Blue rosebuds

This face painted-on and stuck in place. One blue rose in a field where all the others are of a different hue. Red roses, pink, yellow, orange, apricot, burgundy and white, but not another one to be seen that is blue. They all stand in line, fading to become a random mixture of colours in the fuzzy distance. Amongst them a solitary blue face. It looks to the sun as much as the others do and the sun dwells in it. But no-one else and nothing else sees it. It is as if it isn’t.

Standing in rows, the roses have roots instead of boots, their movement is very slow and inconspicuous. Dancing when the wind blows, they sag when they are sad. When the sun shines they cannot contain their excitement. They wear a big smile on their face and follow its passage through the day.

There is so much effort put into these flowers. They are built in their entirety whilst hidden inside a bud, surrounded by leaves, and then unveiled to the world. They open and the hearts of the world open too. Open for all to see, but once opened there is no return to how things were. No more being closed and protected. By itself it must fulfill the complete course of life, with the only thing guaranteed being that dissolution will eventually come. Separation from the branch that has borne it and provided it with its happy sappy life blood. Separation and decay, as the host lives on and on.

The host must go on – it cannot stop its growing to look at what has passed. Instead maintaining a steady flow of life. From within the earth it draws its nutrients and they rise upwards towards the sun and the sky. Then taking them back down to its roots. Living in this one place, contained in its own little world of awareness. Like the awareness of the stones, the sky, the soil. The sun and the stars and the salty sea. The feeling of caves and trees and boulders and all parts of the whole of the local landscape. A little part of each and all. And all a part of each little bit.

There it stands-out on its own, the one blue rose. The others all refuse to believe that it is real. Just how can one be sure ? Perhaps it is a demented form of red, a lost relative of the yellow, an unusual variety of brown, a fallen representative of the purples and burgunds. We had heard rumour of its existence, but no-one had ever seen it.

But watch ! – as the wind blows and all the others sway. The blue rose sways as much as it feels it wants too. Perhaps a bit of dancing before the swimming season. Why not, we might exclaim – why not ! It may dance its most passionate dance, but none will see it, because it appears to be standing still. None will see it, for it is as if it is not there.

Not just dancing though, for there it is, singing and laughing and expressing all of the stories of life. Expressing them on the outside, expressing them on the inside. Like a physician drawing noxious airs and foul fluids and exposing them to the light of the day. Expressing it all until the body falls dead calm and everything that arises is met with clarity. With unflinching nerves and a steady temperament. Meeting every moment with a ready agreement. For it is as it is, and that is that, and all is okay.

Time spent amongst the roses will stand one in good stead. There are indeed times when it is not recommended to get near and close to them. With a developed skill it is possible to move with ease in their prickly realm. There in the moment that is calm, unchanging even as storms and tempests appear from behind the horizon and march across this scene. If the surrounding scenery is calm, then one can be sure that the next storm is not far off.

But what would the roses care about anything beyond their little patch of garden. The soil at their feet with the worms working away within. The compost lying around, the sun and rain, the bugs and critters following their daily schedule. Do they care for the magnolia ? – its branch broken and decaying. The weta living within its wound ? The forget-me-nots huddled together on the ground after the rain. Or the daphne alongside it, leaves fallen off after a windy day. Do the roses care more for these or any others in particular. They do care. They care for all of these and more. Anything that appears as manifest – they care for it. But sometimes they feel that there is but a little that they can do for them all. Little more than extend the best of their good feelings that way and for any other that needs it.

The blue rose simply awaits its day. On the earth all are looking but they are not able to see it. They are looking in the wrong place and looking for the wrong thing. But most of all they don’t know what they are looking for. The other roses are tortured in the hope that they will reveal themselves as having a blue rose on the inside. It is thought that if they are flogged and punished enough, they will have a blue offspring. Looking for the wrong thing in the wrong place.

Instead there is a realm of possibilities. Perhaps traveling there as if to the library. A great place to look for anything at all. All the things that we we can imagine and the things that we couldn’t imagine too. Or just didn’t bother considering as a possibility. Looking at that place, for it is sure to be there. There in the world of possibilities. Do remember though, that there are some things that never leave that place, that will only be found there.

The other roses all huddled in their bands and brigades of uniformity. They cannot find their way even as it leans on them and pushes. They cannot find it even as they are rooted in the middle of it. Not until they break from their ranks and jump in quite entirely.

