchemical doings. Possibly a way of illustrating words on the Mahavidya goddesses. Hence the circling of subjects, the orbit of words, that follows:

MOONLIGHT THROUGH GLASS

Moonlight through glass:

Solve et coagula

Dissolve and solidify.

Resting in silence

A vapour of thought

A mist of emotion

Twin mystery

( two of too many):

Light and orbit.

Something fast as infinity

Slows through a lens

Of liquid sand;

Something as unconcerned

And chaste, a satellite

Held gazing face to face,

A waltz of gravity.

Taking form, giving name, chasing thought.

Dance of equations, conjuration of stillness.

Simulation of solidity, (vibrating nothingness).

To give meaning,

To build a path in a pathless wasteland

(suddenly goals, suddenly distinctions)

Mirroring, reflecting, perhaps, the definition of our purpose.

Narcissus has become our jealous god

(echo lost, echo found).

Dancing round the fire,

Oh, we know that one’s name

That will spin gold for us

(though he will still trick us in the end).

And why, why, do we honour Prometheus,

That medler who ruined more than his own prospects,

Who brought down much more than fire upon us?

Too smart for your own good,

Answers too shiny-

Clear-cut, obvious, too self-serving,

Too monstrously elegant.

Ferment.

Closed system

Athanor.

One strong enough to withold,

To withstand all turmoil,

A roiling of opposites.

Not designed for madness

But madness is where we all must go.

The madness of too much,

The madness of not enough.

An incontinent ejaculation,

White noise, staining silence,

An endless slurry of love songs,

A loop of imprisonment.

Ferment.

The numbness of moonlight –

Passion stilled within the heart.

Whitened. Blackened. Consummated.

Brought forth.

Soot-faced puffers

Strainng to wriggle free.

Moonlight through glass:

The achievement,

The surrender,

The transcendence.

—–

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And not too dissimilar ( the metaphysics of stellar cosmogenesis, of electromagnetic emotions), words orbiting the bright imagery, the dark, powerful, inhumanly human goddesses, Ten Nights of Transcendent Darkness, Objects of Transcendent Wisdom, Mahavidya Goddesses. This one the aspect known as Tara ( Second Night of Hunger).

TARA: SECOND NIGHT OF HUNGER

Tara, Tara,

Hungry star,

Unquenchable yearning.

Infinite distance

Is the path to return by.

Light from the farthest edge

Wishing to return to your comforting blackness.

Consumed, conjoined, united,

Undifferentiated,

Possession of belonging,

Lines of gravitational force.

That which separates,

That which holds together,

And beyond all these,

The desire for so much more,

The desire for so much less.

——

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For the clearest, and certainly the most poetical and image-rich words, concerning the Mahavidyas I would recommend Alain Danielou’s great work “Hindu Polytheism” ( that majestic title now sadly pedestrianised to “The Myths and Gods of India” ).

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Sunday Morning. No blue Sky. Some clouds reflect.

I

Haiku True Nature:
Not just a sentence broken
Into smaller lines.

II

Haiku takes a walk:
A garden path inviting
Unexpected view.

III

Tracing thought patterns:
The bright weave of consciousness
Belonging nowhere.

IV

Intellect, a fool:
Lost in a dream of stories,
Suddenly wakened!

——-

In my mail this morning a haiku post from fivereflections appeared as a single line of text ( as they always do). It set off a little line of thought. ( hmmph! ‘Taking a line for a walk’ Paul Klee…). Also fired by a lovely jewel of a piece by skyraftwanderer….

Punctuation, plurals, tenses,
line breaks –
all nuances difficult to translate.
The gestures of the ancient calligrapher:
an ink-blot attains sentience….

Wang Wei and me,
Gone fishing
For ephemeral beauty
Down by the slow river,
The boiling tea kettle
Forgotten…

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“For the times they are repeatin'”

I was recently asked:”How do you see things changing?”. I had had a few cool beers and a few warm sakes at that time and replied “Not a lot!”. But it set off a camel train of slow, plodding thought that traversed a wide desert of speculation. One can be optimistic. One can be pessimistic. One can be ‘realistic’ or one can be ‘idealistic’. It is all, equally, speculation, but some instances are worth considering, some tracks worth following…..

