A muse inspires the heart of The Warrior Monk. Hopefully a muse not simply passing through...
A Midwinter's Dream
Friday 31 December 2010
A muse inspires the heart of The Warrior Monk. Hopefully a muse not simply passing through...
Wednesday 29 December 2010
The Morning After A Goddess Rode
Beside Me I left A Devil In My Wake
It is almost time to celebrate the arrival of another NEW year.
After a year of properly grieving, following half a life without having done so, I have finally learned how to correctly hold on to lost love. This means that for the first time I can stand here atop this precipice of hope without fear, looking across at the reality of my past life.
The reality is a trail of broken hearts, as I managed to extricate myself from the affections of hearts I was incapable of holding, in favour of a lost love whose competition was often too selfish or too self absorbed to be held worthy enough to be told the truth. To others, I should have been braver and stronger and understood the pain of the joy they brought me. In any case, I have slept many times since then because life never stopped to give me a moment of pause. As always my race from grief denied me the opportunity to know why I was running. Instead I was always focused on where I was running to, instead of where I was running from. At some time many sleeps into my grieving life I just became focused on running, where to and where from were just details to justify the fact that my feet were still moving.
But between my hope and reality lies a field of dreams, some fulfilled, and some unfulfilled, but all of which serve to highlight the conflicting highs and lows of experience that existence with an absent heart can bestow upon a person. They lie before me and call with each of the twelve chimes that herald a fresh start with the arrival of each NEW Year.
Despite the extremes of such a tumultuous life, I was awakened today to a tremendous life lesson. That it is possible to let go, without losing touch of the person that gives my life meaning. Also, that life does not go on, it simply continues. Thus, the love that burned so brightly in me and demanded to be shared is not lost, no, on the contrary, it remains. I now no longer have a reason to be resentful of life, even though it never stops or slows.
To love, as I have done with such an all consuming passion is something quintessential to the soul that I am and to not give in to it diminishes me, almost as much as it diminishes the one who showed me the true value of my heart. This was my epiphany this morning.
My epiphany came to me after a late night chat to a goddess. Athena came to me in the night to share in my news of the disappointment of one who would try to trick me out of my heart because I refused to let her have it willingly. After our chat the goddess retired to talk to a passing muse, who was visiting from the world of Erotica, whilst I nodded off to a peaceful slumber.
Then the phone rang and I was awoken by news of a flood. Quite literally a flood was sent to wash away all that was occupying my mind. God does indeed move in mysterious ways, although this time no ark was required. Maybe because it was only one man’s sin being cleansed. In truth I would have expected a much bigger flood, but the almighty is no doubt aware at how harshly I already judge myself.
I presented at my gym to find three inches of water behind the front door. As I waded to the stairs, all thoughts of my time with the goddess were cast aside as I sought to deal with the deluge raining down from the first floor. It transpired a pipe had burst on the first floor as our winter thaw began to get under way.
A temporary fix of the pipe and a lot of mopping took my mind away. However, once the cleanup was complete I chanced a quick look at my facebook pages to find a friend had lost her mother.
Just when you think life is running away with you there is always someone more in need of God’s care than yourself. I rang my friend and we spoke at great length. Privately, I thanked the almighty for cleansing my soul and asked him to let me take over the reins of my life again, because he had more important things to do. For the record the recent burden that had weighed down my soul had indeed been lifted, together with several others, so it was to my comfort that He left to care for others more deserving.
So now I sit and type with my thoughts divided, taking my ease. I have no problems in my life for the moment and a few friends in need. My love goes out to you who are not yet truly aware of how blessed you really are, despite your current tribulations. You are in a good place and maybe even in need of a holiday. You are probably crossing your fingers in private for the future. But let me tell you that you are all in good hands, trust me, God is watching. I tell you that from firsthand experience.
It is never intended in life for it to rain forever. Floods are designed to subside. There might be tears, or there might even be a few more broken pipes as their cause, but I am sure that when you have finished mopping up, that your souls will be lifted too...