Once in there finding blue roses everywhere. Finding that all roses are actually blue from the start. Finding that the blue roses are made of empty space mixed together with a bit of imagination, and that the red ones are too. So too the peach, amber, pink burgundy and champagne coloured roses. A bit of imagination, a few volts of concentration and the desire to see it thus, that wells from the centre of everything.

The moon rises full and shines on the white roses in the garden. On this day you will be silver – and a little bit blue too. They laugh shyly at such a weak trick. Looking to the world of possibilities, but waiting with a quiet heart. Eventually the blue rose will reveal itself, and all of the others will finally agree and see it too.

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Walking on the swamp monsters back

It is a difficult way to travel, tromping through the swamp. Probing the ground ahead with a long pole. Like looking for the truth amongst patches of unnecessary filling. Probing the ideas that might be found in the marshy depths. It is a precarious enterprise. But it is there to be found. Found by anybody who is prepared relinquish any and every thing to find it.

Hidden amid the marshiness and boggyness are patches of quicksand where you can sink and disappear before you know what is happening. Equally dangerous are the legends of scary things. Reported to be there even though you can’t see them. Even if no-one has ever seen them. Legends of monsters that will take your leg and pull you in, and colonies of poisonous bugs and slime that will eat you from the outside in. The legends create a pall of fear which causes misfortune from which few will escape. A sick idea that catches and infects its host. There are as many legends as there are places that the imagination may travel to. Shrugging off the legends as soon as we hear them. Shrugging them off and moving on. The search for truth is a serious undertaking and requires a constant vigilance. Unnecessary distractions are to be quickly and efficiently discarded. It is indeed a demanding task – and we must devote the best of our time and effort to its completion if we are to be successful at it.

Poking our probe into the slushy mush. What will we find here ? A sac of foul gas that erupts through the hole ? Perhaps it will be something semi-solid and unknown that we pierce ? On the path to truth we will have many opportunities to be surprised with what we find. Poking with our pokey stick, finding a path that traverses the densest matter and the thinnest and most vacant nebulae. Not knowing what we have found, knowing only that it is not what we thought that we were looking for. Eventually we will understand that we might never find what we thought that we were looking for. We will always find something different.

Prodding away at the ground before us. What thoughts and ideas dwell here. What ideas are this place made of. What ideas create this scene. What ideas make the trees and plants grow, and what ideas give off that foul gas that makes us wheeze. What ideas create the water of life and bring it to good use.

Prodding away at the earth, seeing what ideas it might yield. But there are those that extend beyond the earths realm. There are those that dwell in the sky. They travel lightly and lean on people as they pass. They are so light that their presence is often missed. There are others – finer still. They dwell beyond our regular sky, out in the depths of the distant night. In the depths of the galaxy. In the depths of beingness, where time has never intruded.

Poking and prodding amongst the ideas as they lay in terra and the firmament. Probing as we make our way through them. So many of them just don’t hold the right consistency. Too hard – too hard, they become like rock and will not flex to fit with life. Will not flex to fit the reality as it presents itself. Too soft – too soft, like jelly they are flabby and falter when tested. Will not take the shape of anything unless they are poured into a container of some sort. Instead of holding firm they collapse when most needed.

If that weren’t enough, there are other oddities by which we may be inconvenienced. So many of them are things that we would prefer not to encounter. Things that are oddly shaped and fit only for some perverse use. Flaccid, crisp or brittle, or otherwise of no use. Repellant and/or cloying. Lumpy as though filled with nails. Perhaps leading to harm and away from the truth. With so many faulty ideas, it becomes apparent how few of them are actually of any use. Even the good ones can bring harm if not well tempered.

Indeed how few of these ideas can match the simplicity and sure vision of the heart. The direct penetration of the source. How it is that the heart guides with certainty and the utmost skill, even in the most complex of situations. With the heart there is no random probing. No poking about here and there, looking to see what one finds. When probing with the heart just one look is enough. Right into the centre of it all. All of reality is pierced. Right into the crux of it all.

One can be sure that blood and tears will well up. As if rupturing an artery of it. As if pumping seeming endless amounts of fluid from deep within the earths bowels. Blood and tears squirting up and out, covering everything, there for all to see. Blood and tears and the truth behind everything that we have ever done. All that we have experienced. The truth behind everything that ever happened. The gritty grist of the mill of life. The truth behind all of the convenient explanations that the mind has ever produced. The truth behind the endless misinterpretations that have caused life to become a struggle. That have created pain and drama from otherwise innocuous events. The truth behind the moments moment, and the feeling that holds it all together and causes it all to eventually dissolve.