What significant changes have there been?
Firstly, length of life in many parts of the world has hugely increased, as has the reduction of physical pain. There are more people alive at this moment than the total of all those who have ever lived before – a logistical nightmare if the ladder of reincarnation is considered ( does anyone remain in the Land of the Dead? Or is there just a sign forlornly posted saying: “Gone to Birth, Back Later”?). Has humanity changed? Have we evolved? It may look as if we have, but if we look beyond the veil of ubiquitous technology, if we can look into the places in the world less touched by that flow of busy electrons, life goes on much the same as before – no better, no worse. In the technological world our lives are greatly supported, normalised, equalised by technology. It seems advanced, evolved. In those areas we can see the largest apparent change: the amount of information available to the individual. This does not equate with knowledge or education, though it may superficially resemble a greater degree of education.
All this technology and information has, so far, not seemed to initiate any evolutionary benefit to humanity. Indeed, take away technological crutches and the civilised inhabitants of the planet are even less able to cope with survival than the electronically dispossessed of the past or the present……

What is worrying about humanity ( the civilised, technological society, at least), is the direction of its collective dreams. These dreams do not seem to represent the aspirations and optimistic hopes for the future. Projections into the future are expressed in creative storytelling ( not in scientific projections of new discoveries). Contemporary storytelling dreams and themes are full of projections of termination, breakdown, dissolution. The archetypes of destruction are repeated endlessly. There seems to be little interest, little real dramatic ‘meat’ in a peaceful, enlightened, joyous future. “Heaven, (as the song says), heaven is a place, a place where nothing, nothing ever happens”. If a positive future is vaguely hoped for, but impossible to imagine, how can it be worked towards? We know very well the inventive scenarios by which the world may end, though in fact its real demise is just as likely to be the result of something altogether more undramatic and inconspicuous…….

With all our increased length of years is there any evidence that we are making the best use of this extra time? It really doesn’t look that way. Despite the proclaimed benefits of future technology, of mechanisation, of the end of drudgery for the general population, the dreams of the ‘fifties and ‘sixties have been shown in the cold light of day simply to be effective ways for big business to dispense with a costly human workforce. As far as increased leisure time: for some that may be a reality, but for many, the hardships of labour have been replaced by an absence of meaningful activity and sense of purpose, made worse by an education system that continually fails to allow human potential to flourish. We find instead personal creativity and exploration has been replaced with a mass, trance inducing, hypnotic visual drug that suffuses every home with a flickering simulacrum of knowledge about the ‘real world’……

When a nation cannot grow its own food, when its children cannot identify common vegetables, when practical ‘manual’ skills are treated with less value than the intellectual sophistry of the ‘professional’, when each year education is reduced to a scrabbling for test results in order to secure funding for schools, when popular media pander to the lowest common denominator of prejudice and narrow-mindedness ( whilst carefully presenting a ‘balanced viewpoint’), little wonder the glamour of vampires and alien invasion seems a good option…….

There is a feeling amongst those who are inspired by metaphysical and spiritual concepts that this is a ‘time of transition’. That we are finding, or needing, or approaching a “new spirituality”, and that somehow simply a progression of calendrical time will initiate a dynamic and transformational change in humanity.
Firstly, I should like to suggest that wishful thinking is not equivalent to spirituality. Hoping for the best is not a good way to accomplish lasting change, ( though it has life-supporting benefits that despair certainly does not possess). There seems to be little ‘new’ in the ‘new spirituality’. It is generally a reworking and revisioning of ‘old’ spiritual concepts, often in an ‘easy-to-do’ format. It is important to distinguish a ‘spiritual world-view’ from ‘spiritual practice’. It is much easier to find proponents of the former than the latter. A spiritual world-view is a cosmological map, a story that defines, explains and shapes how we fit into existence. It shapes how information is processed, how education is structured, how morals are formed. Spiritual worldviews are approximate pictures of the prevailing metaphysical beliefs in a society. Those interested in such things today are still a relatively small section of an increasingly scientised, secular society who often regard them as intellectual Luddites running away from ‘objective reality’.
Of those interested in spiritual matters, spiritual expectations, spiritual world-views, how many are regular spiritual practitioners? How many, that is, actually take time to modify their lives and practice to change how their mind, body, perceptions work? There seems to be a common misconception that someone interested in “spirituality” is therefore a “spiritual person”, though we do not make the same error in logic by believing that a person who is a football fan is therefore a skilled or professional footballer!…..