Love's Acquaintance
May love's acquaintance never be
forgot with the call of auld lang syne
As I traverse this emotional wasteland
Starved of love
Avoiding those of stone cold heart
Who would dare pretend to touch me
I remain under the watchful gaze of gilded faces
That should wish me to fall in the rockiest places
They invite me to banish all thoughts of grief
As though stabbing my own heart
Could yield instant relief
It would appear that flowers on the earth still wither and die
But your rose continues to burn brightly
Never dying in my mind
Irreplaceable
The best time of my life
A time that was closed
With the taking of your life
So now a new year draws near
To end the last year I survived
To the sound of yet another “auld lang syne”
Another new acquaintance needs be forgot
And another empty heart lost to mind
So that we are here once again
Lost in one of those moments
That conspires to bring me to you
My only love
The one who has always been true
Thoughts of you no longer bring me grief
Nor the desire inside for mortal release
Instead they keep me warm
As you ever guide my way
Another year calls
In that I have been blessed
Once again I ask your guidance
Before you are called back to your rest
What Does Your Love Consist In?
You talk of joy
To know joy
Each moment passes
Like a waking slumber
From which you will never want to escape
A world of dreams never ending
Nightmares never descending
Found in the self contained mind
It is experienced in an exhilarating state of being
Where life exists beyond hope’s expectations
So that joy becomes a transition to love
You think to know joy
What does your joy consist in?
You talk of Pain
To know pain
Each moment passes
Like a razor slicing into the flesh
With each of time’s pendulum swings
Wounds open to allow the acid of life to pour in
And despite the hissing and burning of tortured skin
The wounds will fester and never heal
Numbed to other facets of life some can become addicted
So that the soul becomes twisted and without form
And living without pain becomes anathema to them
You think to know pain
What does your pain consist in?
You talk of love
To know love
Each moment passes
As though your heart beats without you
For love is found in the sharing
It is loving heart filled with strength and fortitude
A heart that will protect you from life's nightmares
Love is not alone
Because to be alone touches the joy or pain of life
Instead love subsumes both
To imbue a rhapsody on life that inspires those it touches
You pray to know love
Who would your love exist in?
Always More Than What You See
Sunday 26 December 2010
Are there any who can tell me
What it's like to be a bat
To fly in a sea of darkness
With only echoes coming back
To know how high I sail
With never clearly seeing sea
As the crashing of the waves
Form in cave wall sounds to me
Conscious of all that is
And aware of all that has been
My mind is open to the world
But closed to every summer scene
Does the world look any less
With my view of what I see
Of a world I hear changing
With its surreal sounding scenes
Whilst you hear with your eyes
You cannot see what I mean
Because if you cannot see as a bat
You won't share my summer scenes
You talk as though you know me
Just because we are like kind
But even this cannot tell you
What goes on inside my mind
So instead I bid you listen
Let me tell you how I feel
Of my desire to see the sea
And of how much I really feel
Inspired by Thomas Nagel's 1974 essay "what is it like to be a bat", a critique of the reductionist theory of the mind.
What it's like to be a bat
To fly in a sea of darkness
With only echoes coming back
To know how high I sail
With never clearly seeing sea
As the crashing of the waves
Form in cave wall sounds to me
Conscious of all that is
And aware of all that has been
My mind is open to the world
But closed to every summer scene
Does the world look any less
With my view of what I see
Of a world I hear changing
With its surreal sounding scenes
Whilst you hear with your eyes
You cannot see what I mean
Because if you cannot see as a bat
You won't share my summer scenes
You talk as though you know me
Just because we are like kind
But even this cannot tell you
What goes on inside my mind
So instead I bid you listen
Let me tell you how I feel
Of my desire to see the sea
And of how much I really feel
Inspired by Thomas Nagel's 1974 essay "what is it like to be a bat", a critique of the reductionist theory of the mind.
The Devil Can Only Make Work For Idle Minds
God hates me
But the devil made me do it
So another man dies
And people excuse it
It isn't the government that steals a young man's hope
Standing in the winter cold peddling young kids dope
It isn't the government whipping people into line
Proving the world owes a living
"..Because someone else got mine"
Ignorance learned is what ignorance does
Instead of pointing fingers in excuse
Or rewinding "because..."
The ghetto is what you carry
Like a state of mind
Just like your jeans hangin' low
So you can show off your behind
There were no voices
There was no gun to the head
Just a statement of fashion
That shows your brain is dead
You could have turned left
But instead you turned right
Now you are cussin' and hatin'
And fixed for a fight
You don't know where you're going
Or whether your fight is right
You're just flexin' your ego
Making fear your delight
I walk with G and have nothing to fear
Because my heart is good
And my conscience is clear
So I know there's nothing wrong
When I see me in the mirror
I walk with Him
To help my fellow man
Knowing he helps me choose
When"I" CHOOSE to use MY hands
Inspired by "Poverty Line", by Cory Revolutionary Poet Sol
But the devil made me do it
So another man dies
And people excuse it
It isn't the government that steals a young man's hope
Standing in the winter cold peddling young kids dope
It isn't the government whipping people into line
Proving the world owes a living
"..Because someone else got mine"
Ignorance learned is what ignorance does
Instead of pointing fingers in excuse
Or rewinding "because..."