Belching forth like toxic gases, like flames leaping up and enveloping the self. Belching forth the ideas that we hold so dearly. Staying the course, holding firm the heart. Being steady and still, despite the urge to run. For there is nowhere to run to. Running would only lead to more time spent navigating the swampy marshes, and we have had enough of that. Oh how the heart desires to have solid earth beneath the feet, and yet to be surrounded by space. Never more than when knee deep in the gloop and goo of some boggy swamp. Never more than when surrounded by the ill conceived and unconsidered words of the world. Of all things informed by fear and unrequited pain and all of their various offspring.

Indeed to feel the solid earth beneath ones feet and be surrounded by space. To forget the earth and feel the space above and below, within and without, with no differentiation. On that day the swamp and all of its contents becomes but a memory. Consigned to the realm of the undifferentiated. Something that we once were concerned with, but now seems to strike no resonance.

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Oops – somebody pulled the plug out (The pirates would retire and instead grow cabbages)

 

Exploring the vast ocean floor. Sunken ships, and boats and tubs of every sort. There are some that have been snapped in two, run through in bouts of conflict and contest. Punctured by other brutes in boats and their bombs. Battered by the weather, burst and busted by rocks hidden under the waters surface. Swamped by the seas waves and sunk by cannonballs and rocks falling from the sky. They have holes in them and the currents pass through them as they lie on the sea bed. A hole in one or both of the sides, if not in the bottom. Though most have a hole or two, some have no hole in them at all. They lie sunken and yet intact. In the boats lie lost treasures, and treasures surround them too.

Sunken whether intacto or unintacto, they have been forgotten by the waves of time. Forgotten by the sailors and civilians all. Lost to the centuries. Lost to all relations, memories, and even historical books. But the sky remembers. The sky and the sea. They hold these secrets quietly in their depths, for it is their way to make no fuss nor ado about such things. It is their way to tend to their business irrespective of external influence.

The fluidity and weight of the water has its own pace. The winds, the passing of the clouds, the sun and the moon – all have their schedule. If they all seem a little anxious and harried, then there is the turning of the galaxy and the procession of the equinoxes with which to reckon the passage of time. These measures should endow anybody with a thoughtful perspective in all events.

With that the races and civilisations too rise and fall with the tides, each generation passing their memories and stories to the next generation. With songs and dances and tangled strings and knotty sticks, the details gather like the sands of the beach. Reality molds itself into myth to better reflect its truth. Only the most subtle of hearts and minds can mine the stories from the aether and the sky where they are stored in the great treasure house. There for anyone who cares to find it.

The sea and the sky by themselves remember. They remember everything. The old boats become treasurehouses in a world full of treasurehouses. Creatures of the undersea worlds will visit these wrecks and many will make this place their home. They move amongst decaying relics of the past every day, and touched by familiarity begin to forget where they are. They begin to not notice that the wreck is there. They are instead consumed by their own habits and pressing needs.

Time passes by, and for those whose memory is short, life on the seafloor becomes the normal and unquestioned shape of life. On the seafloor there are also swarms of phantom pirates. A legion of the undead. captain, crew and all. Occasionally the head pirate will make his presence felt along with his ghoulish followers. He will lead a charge of fear upon unwitting and unaware travelers. So too the royal king and prince and their coterie of sycophants. They too, when amongst the ranks of the unalive, will create as much fear as any other. One group has a shadow that points away from the sun and one group has a shadow that points towards the sun. When they encounter their shadows merge. Then there are those who fall into neither camp, whose shadows are quiet and who go about their ways unobtrusively. Amongst them, piratical, royalist and others who are either, neither, anti and non.

Yet on the seafloor lies treasures unclaimed. Forgotten, ignored and remaining unseen. Above the seafloor is the place where treasure all seems to come from. The treasure factory, the shining gems and metals, glinting. But in the true fire of life there is only one treasure, one moment, and that is where all other treasures come from is made.

The sea gets darker by degrees, pirates appear and disappear following nothing but their whim and despicable pursuits. The Royal Navy follows them about, never quite close enough to act. When they meet new ghosts are created and set up their own permanent base. They can be called upon to remember when no-one else will.

