Click here …the dry salvages
To My McLove – in a poem, a picture and a piece x
In a poem…
She used to like Scotties
But now she loves Pugs
What does that say of her journey?
From pugnacious aye-right
To soft scottish sky-bright
Unfolding from surly to girlie
And a “piece”, (click to play)
For reading click here .. poem in october – dylan thomas
“the mussel pooled and heron Priested shore”
It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
In the still sleeping town and set forth.
My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.
A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
On the hill’s shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.
Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
Away but the weather turned around.
It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child’s
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels
And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Still in the water and singingbirds.
And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart’s truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year’s turning.
What is the colour of silence?
Here presently co-occupied
By fire and petal’s concresence
Our rose-garden life be descried
What patterns thy fret-saw begets
Thy knot-stitch embroidered relief
The surf-line that curves as it whets
The sharpening stone of belief
.. all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well
This is how I imagine consciousness. There is a “self”, but it’s a force that attracts and captures stories – narratives. What others mostly perceive as “us”, and which our ego reinforces – is actually (I think) a bundle or a quiver of stories.
Death does not exist. It a chimaera, an illusion. Why do I believe this? Because our “ego” doesn’t really exist anyway. The ego dies, but what is it in the first place; a phantasm that acquires a will to continue.
What we think of as “life”, that of our ego – doesn’t exist. Neither then does death. What of the rest, the real stuff. Well the stories – the ideas weaving together – persist. As for the force that attracts – well that’s a mystery beyond this bodies imagining. I don’t believe it dies though. I think – like the Hindus – that it is a droplet of existence that returns to the ocean.
And there, dear Heart, is a joyous thought. This life is lonely. We are boundaried. If at our body’s dissolution, as ego fades – so then evaporates our boundary. To the loving infinite. To each other. Then: Bring it on. Comrades. Sisters. Namaste.
East Coker, extract. T S Eliot
The whole earth is my hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere
Yes, Ego – but you’re only a confection. Candyfloss spun by my mind; and your price is loneliness. My “self” is a prison, and you, my Ego are a false gaoler. Death only exists for you, my Ego. Without it (in every sense) I truly live. Live truly.
Eternal life is in relation, between I and Thou. You are death, my Ego. You and the relation “I-It”
Extract from Martin Buber’s I and Thou..
(For reading click here to listen …trimmed -i thou 1-7 to man the world is twofold
To man the world is twofold, in accordance with his twofold attitude.
The attitude of man is twofold, in accordance with the twofold nature ofthe primary words which he speaks. The primary words are not isolated words, but
The one primary word is the combination I-Thou. The other primary word is the combination I-It;
wherein, without a change in the primary word, one of the words He and She can replace It.
Hence the I of man is also twofold.
For the I of the primary word I-Thou is a different I from that of the primary word I-It.
Primary words do not signify things, but.they intimate relations.
Nought, Omphalos, Nothing Eternity and the void.
One is appearance. Miraculous number. The world is born with the appearance of 1. The archetypal change from nothing to all. But, one is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.
Two, and consciousness is possible. Granularity and separation. We can understand existence because we have edge. A within and without. Quantum mechanics shows that everything exists only as a cloud of possibility – until observed. It is the act of knowing that crystallises out reality from potential. Deliberately to mix language – it is witness that causes wavefunction collapse. It is consciousness that creates reality, and that is only possible when edge is born with the advent of the number 2. Duality appears to be a fundamental property of existence. Energy is the flip side of matter (e=mc2), everything is wave and particle simultaneously. Yin is nothing without Yang. Ich and Du embrace and the world unfolds.
Three, is unbalanced materialism. The 3 dimensions of space, but static – going nowhere without time. The trinity – all male of course! A way point en-route to…
Four, the mystic number,Jung’s number. The sacred number of alchemy. The four points of the compass and of course the description of all – space-time (the fourth dimension not separate as imagined until Einstein, but integrated). The alchemists believed that moving from 1 to 2 to 3 and then finally adding one to reach 4, integrating back to one was the route to perfection. Jung worked with Wolfgang Pauli to tease out an interrelationship between quantum mechanics and psychology. What synchronicity then that Pauli’s best know contribution was to discover through the exclusion principle that a fourth dimension is needed to describe reality. The three intuitive dimensions of space plus spin.