The ghetto is what you carry
Like a state of mind
Just like your jeans hangin' low
So you can show off your behind
There were no voices
There was no gun to the head
Just a statement of fashion
That shows your brain is dead
You could have turned left
But instead you turned right
Now you are cussin' and hatin'
And fixed for a fight
You don't know where you're going
Or whether your fight is right
You're just flexin' your ego
Making fear your delight
I walk with G and have nothing to fear
Because my heart is good
And my conscience is clear
So I know there's nothing wrong
When I see me in the mirror
I walk with Him
To help my fellow man
Knowing he helps me choose
When"I" CHOOSE to use MY hands
Inspired by "Poverty Line", by Cory Revolutionary Poet Sol
Try Another Tune
If Your Partner Won’t Dance, Why
Not Try Another Tune
While you are licking his balls and sucking real deep
Grinding up and down on his big pussy meat
Thinking up new games for a sexual treat
In search of new places for orgasms to meet
You distract him by the wax of erotic surreal
By “dicktating” how good hot wet pussy feels
As you spin his head around like a racing car wheel
Eyes open
Eyes closed
Domineering from submission
Now you strike your pose
Before riding his horn in ripped pantyhose
It will be many long hours
Before you think about sending him home
Envied by a wife
Who guards her once happy home
Where happiness is sadness
And hate guides her soul
Because she knows why her husband
Decides not to come home
Crying on the sofa feeling sad and alone
Eyes open
Eyes closed
Another dinner’s in the oven
Mindless TV shows
Excitement in fishnets
Versus frumpy body clothes
The magic is dying and everybody knows
Accept me as I am she is constant to say
Selfishly seeing things in her feminine way
This self righteous stranger
Who stole his wife away
His femme de passion from a blissful wedding day
Libido left home
So he deceived to play away
Eyes open
Eyes closed
Life changes for a person
And alters their goals
Chatting shit about acceptance
Proves an intolerant soul
Where’s the wife who loved to fuck
Until passion made them moan
In the absence of hope a lover’s heart must die...
A caged bird sings in the face of a
lie, because in the absence of hope a
lover’s heart must die...
I can forgive you almost anything
So long as you never stop playing our song
It is a song that beats reverently in my heart
And carries the melody of my love for you
It is a timeless tune
That I could dance to until the end of my days
However
If you entrap me
And put me in a cage
Like a caged bird I will still try to enchant you with my song
I will fly to your hand
At the sound of your every call
I will dance upon your shoulder
To dazzle and entertain your friends
And when you are away
Far from me in the great outdoors
I will await your return
Patiently
In the hope that when you next appear
You will bring a morsel of hope
To feed my dream that you will love “Me” today
Because I can forgive you almost anything
Except that you might feed another heart’s sweetest dream
To render our song a casual background theme
The Sadness Of Knowing You
Monday 20 December 2010
Summer was really strange this year. Every day at breakfast I would put some bread crumbs in a cup and then go to the window, where I would carefully set the cup down on the window ledge. I would then hide behind the curtain and wait patiently to hear the fluttering of your wings and the scratching of your clawed feet as you settled to land at my window.
It would bring me great joy to know that despite the other foods nature set out for you to eat that you still came to my window. Never quite tamed, you always remained calm and continued to eat, as each day I slowly revealed myself to you. At times when I dared to share my voice you would cock your head and listen as though in understanding. Then you would shake your head and offer a shrill whistle before leaping into the sky in a frantic flapping of your wings.
This became our ritual. The anticipation of your visits and the wonder at what adventures brightened or darkened your day. It is such a shame that you could not speak, beyond the very simple whistle to declare arrival and departure, because I had the feeling that if you could speak, that you would have had a great deal to say.
I recalled seeing you in the autumn when you drew my attention to a sorry looking black tabby cat the size of a small dog. I began to notice his lurking presence in the garden more and more. Always waiting ready to pounce, it was always the same cat waiting to consume you. I noticed that you were ever aware of him, as he moved slowly in an effort to creep closer to you. Nothing I could do would dissuade him from coming back to the garden. But this is the ugly side of nature, where tooth and claw and hunger and desire fight an endless battle.