And so it is… So it is…Many a good sea captain has found his vessel punctured by pirates in the middle of their voyage, or sunken against the odds, even when guided by justice and good temperament. For they set their course, and held it fast as the sun and the stars revolved around them. The crew worked long and hard and complete their role as best they could. Yet in the field of birth and death there are no guarantees that things will follow their course as planned or hoped. Everybody finds themselves in unfamiliar and sometimes hostile territory. Or even that the territory might be quite amenable, but the circumstance tainted with unfavourable elements.,

Whatever the cause, eventually the water gets into the ships hollow hold. If there is no hole for it to get in from below then it might come in from the sides or even from above. Perhaps it has been raining misfortune, or perhaps it is merely the exhaustion of their earthly time. But the hold fills with water and the body in its turn fills with fear. Filled with fear it flushes and founders and finds its way to the seabed. The hold filled with water, all of the underwater world becomes a complete and enveloping world. Surrounded by the eyes of fishes and squids. Sunken wishes and damp squibs.

They move slowly and let the feeling of the place flow into their bodies. Becoming filled with the life of the place. Eventually they will gain familiarity and make the sunken hulk their home. Not going anywhere else, taking the fullness of this place this moment as home, the repository of comfort and ease. So at last the true treasure is revealed. In front of the nose, behind the nose, above and below and to either side. The true treasure hunter finds the treasure every here, every there, everywhere. Leaving it where is found for there is no taking it away, and there is always always more when needed.

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The beginning at the end of the end

They stand proudly surveying their creation. A monster born of the human mind. A group of men have built a huge machine on the top of a hill. It looks like a something covered with beady eyes, all looking up into the sky. The people who made this thing have few friends, and have constructed this monstrosity in secret. What the machine does is unknown to outsiders, and why it was built is equally mysterious.

There are technicians and engineers with sheets of notes and numbers and construction instructions. Then there are those who designed this behemoth. They dwell in the far end of the world of physical sciences, and there are few people with whom they can talk about what they are doing.

They have decided that the machine is ready to operate, and shortly it will burst into life. When operating it will crush the known laws of physics. It will bend space and time into any shape desired. It will undo the glue that holds everything together. It will climb into the furtherest reaches of the imagination, and manifest all and any possibilities found there. Finally it will prove conclusively that we know very little about the world that surrounds us. Undoubtedly it will cause a disturbance, which will require others to interrupt their regular tasks to rectify.

Outside of the small group of people involved in this project, there are very few who have any inkling that anything unusual is happening. Between their everyday busy-ness, their favourite distractions and the general malaise of disinterest, they cannot muster much concern for the furtive activities of a group of scientific misfits and boffins.

They come and go, dressed in their white coats and jerseys with holes in the elbows. One day they decide to start their machine, and immediately they do, the sky falls down. Everyone everywhere looks up, startled, and wonder aloud – what happened ? With it, their world, and everything that held it in place begins to collapse. They mutter to themselves and cling to whatever they most dearly believe-in, even as it fails them. Again and again this might happen. Doing so and becoming further and further adrift from life.

Navigating their way around the fallen sky, they ask themselves what went wrong with their plan ? Why did this happen and what can be done about it. The larger mass of folk loudly lament that things will never be the same again. Things will never be as they were. We can’t even be sure that things are as they are. A smaller group of folk quietly find what they need and a new way of doing things. A whole new approach to life. They always knew that things would never be the same as they were before, and that they just appeared as if they would do so. Now they know that things aren’t as they thought that they would be either. As if somehow they knew about the monstrous machine.

There is a shambolic scene surrounds them. The sky has fallen, and there is a big hole in the ground where the machine was. Its makers wring their hands in disappointment and impotence. Their moment of glory has been snatched from them, and a moment of truth that they would prefer not to encounter has taken its place.

They will return to their burrows and bunkers to reassess their plan, and the execution thereof. The plan itself seems sound, though none seem to notice that the paradigm that supports it is faulty. It looks good from some vantage points, but not from all. It helps some things but harms many more. It appears as being well conceived, and yet on closer examination is seen to be lacking in a basic understanding of life.

Their paradigm crumbles as they steadfastly ignore its demise, instead making even more grandiose plans. The paradigm finally collapses, and the shell of their ideas and ideals shatters with it, becoming a big heap of rubble and carnage.