So one thing I would like to suggest is that we do not need a ‘new spirituality’ as we have yet to exhaust, or even fully investigate, the potential of all the ‘old’ spiritualities.
We will not benefit from a spiritual consumerism that rushes after each new exciting craze and every exuberant promise of effortless enlightenment. Effective spiritual practices do not rely upon only a set of beliefs or a certain view of reality. Effective spiritual practice is always going to be locked into a modification of the functions of the mind. They use methods that expand and elucidate, and by the experiences they create, they change our perceptions of reality. Never confuse ‘mind’ with ‘conscious awareness’ or ‘thinking mind’. Effective techniques are those that reveal the limitations of ‘rational thought’, exposing it as simply a storytelling, dream process. What ‘mind’ is, is difficult to define using the limited viewpoint available to our everyday way of thought. But to use an analogy: we are habituated to camping out in the porch of a great stately mansion, unwilling or unable to explore beyond our narrow confines to the vast halls, storeys, cellars, attics, that are our birthright and waiting for us to inhabit them……( or to discover their inhabitants)….

There is an expectation, an unconscious urge, for a sudden shift of consciousness, a leap, a transformation. Such expectations have always existed. The end of the world is always happening somewhere, in some belief system. It is either seen as the end of one age and the beginning of another, as as the end of the world itself. Psychologically, this seems to be a profound case of cop-out. It is the desire for everything to be suddenly all right, for everything to be ‘made better’, for the destruction and eradication of everything ‘bad’, the vindication of the ‘good’ ( with the understanding that the believer will be one of the survivors, not of the destroyed). We do not have to do anything, the good will survive whatever is happening. It is all rather neurotic, immature and pretty unrealistic. “If I am good, nothing bad can happen to me, I will be rewarded for my patience, my fortitude, my beliefs, my goodness.” This hope flies in the face of everyday experience. We see all the time that the unworthy attain great honours, the luck of the draw unerringly charging towards the lazy and the negligent. So this view of salvation is an attempt to self-validate by the ego, and has more to do with narrow vision than with spiritual vision…….( but you just see! This will all change when the time comes. What has been will fade away in the glory of……)

Any ‘quantum shift’ is likely to occur because of numbers of nervous systems or numbers of information links, possibly numbers of coherent minds ( though this seems unlikely – in most places the number of effective practitioners of meditative techniques is lamentably small, and, even at one per cent of population, would be unlikely to create the coherence storm necessary to ‘phase shift’ the whole planet). Inertia rules the world of man. Habit patterns dictate the retention of false equilibria, of redundant mechanisms…….

Perhaps the single most invidious and difficult concept that fuels much of our unconscious paranoia and frantic acquisitiveness is “evolution”.
The popular, ingrained abstraction from Darwin’s theory was already present within 19th century Victorian social models. Basically stated it is: ‘progress or die out’. Continually improve, continually grow, continually expand horizons or wither away, become anachronisms, go the way of the dinosaurs. Obsession with linear time and the idea of progress is our biggest neurosis, for with it comes the fear of failure, fear of falling short, fear of death, fear of oblivion, fear of being cast out of heaven, fear of not achieving our potential. Ironically it was not Darwin’s main concept that the strongest or fittest survived the evolutionary battle, but the most adaptable. Ironic too, that perhaps the organism or entity that most resembles or manifests our headlong cry for more, bigger, better, is none other than the elephant in the room – the florescent, seemingly unavoidable curse of cancer. Cancer is, perhaps, simply an obedient expression of our current yearning for non-death: cells that have forgotten how to die, how to behave in a dignified manner, instead holding on and accumulating for themselves, despite the catastrophic effect on the whole entity….

My direction and impetus of thought stuttered and lost energy when I saw a very coherent (though quite flashy), film on the conspiracy theory of control and world power. I had stopped looking at this sort of material a while ago – it so colours and flavours things with its insistence on malevolent deceit that it becomes hard to see beyond its own doom scenarios. But really the minority elite, who think they know best and have the means to cajole, kill or control all by their largesse and arrogant self-righteousness, have always been with us. They too, are a manifestation of cancer, of the endless desire to take charge, to move on, to survive at all costs, to evolve, to enter the gates of heaven, to become illuminated, to be saved, to escape, to be worthy, to scrabble to the top, to succeed.