Today however I was concerned. You have been gone some time. The last time you visited you tarried just a few moments, only taking several crumbs from my cup before you leapt into the air without even the meanest pretense at fan fare or whistle. I wonder if the cat got his wish, since I have not had sight or sound of him either.
Our morning ritual has long since died, but when I placed that last cup on the window ledge you appeared out of nowhere. Faster than I could express my surprise and joy at your safe return you were gone, flying off above the rooftops as though we had never passed our many mornings together. I am sure it was you, though you seemed different somehow.
There was a time when we were strangers, when there was very little I knew about you. Then we shared our intimate little breakfast ritual and I realised that in reality I actually know nothing about you at all. Instead everything that you used to touch upon my heart is forever tinged with a deep sense of sadness, the sadness of knowing you...
It would bring me great joy to know that despite the other foods nature set out for you to eat that you still came to my window. Never quite tamed, you always remained calm and continued to eat, as each day I slowly revealed myself to you. At times when I dared to share my voice you would cock your head and listen as though in understanding. Then you would shake your head and offer a shrill whistle before leaping into the sky in a frantic flapping of your wings.
This became our ritual. The anticipation of your visits and the wonder at what adventures brightened or darkened your day. It is such a shame that you could not speak, beyond the very simple whistle to declare arrival and departure, because I had the feeling that if you could speak, that you would have had a great deal to say.
I recalled seeing you in the autumn when you drew my attention to a sorry looking black tabby cat the size of a small dog. I began to notice his lurking presence in the garden more and more. Always waiting ready to pounce, it was always the same cat waiting to consume you. I noticed that you were ever aware of him, as he moved slowly in an effort to creep closer to you. Nothing I could do would dissuade him from coming back to the garden. But this is the ugly side of nature, where tooth and claw and hunger and desire fight an endless battle.
Today however I was concerned. You have been gone some time. The last time you visited you tarried just a few moments, only taking several crumbs from my cup before you leapt into the air without even the meanest pretense at fan fare or whistle. I wonder if the cat got his wish, since I have not had sight or sound of him either.
Our morning ritual has long since died, but when I placed that last cup on the window ledge you appeared out of nowhere. Faster than I could express my surprise and joy at your safe return you were gone, flying off above the rooftops as though we had never passed our many mornings together. I am sure it was you, though you seemed different somehow.
There was a time when we were strangers, when there was very little I knew about you. Then we shared our intimate little breakfast ritual and I realised that in reality I actually know nothing about you at all. Instead everything that you used to touch upon my heart is forever tinged with a deep sense of sadness, the sadness of knowing you...
It Is Definitely A Man's World
Sunday 19 December 2010
It Is Definitely A Man's World,
But Only if he speaks through his
vagina
"...He was ecstatic to be told that they could have children. That is until he learned that hell would also have to freeze over and any child would have to climb from her deceased corpse..."
Mr Frank Newman, ex customer services manager of Who Cares Limited, sits attentively at home with his child in his arms, still bemoaning the fact that he hasn't got any tits.The baby is bathed and its nappy has been changed, but it still cries because there is no milk to speak of.That particular natural source of baby's food dried up long ago, as mom grew a pair and burned her bra to desert the brat for a golf caddy and a pair of power shoes.
Unbeknown to Frank, she would later grow even bigger and hairier ones and leave him because he would no longer be the man who could give her a hard on. That task would instead belong to Steve, a young man with enough testosterone to father a field of bulls. Steve would also be masterful, have more hair and still be able to find a use for his dick... regularly.
It wasn't because Mrs Newman wasn't keen on so called woman's work, it was because a man has to do what a man has to do. In this instance she told her man he had to stay at home, purely for economic reasons, of course!
It was always "either or" with the Newmans, there never seemed to be compromise. I can remember the row they had buying their house, if you can call it a row, When they were house hunting Frank always had to ensure he checked with Mrs Newman before getting too carried away, whereas Mrs Newman was always sure that "Frank would love this one" when she told him about it. She didn't want to be left out of the couple's decision process and he didn't want to undermine her position in the family. It was like that with baby Tamara too.
One evening frank was on his way home when mortality struck. He decided he wanted a son to carry on the family name, forgetting that daughters carry family traditions and names equally well. He was ecstatic to be told that they could have children. That is until he learned that hell would also have to freeze over and any child would have to climb from her deceased corpse before Mrs Newman gave up her keys to the executive trough that she had worked so hard to muddy her snout in. A man's world can do that to a woman, but so can dragging your balls along the thirty seventh floor in a desperate bid to prove you are as good as any of your male competition... sorry she actually means colleagues, in a bid to rise to the heady executive heights of the thirty eighth floor.