Curiously, for many the ability to see things as they are returns. No longer is the idea and the imagined ideal paramount. Sadly this ability is not claimed by all, and some of the boffins and their followers still bump around clumsily, led by the head.

There will always be a retrogressive group that hangs around long after a notable event. Holding to the event in the hope that it once again delivers its spark of inspiration. Picking up the pieces of their failed endeavours, even if for no purpose other than to gather the memories together and remember how things once were. Bring them back into the heart. Sadly it was so often in the moment of anticipation of the greatest success that the greatest collapse came.

They one day stop what they are doing and wonder. Wonder about nothing in particular. The whole edifice of thought has collapsed. The constructs in their head have been deconstructed. Their great project had failed, and they will stop and wonder. Why why why why why ? If their great project had succeeded and razed the world and all life on it, they would have also stopped and wondered. Why why why why why ? They stop and wonder, and everything seems to come to a halt around them.

They stop and wonder about how much of what is happening here on earth is absolutely necessary. The brutality and callousness. The pain and the suffering. How much is needed at all. The monster machine was to be their savior. They had given up waiting for the other saviors, because they had failed to appear. If they appeared they failed to be noticed. If they were noticed they failed to be recognised. If they were recognised they failed to explain things clearly. If they explained things clearly, they failed to be believed. So some clever minds from near and from far would gather together to make a machine that would do all of the saving that was necessary. Yet with all of the saving that the machine was expected to offer, there is something that it seems miss. Amiss it is.

They wait by their fallen fantasy in the hope that it can be resurrected. Alas it might be a long wait, to see it restored and operating. There are others who watch over this scene from afar. They watch in wonder, and marvel in the fact that life seems to be able to produce so much variation in this species. So many preposterous prepositions and ridiculous rationales. Those watching simply wait in quiet space and bide their time.

The boffins have a practiced manner for their moments of failure, as they occur with great regularity. Usually they stiffen themselves and reapply the same plan or a variation of it. Sometimes they see through the problem and throw away the plan and put their efforts into the paradigm, even as it crumbles before their eyes.

Again and again they follow this course, and again and again the results remain the same. They hear very few voices from outside their tight community, and steadfastly ignore most of what they do hear. Of the remainder, they discard because they cause irritation when introduced to their favoured beliefs.

If they don’t fail then they grotesquely succeed, and with every trick that defeats the course of nature their goal becomes more faint. More engines and circuits that need maintenance, eventually to be discarded with everything else that anybody ever made.

Those who watch over this scene might eventually resign from their watching and go home. If they didn’t know the futility of it, they would be exasperated. They do and they are anyway. The other inhabitants who remained so studiously ignorant of the furtive activities might remain so. They do not become any wiser from what they chose not to see.

Stalemate it is. All have applied their regular way of doing things, and all find themselves exactly as they were when they began. A repeating episode of life. The sky and the stars watch on from in their own cycles of time. In millions and billions of years it would seem that change has been manifest. Generally in the pattern of one step forward and two steps back. Stumbling across the goal by accident. Stumbling across the goal after walking around the planet backwards. Stumbling across the goal after having completely forgotten about it.

Eventually weeds and trees will grow and cover their folly. Rocks and dust will rain upon it and shield it from discovery. A great forest will cover it, and volcanoes will throw rocks all over it. It will disappear, to never be seen again. Those with a clear eye who chose to pay full attention to what was happening will have long since left, leaving only stories and legends of their deeds. Those who couldn’t be bothered seeing must wait until the day when they finally begin to care.

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Rupalupagupta (The Cube)

Who would ever have guessed the nature of the situation. We fall out of the womb, climb out of the sun, fall out of the plasma, solidify from the luminiferous aether and find ourselves here. Here on this earth. This musky garden, this jungle covered swamp, this factory, this office building, this organic farm hurtling through space towards an unknown destination. Hurtling towards the future, hurtling towards the past. Hurtling towards the present. One minute everywhere and nowhere, and the next moment tied to this diminutive scenario that is called human life. The diminutive scenario that is called me.

For an age untrammeled and unfettered. A free reign without space or time. Then suddenly trammeled and fettered into this perspective. Trapped within the six walls of sound and form. Life in the box. So many would buckle and collapse at such a prospect. Then spend all of their time ignoring the reality as it appears on the cubes walls. Avoiding living lifes moment. Turn to run from it at every opportunity. Added to that, becoming attached, one by one, to each and every shadow encountered. And simultaneously repulsed by the same. Until the true source is forgotten and the space within the boxes six walls becomes the home of all the identified life. Things from the imagination and from outside of the box are herded together and dragged to be within the space of those six sides. Wrapped and packaged into conversation pieces and topics of academic research.