Having lost our sense of deep history, we have lost the humour within the situation.
Time is cyclical, not linear. “Progress”is a great circle that only looks like a line forward because it is so vast. The few voices of the wise that have not vanished whispering or shrugging helplessly into the ether for good, tend to say the same things, and it is not to do with achieving, or trying, or getting somewhere else or somewhere better ( this tends to happen later with the commentators who ‘clarify’ the original words). What they say is: relax, cleanse, purify, see things more clearly.
There is nowhere to go – unless you want to find yourself back where you started. The wheel of Life is just that. The wheel of the Law, the wheel of Karma. If you are on it, it does not matter if you are at the top or the bottom – that will inevitably change. We run after an illusory future and trash what we have. We impose limitations where there are none. We assume a linearity, logic and objectivity where none ( or only an unfathomable one), exists. We do not need to improve life, just experience it as it is. We cannot avoid suffering by ingenuity, only by understanding. Science has reduced pain but not changed suffering. It can increase comfort but not create any more joy. Science simply shifts the focus of our suffering to somewhere else. Extermination of suffering, extermination of viruses, extermination of enemies, extermination of beliefs, will get us nowhere but deeper into the illusion of ‘better’. Before we decide to go somewhere else, we really need to fully feel where we are now. When we know that profoundly, the primrose path dissappears, the striving becomes ludicrous….

So, no, I see not much changing. It will be the same old surprises, the same old stories, the same old excuses. Until we value clarity of perception, and beauty and kindness and music, and know that what we have already is enough to share, nothing significant will change. Even extinction would not be new (survivors always over-emphasise their skill over pure, blind luck)….

The path to Illumination is a trick of the light.
Illumination can be found within everything at anytime. It is not necessary to be clever, to be good, to be righteous, to be spiritual, to be labelled as virtuous.

We are simply the dust that sings, and we must dance to be glorious – that is all.

For a moment we may seem to take a form and a coherence, to become important or significant, but that is not our nature, nor our purpose. There can be no transformation of essence, and the dream of form is illusory but real…….

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Another star poem:

NIGHT PATTERNS

Looking tonight
It was a child’s game,
A peasant’s carpet.

Patterns of light
Stuck on the slow swing
Of the sky’s bowl.
Refusing to flee farther
Than over the rooftops,
Beyond the field.

Try as I might
They adhere to old
Cosmologies:
Telling stories,
Whispering names,
Herding seasons.

Yet
One spark from a star
Lodged fast in my soul.
A splinter of light,
Lost tombed in my eye.
Quick burin of night
Engraving my brain.

As I lie now
Echoes sift
The skull’s dome.

Suspended
From a million threads
I turn slowly, slowly,
About a still Pole
Whose name is mine.

————-

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Followed by another night poem:

NIGHT RAIN, SUMMER RAIN

Ripening moon
Warming breath

Through race of wind
Sharp scent of stars

Rain-grass taste
Blue supper

Black towers
On whistling wheels
Wing, scud
Trundle
Timewards.

With their first lick
Our Lady’s sides shiver

Embraced in shouts
She melts and fades

As night rains
So silk fish leap,
Flash and ripple
On the water’s face

But She swings
Like silver
Wings
Like silver bell
Around the dark dome

Rings
Sings
Shakes light
Sinks shrouded

———

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Followed by two poems of waking:

HUNG AS A HAWK

Hung
As a hawk
On the cross-beams
Of tick-tock

Spliced
By light
With the blackbird’s
River

A slim wedge
Pricks this
Bubble bright
All-swirl

The riddle orb
Cascades.

The shadow flock
Leave whispers:
Pool worlds
Flash and floating
High and dry

Leavings
Purchased with oceans-
This blanket demesne
Whose senses
Night’s scythe
Dismembered

Strewn grains
They sprout
Strong cauldron

Tinker tailor
Whets and sews
Resurrection

Nerve and sunbeam
Weld the spark
To Jolly Roger’s
Skull and bones

Ahoy!
The Last Trump!
The Seven Citied Isle!

The five floodgates
Open.

R.I.P
Drowned
In daylight.

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THE SHELL’S SONG

So long lost,
Save what is saved
For the brave wave’s winnowing.

Cast on the drift,
Drowned in the deep oh,
Drawn down in sleep,
Slip the fathoms,
The far fathoms fine.

Tumble slow in motion,
Heels over head,
And leave to care
The coves and caves,
The sloping sand
Losing time in tides:
Each beach that speaks
The long waves reach.

Breathe green for aye
The deeps
No eye
Has seen.

Sink in seven seas:
The eighth ocean
Where fishes kiss
These fingertips-
The slow shoals
Of sweet dream.

Where stars fish
The deep green dream of hue,
The skein of scale,
Glimmer shimmer of tail.

The sigh
And sough of sea
Within the shell’s siren ear.

Sigh and sough,
Sigh and sough.

Now
Fish the sea’s eye
And rise on tide’s wings.

The wind-washed world
Calls the length of leagues
To the seaweed tangle
Of your thought.

Bleached shell
Rolls a line to and fro
And rising,
Floating,
Sleep ebbs away.

Eyes closed:
The shingle sounds
Of day.

——–

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