Things always seemed to get worse when Frank tried to assert himself, as well. In those moments Mrs Newman always became anxious. She knew she was taking a risk telling him he needed to give in to his feminine side. But when Frank spoke up she knew she was dealing with a woman and any response therefore had to be swift and decisive. If it wasn't, Frank would soon be going out to bars and meeting females, as opposed to remaining loyal to the almost androgynous metrosexual pairing they were. She knew he didn't want that because they had discussed it and he had whole heatedly agreed he didn't. It's amazing what you notice on the ceiling in such moments.
I did tell you there was never compromise. Sometimes lies to keep the peace, but never compromise. It was either they did things her way or he had to go. After all, she had explained it to him when she decided to date him and she knew that he wasn't dumb enough to think he could change her mind after she explained herself. But as long as he doesn't cry, invoking the final weapon of a beaten soul, then things would be alright for them.
I wonder if I should show Frank the dictionary definition of the term virile, before Steve inserts a little virility into the Newmans' future. I could save him the misery of a once a month relationship with his driveway, or even his daughter. It seems judges and lawyers still think that a divorced denizen of the thirty seventh floor with a nanny makes a better parent, compared to a father who sacrifices his career to be at home with baby. It really is shit being a man and not having any tits and not just for the baby trapped at home with its biological milk free father either...
Share What You Know about Truth
I may have misunderstood, but it seems to me that any concept of communal truth is nothing more than a kind of spiritual consensus. That is, a voting booth where spirits go to elect their favourite morality or truth for the day, hour, or moment.
I would introduce another view which would also explain why we disagree on the minutiae of things, even when in principle we intuit into the same idea, else there would be agreement without reservation on at least one thing in the world... can it be just a true justified belief I hold which appears to fit my observation of what we perceive to be truth.
Also, there is nothing within the human experience which is not perceived. Even our conscience is a form of perception. We perceive goodness in our hearts, despite knowing rationally that the heart is no more than a muscle that pumps blood. Good and bad is not agreed upon by consensus they are projected onto the deeds we observe, so that their benevolence is determined behind the veil of solipsism that separates man even from himself ie mind/body. If this is not the case I would challenge any to cite at least one universal truth.
For my part, "taking a life" seems a good place to start as to me this appears universally wrong. However people make exceptions, such as "its wrong to take a life, unless the person has killed, or except to defend my family etc etc. Each person who presents an exception presents a true justified belief that cannot be denied, but can be disagreed with. However, the truth of our respective belief remains unaltered by disagreement to allow for perspective.
My conclusion would be that the big "T" of truth either exists outside of all things- for only then can you have a place where all the facts and perspectives are available to you, or truth does not exist because there is nothing outside human experience, regardless of where it might be found in the universe.
In my mind there is no such thing as right or wrong or truth as some speak. There is no grail of truth upon which to mount a universal or collective truth, there is only perspective because I do not reside outside of all things. Therefore, whilst I might argue the minutiae of things it is only to better understand another mind as much as I can. Thus, your disagreement doesn't make me angry. But my disagreement appears to frustrate or anger you, why? Is it you are challenging me to disregard my own intuitions, feelings and perspective for that of someone outside of me? Such as your notion of truth, for example..
So long as there is a creator who resides outside of all things, then there is a truth to aspire to. So long as this created being applies himself to finding those truths then I will never stray too far from the path to the place that was promised. This is because the one who resides outside of all things has always kept his word... and I trust and believe that is not going to change, no matter how convincing you want to be.
This is what I believe, in the absence of anybody "knowing" better...
I would introduce another view which would also explain why we disagree on the minutiae of things, even when in principle we intuit into the same idea, else there would be agreement without reservation on at least one thing in the world... can it be just a true justified belief I hold which appears to fit my observation of what we perceive to be truth.
Also, there is nothing within the human experience which is not perceived. Even our conscience is a form of perception. We perceive goodness in our hearts, despite knowing rationally that the heart is no more than a muscle that pumps blood. Good and bad is not agreed upon by consensus they are projected onto the deeds we observe, so that their benevolence is determined behind the veil of solipsism that separates man even from himself ie mind/body. If this is not the case I would challenge any to cite at least one universal truth.
For my part, "taking a life" seems a good place to start as to me this appears universally wrong. However people make exceptions, such as "its wrong to take a life, unless the person has killed, or except to defend my family etc etc. Each person who presents an exception presents a true justified belief that cannot be denied, but can be disagreed with. However, the truth of our respective belief remains unaltered by disagreement to allow for perspective.