The spirit and light of life flickers and wanes. Looking for freedom, looking for a way out, it binds itself further at every opportunity. Born in the box, born of the box. There are clear directions left by the previous tenants. An arrow painted onto each wall. An arrow pointing to the way out. Each leading to the next wall, then the next and the next. An accumulation of arrows from past times. Each wall covered in arrows pointing in all sorts of directions. To the left and to the right, each pointing to a similar situation whilst facing another direction.

There are some who would try to escape. By building a smaller box with the view removed. Or indeed by building ever larger boxes. With greater views and a feeling of vast space. Enough room to store other boxes if needed. Greater detail and innovation in boxdom. Searching for the ultimate box that relieves the suffering and fear that they seem to entail. So many arrows covering the walls filling the heart with hope, but leading only to the disappointment of finding more of the same old terrain. Brownian arrows pointing in all directions at once. Follow any at random, it will only point out more.

A group of scientificists appear. They beat their chests and clap their hands and announce that they will put an end to this dilemma. They will measure and study everything that they can see and agree upon. They will find so many things to describe and so many ways of describing them. Until they are sure that they know everything. This, they assure us, will bring peace and release. New things are discovered every day, which they will report-on. But they all agree that whatever they know at any given time is above and beyond that which is known by any other group. Vastly superior to all other collections of knowledge. They coax people into believing that their walls are nearer and farther, smaller and larger in turn. They assure themselves that they are making progress, and that before long the answers to all of the questions in life will surrender themselves in droves.

Everybody waits with bated breath. Waiting for the answer to end all questions. If it comes as word, none shall be able to act on it. There is just the door of mysteries, for all to enter one by one. Opening to an ever increasing sea of questions. Even as the box’s walls press harder and harder against them. The answer remains silent. There amongst the hordes and herds there are a few that wander freely, who come and go at their leisure. All of the arrows would like to lead to wherever it is that they are. That place where the hard walls soften to become doorways to peace and freedom.

When the people hear about it they ask ‘how is it that we too may enter’ ? Enter by stepping-out. Enter by letting-go. Enter by stepping in too…The same answer is given in one thousand guises, and never quite believed. If it is believed it is never quite acted upon. Worshiped only, but worshiped with all of the heart. This great answer will be stored with all other great answers, and honoured with all of our might. Praying to it by day and by night, all eventually succumb to starvation.

Entering the gate by leaving behind what is known and safe. Enter without leaving even your footprints. To trust what is most dear and to trust what is most dreaded. To be most close to them and then to leave them behind. To wander freely amongst them without the burden of their weight. Let them carry themselves. Let them shrink to nothing, which is a comfortable size when stuck in confined spaces. Let them shrink to nothing as we realise that the sweat and strain of maintaining them wasn’t worth the effort.

Those who have traveled outside of the box have a different demeanour in life. And that quite simply is all that can be said about the matter. And that indeed is that. Walls will not confine them and chains will not hold them back. Nowhere for the warrior to thrust her spear. Ideas and beliefs and passions and longings all fall freely, only to be blown away by the breeze. To dissolve in the rain, to sink in the mud. Colours faded and gone, and yet there for all ages to see.

The crowd stampede from one end of the paddock to the other, and then back again. Each following the one in front, even if the one in front is terribly lost. They never stopped to ask or to check whether or not they knew where they were going. Whether they knew what they were doing. The free spirits move in and around the spaces inbetween. There comes a time when they turn, and the crowd will follow. Until that day the clouds build up on the horizon.

The free spirits might lead the way, if only any would follow. As it is they talk and few listen. They dwell everywhere and nowhere at once. Wherever they are they are happy with whatever it is that is reflected back. They move with the tide as it moves, but see its movement and scenery in a different way than those who subscribe to standardised views.

The boxes walls bump against each other. But they let it not be a bother. As for the arrows – they see that they lead to the place from where they were fired. From the walls of the boxes to the maker of the box and back again. The maker of all boxes and the space in which to hold them. Waiting for the day when we can all see through the walls and arrows, and the arrows and walls. It was all a dream after all. A reflection on the caves walls on a stormy night.