My conclusion would be that the big "T" of truth either exists outside of all things- for only then can you have a place where all the facts and perspectives are available to you, or truth does not exist because there is nothing outside human experience, regardless of where it might be found in the universe.
In my mind there is no such thing as right or wrong or truth as some speak. There is no grail of truth upon which to mount a universal or collective truth, there is only perspective because I do not reside outside of all things. Therefore, whilst I might argue the minutiae of things it is only to better understand another mind as much as I can. Thus, your disagreement doesn't make me angry. But my disagreement appears to frustrate or anger you, why? Is it you are challenging me to disregard my own intuitions, feelings and perspective for that of someone outside of me? Such as your notion of truth, for example..
So long as there is a creator who resides outside of all things, then there is a truth to aspire to. So long as this created being applies himself to finding those truths then I will never stray too far from the path to the place that was promised. This is because the one who resides outside of all things has always kept his word... and I trust and believe that is not going to change, no matter how convincing you want to be.
This is what I believe, in the absence of anybody "knowing" better...
I Dare You To Look To The Mountaintop
Don't stop climbing just because others cannot see the mountain you are climbing. It does not mean you are mad. It simply means that others lack your vision or insight.
Their blindness is not a reason to stop climbing, it is a reason to find another foothold and push on. Despite the fact that things might become difficult, climbing down means walking in darkness through many of the same hazards you overcame to get here. It means turning your back on the hope of a brand new future, where the paths of tomorrow just might be paved with all you hope for.
This is why we fall. Fatigued after so many struggles, we begin to lose sight of our goals. We forget to look up. We struggle for the sake of struggle, choosing instead to walk those familiar paths, comfortable in our misery and despair, embittered by even the air that we breathe and resentful of even those we hold dear. We find ourselves blindfolded by the past and lost to the future across a landscape that was difficult to escape in the first place, even with the light of hope shining in our hearts.
A great man once said “slavery stole my history” - Malcolm X. But I would offer by reply, that a lack of knowledge of my past won’t destroy my future. Fear of putting aside the chains of the past does that, because the past is what constrains the hearts of all oppressed people.
Those chains are symbols, used to condition us to believe that we are of little worth and to keep us ignorant of how beautiful life can be. They are used to keep our souls divided and conflicted. But if we open our eyes, for just a fleeting moment, then we will see more people climbing the same mountains. Although the paths might differ and only cross mine here or there, it proves we have more in common than anyone might think. Therefore, it is important you do not cease your climb, because for anyone that looks up, or follows your path, such as your children or others inspired by your bravery to stay the course, you will bring hope.
On 3 April 1968 another great mountaineer Dr Martin Luther King said in his speech at Mason Temple in Memphis “... I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land… and though I may not get there with you, I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land”.
The reason these words were and still are so pivotal is because he wasn’t just talking about black people. He was referring to all people across all divides whether gender or race etc which is why when the mountain shook with his murder it was felt all across the world.
They who would keep us in chains do not want us to succeed. Peace is found at the top of a mountain, not the bottom. Let go of your fear and climb…
Their blindness is not a reason to stop climbing, it is a reason to find another foothold and push on. Despite the fact that things might become difficult, climbing down means walking in darkness through many of the same hazards you overcame to get here. It means turning your back on the hope of a brand new future, where the paths of tomorrow just might be paved with all you hope for.
This is why we fall. Fatigued after so many struggles, we begin to lose sight of our goals. We forget to look up. We struggle for the sake of struggle, choosing instead to walk those familiar paths, comfortable in our misery and despair, embittered by even the air that we breathe and resentful of even those we hold dear. We find ourselves blindfolded by the past and lost to the future across a landscape that was difficult to escape in the first place, even with the light of hope shining in our hearts.
A great man once said “slavery stole my history” - Malcolm X. But I would offer by reply, that a lack of knowledge of my past won’t destroy my future. Fear of putting aside the chains of the past does that, because the past is what constrains the hearts of all oppressed people.
Those chains are symbols, used to condition us to believe that we are of little worth and to keep us ignorant of how beautiful life can be. They are used to keep our souls divided and conflicted. But if we open our eyes, for just a fleeting moment, then we will see more people climbing the same mountains. Although the paths might differ and only cross mine here or there, it proves we have more in common than anyone might think. Therefore, it is important you do not cease your climb, because for anyone that looks up, or follows your path, such as your children or others inspired by your bravery to stay the course, you will bring hope.
On 3 April 1968 another great mountaineer Dr Martin Luther King said in his speech at Mason Temple in Memphis “... I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land… and though I may not get there with you, I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land”.
The reason these words were and still are so pivotal is because he wasn’t just talking about black people. He was referring to all people across all divides whether gender or race etc which is why when the mountain shook with his murder it was felt all across the world.
They who would keep us in chains do not want us to succeed. Peace is found at the top of a mountain, not the bottom. Let go of your fear and climb…
Why Would Pygmies Pick A Fight With An Upstanding Mind
I stand tall because I can
Words do not fall down my face
Like tears
Ill considered
Ill conceived
Without wit
Without rhyme
Created in the school yard
Or behind a bike shed
Where twisted souls
Fucked up in the head
Gather in groups
Refusing to go to bed
Never truly growing up
They are big bodies with minds of a child
Living vacuous and empty
Escape deprived lives
Capable of only half thoughts
Twittering
Bitching
Trying to peel a grape with a fork
And then throw it at people
Like I could give a shit if I was hit by one
I throw grenades
Because real words invoke power
Which means my words must be full
Words of action demand reflection and reaction
And since bullies give them attention
I am warmed by the pack
That deigns to attack
Because bullies move in gangs
Too weak to speak for themselves
Preferring to speak in quorum
Too pathetic to declare their ill intentions
Which explains why bullies never attack
Preferring instead to stab you in the back
With their false humility
And Ill thought out lies
Like anybody gives a fuck about their gang connected ties
Because bullies shoot their mouths off
Always too short
Always too short
But never quite tall enough to look you straight in the eyes
Words do not fall down my face
Like tears
Ill considered
Ill conceived
Without wit
Without rhyme
Created in the school yard
Or behind a bike shed
Where twisted souls
Fucked up in the head
Gather in groups
Refusing to go to bed
Never truly growing up
They are big bodies with minds of a child
Living vacuous and empty
Escape deprived lives
Capable of only half thoughts
Twittering
Bitching
Trying to peel a grape with a fork
And then throw it at people
Like I could give a shit if I was hit by one
I throw grenades
Because real words invoke power
Which means my words must be full
Words of action demand reflection and reaction
And since bullies give them attention
I am warmed by the pack
That deigns to attack
Because bullies move in gangs
Too weak to speak for themselves
Preferring to speak in quorum
Too pathetic to declare their ill intentions
Which explains why bullies never attack
Preferring instead to stab you in the back
With their false humility
And Ill thought out lies
Like anybody gives a fuck about their gang connected ties
Because bullies shoot their mouths off
Always too short
Always too short
But never quite tall enough to look you straight in the eyes
Peter Pan Was A Pussy Whipped Boy Who Was Never Allowed To Grow Up
Some men are very much creatures of the now, in that they possess an under developed aspect of the male psyche that seeks solace in a woman’s arms with the immediacy of a child crying for milk from a mother’s breast.
These men hunger. They crave the security that suckling brings. The removal of hunger and the feeling of closeness to another human being, together with a sense of being somewhere, all underwrite their drive to “play”, as women call it, because men can find themselves quite lost at times. The lost boys are therefore not only fictional characters in the Barrie novel, they are the souls of boys who were never allowed to grow up and who remain at risk of being chained to a lost mothers apron forever.
Any mother will do for a lost boy, so long as she has heaving bosoms and a warm heart. Just like any port in a storm, a mother will provide a safe haven. It is a woman’s lot to provide shelter and succour to a child in need, which is why “She” is called Mother Nature. She, who often feels abused by men who come and take their fill and leave nothing but the mark of their passing, knows that her heart carries the world. As a consequence of this she can do little else, but afford warmth and shelter because she is the mother to all.
The mother is never fooled, she has heard every sob story and deceit and she has already healed a multitude of hearts because everything that is taken by those lost souls was offered willingly with love. A real mother would see no harm come to anyone.
The woman on the other hand stands at the quayside lamenting the departure of every ship that passes because she feels betrayed. With every passing ship she laments the gifts that were taken because she never truly gave.
The woman’s heart aches for the failure to stay one of life’s impromptu little boys from their onward voyage of self discovery. She will never wish a bon voyage, instead she always calls for doom upon the rocks in sight of the next port. She laments her loss at what was taken from her because she had expectations of much in return. Had she shared details of any contract our lost boy might have held out to another port because he is searching for a haven, not a permanent berth and there is found epiphany, in the question, what did you expect? Dishonesty wrapped up in expectation leads to resentment on both sides because a contract with hidden terms is never binding, not even in nature.