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The last few days of the bad old ways

Trekking across the last few days. Guided by a plumb-bob, compass and the lamp of the heart. A map of the earth, the sun and stars above us, the shape of the horizon, the shrubs and trees around us and the rocks beneath our feet. With poles for support, ropes and all adventure equipment, for surely we will occasionally find ourselves in an awkward spot, and need added resources to extricate ourselves. Informed by the weather as it rolls in from every direction. Sometimes tiring and dragging our feet, sometimes marching stoutly through the thickest most tumultuous of times. Sometimes bounding and bouncing from boulder to boulder. So it is, trekking through the last few days.

It has always been the last few days. Certainly for as long as I or anyone else can remember. Since the moment of birth. Since before the moment of birth. Since the birth of the moment. It never started and never ended. It has always been the last few days and always will be. For one never knows really. One never knows and furthermore cannot accurately presume or guarantee the continuation of this dream form nor any of its constituent parts. Not another moment can be guaranteed, nor indeed can one predict when the drama will end and all of the players go home.

Trekking through the last few days is much like traveling through an uncharted region. Always finding new scenes upon which to rest ones eyes, taste and experience. New scenes and dreams and friends and teams. The heart becomes a bit softer and the life a little fresher. The feeble and fluffy dreams fail and fade, and those built on rock and the true firmament manifest themselves. Wherever it is that we rest, roots quickly work their way into the soil and solidity of whatever it is that supports us, whatever lies below. There making our nest.

Pulling ones roots out from the earth, and for a while being like a bird or a cloud. Held back by nothing in particular. Held back by the hand of fear. Held back by the untamed black beast, but only after having refused to make its acquaintance with it. Held back by not being curious. Held back by successive generations of conditioning and programming that together define and limits of the world and all of reality. Held back by a solidified identity from which but a few will turn and walk away from. The many faces of fear, hidden in every thing that blocks our path. Impeding our flow.

Turning and walking away, the dream that holds everything together weakens and fades. The atoms forget what it was that they were to form and cease holding hands and everything becomes empty space. Everything returns to the state of the primordial broth. All of those who have tickets and invitations to the spectacle that is the last few days realise that all is not as it seems. It may as well be the first few days, or any few days from the middle. It might even b a taste of life without days. The moments moment and the scenery from either end of ones nose. Turning and walking from the dream, it is not a long time passes before realising that we cannot walk far. We cannot leave it entirely behind us, as we need it as much as it needs us.

Turning and walking from the last few days. Walking into the many and abundant days. What a fine thing they are. Days of manyness and abundance. Climbing into them to taste them as they are. To revel in their fulsome and fertile fecundity. Walking through them day after day. Looking for others to share in the endless bounty of life. Looking for those less fortunate or less well positioned than oneself so as to help them with their needs and set them free.

In the last few days there is so little need to suffer. As little need as in the first few days. Except there is somewhat more experience in the life of form and in this form of life. Really really really it is just a matter of which way one chooses to look. What one chooses to face, what one chooses to view. Whether one chooses to see what one looks at, or even to register it at all.

The fortunate and less fortunate stand on different sides of the railway tracks, the fence or the hedgerow, or whatever else they choose to place between themselves and each other. But they face the same direction in that they are in this journey of life together. The last few days or the many abundant days, it all depends on how they choose to perceive this apparition of life. Which way they happen to look. In most ways it is indeed that they do look the same way. Seeing the same game, the same characters, with different perspectives on the roles they play. Most forgetting to look through that to see what is really happening, and who and what is doing it.

In the last few days each taking their place from which to view it. Taking on their role in which to participate in them. These last few days between birth and death. One might travel to the far end of the universe and find that the view remains approximately the same. One might travel from one edge of the seat to the other. One might travel from one end of the mind to the other. Travel from one end of the nose to the other. When all has been seen and examined, it is hard to distinguish between this and that. Hard to distinguish where one thing ends and the next one begins. From where the form stops and the idea that created it starts. A projection played outwards in all directions. The last few days between death and life.

Eventually the journey through the last few days must come to an end. We have walked in one big circle and found ourselves at the beginning once again. It is the first few days after all. The many and abundant days also. Everything that ever happen all neatly recorded in the annals of life. Each moment dripping with poignant content. At the same time appearing as but a ripple through space. A ripple in time. The moment when the sky looks at itself.

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The darkest day

The darkest day

A sunny day, a month or two before May. Waking in the morning to an unexpected announcement – ‘Your worst nightmare has come true’. It could be described in many ways, but ‘genuinely dreadful scenario’ tells of the response of the human organism.

I could call all of my friends to come and tell me theirs. Ask them to tell me what it is that they most dread. Their biggest fear, the greatest nightmare. Each might come forward one by one and tell their story, their worst case scenario. We could discuss it until we go blue in the face and fall over. The human imagination is not only vast, it is also completely unfathomable. The nightmares that it might create and dread can be both weird and extreme. Mostly they don’t leave the realm of the imagination, but sadly some of them escape from the realm of imagination and come to pass.

There is a crowd walking away from the biggest and baddest of dreams. This one is just cannot be faced. A nightmare to dreadful to bear. A hole in the side of reality, and the nastiest most toxic stuff imaginable leaks out. Leaking out and into this world. Citizens of the world turn their backs and march away from this, the greatest of horrors. Their world poisoned and burned, to remain that way forever. There are times when it is perfectly appropriate to abandon all and simply walk away. To stay is sometimes for a select few. Daring, dashing and occasionally just plain stupid.

There are others who will willfully march into whatever disaster unfolds. They have seen the need and will offer their time and their lives to help resolve the situation. To save the unnecessary suffering. Toiling by night, by day, and then by night again. So many nights there are – they are long, and seem to outnumber the days by far. When these folk have done as much as they can, they will say goodbye to their family and friends and to the world, and leave. An empty space will remain where they once were.

Amid all of the horrors that life delivers, there are always some who will try to maintain their life as it was. As it had always been. But it is gone, life as it was, never to return. All of the help that is provided will be to no avail in that respect. To desire a return to how things were will not help other than to help the disaster grow and spread. The disaster of broken hearts.

Even in the midst of the horror story pausing to consider that there are probably ways that it could be much worse, even if one can’t actually think of any exact examples. There is always a way that it could be worse. There could be hot volcanic rocks crashing through the roof. There could be earthquake after earthquake. There could be fire pouring from the sky, and toxic matter raining in every direction. The whole planet could crash into another, and snuff all life on board. The planet could abandon its course through space and be sucked into the seething mass that is the sun.

One could exhaust their heart and mind in postulating what could happen. One could exhaust oneself in merely tackling the days activities, and seeing them to completion. Then there are superlative moments, when the need is great, and without any doubt all of lifes energies should be dedicated to matching that.

With the manifesting of the greatest of nightmares, the needs of life seem to be magnified as being simple and few. The daily concerns of existence are swept away on a tide of life, and revealed as mere trivia. The cares and concerns might seem to take so much time, but there are still greater expanses of time that were previously dedicated to the maintenance of unnecessary habits. An endless heap of things to be maintained. A chain of things, each bound to its neighbour. An increasing heap of technology holding us in its grip. The things actually necessary to life being elegantly few.

By day and by night this dream might go on. Possibly into the month of May, and possibly beyond that even. In this very worst of nightmares the earth and sea and sky all pop and fizz and emit troubles to all who stray near. People might come near and feel fine, and shortly thereafter fall ill and die. Someone might build a fence for hundreds of miles, and maintain it for thousands of years after that. Planting signs and notices around its perimeter – stay away, for this place has been spoiled forever.

The animals that live within it get ill. The trees and plants get ill. The wind and clouds get ill on passing. Of the rocks and minerals we cannot be sure, for their state of health we never really know. They seem fine at a glance. But we can be sure that the mountains and glaciers are greatly irritated by this disturbance.

As we walk through this horror story, we might find that it contains all other horror stories within it. If not in the detail then in the essence. An opportunity to know the taste of horror. The scene where horror potential exists in its original and unmodified state. Then the act, the event where the course of life is altered forever. The shock and the flavour of fear. Mapped and charted, plotted and plumbed. Then when all is done, tidying after the catastrophe, which seems to on and on without cease.

On and On. Without cease and Without cease. This day, this every nows day. Forever and this day. The nightmare will fade in time. Perhaps eventually another will take its place. And if not, then not so, for it is not really needed. None are really needed. Fearing that it is all to no avail, or indeed less so. Less than some avail. Less than no avail. An unfortunate impediment to life. Nothing more and nothing less.

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