A lost boy is always lost, so much that Mother Nature bids women to either save him or not with a true heart void of expectation, but not to hinder him from his onward journey, for love can be his destination with a fair wind and good wishes. The truth is that only when his path crosses a mother true to her nature can a lost boy find the opportunity to truly fulfill his destiny to become a man that can...
These men hunger. They crave the security that suckling brings. The removal of hunger and the feeling of closeness to another human being, together with a sense of being somewhere, all underwrite their drive to “play”, as women call it, because men can find themselves quite lost at times. The lost boys are therefore not only fictional characters in the Barrie novel, they are the souls of boys who were never allowed to grow up and who remain at risk of being chained to a lost mothers apron forever.
Any mother will do for a lost boy, so long as she has heaving bosoms and a warm heart. Just like any port in a storm, a mother will provide a safe haven. It is a woman’s lot to provide shelter and succour to a child in need, which is why “She” is called Mother Nature. She, who often feels abused by men who come and take their fill and leave nothing but the mark of their passing, knows that her heart carries the world. As a consequence of this she can do little else, but afford warmth and shelter because she is the mother to all.
The mother is never fooled, she has heard every sob story and deceit and she has already healed a multitude of hearts because everything that is taken by those lost souls was offered willingly with love. A real mother would see no harm come to anyone.
The woman on the other hand stands at the quayside lamenting the departure of every ship that passes because she feels betrayed. With every passing ship she laments the gifts that were taken because she never truly gave.
The woman’s heart aches for the failure to stay one of life’s impromptu little boys from their onward voyage of self discovery. She will never wish a bon voyage, instead she always calls for doom upon the rocks in sight of the next port. She laments her loss at what was taken from her because she had expectations of much in return. Had she shared details of any contract our lost boy might have held out to another port because he is searching for a haven, not a permanent berth and there is found epiphany, in the question, what did you expect? Dishonesty wrapped up in expectation leads to resentment on both sides because a contract with hidden terms is never binding, not even in nature.
A lost boy is always lost, so much that Mother Nature bids women to either save him or not with a true heart void of expectation, but not to hinder him from his onward journey, for love can be his destination with a fair wind and good wishes. The truth is that only when his path crosses a mother true to her nature can a lost boy find the opportunity to truly fulfill his destiny to become a man that can...
God Is Still Great Because There Is More To Life Than Music
God is still great
Whatever religion you berate
The discord you sow
Or confusion you create
Whether you spit false seeds
Just to stifle debate
Or choose to slap the other cheek
Of those who choose to show faith
It's only you that grows stressed
By the hate you resonate
Because I am a positive mind
Who would like to relate
That God is love without limit
Not a limit on your fate
He doesn’t need my thoughts
And lives despite your hate
Even greater than my belief
That heaven still awaits
So when off you shoot your mouth
About how you don’t give a fuck
And how you trust to a life
Made of random luck
You are making excuses
Looking for someone to blame
Because you amble through life
Trying your hardest to fail
Eyes wide in wonder
Ears tightly closed
You can’t hear the music
But still grinding like ho’s
You live a life of joy
That some call sin
With nothing to guide you but sticking it in
Religious freaks forever getting
Deep under your skin
Because when you look into a mirror
You can’t see Him
Just the dildo in your hand
And a hole to stick it in
So now the devil dances
With glee while you fuck
Because if you got nothing but fucking
It’s the devils good luck
But if it’s proof you want
That God truly cares
You can forever escape ignorance
For more heavenly heirs
No religion is needed
Or pigtails in your hair
Just a desire to treat your neighbour
As one who just truly cares
Whatever religion you berate
The discord you sow
Or confusion you create
Whether you spit false seeds
Just to stifle debate
Or choose to slap the other cheek
Of those who choose to show faith
It's only you that grows stressed
By the hate you resonate
Because I am a positive mind
Who would like to relate
That God is love without limit
Not a limit on your fate
He doesn’t need my thoughts
And lives despite your hate
Even greater than my belief
That heaven still awaits
So when off you shoot your mouth
About how you don’t give a fuck
And how you trust to a life
Made of random luck
You are making excuses
Looking for someone to blame
Because you amble through life
Trying your hardest to fail
Eyes wide in wonder
Ears tightly closed
You can’t hear the music
But still grinding like ho’s
You live a life of joy
That some call sin
With nothing to guide you but sticking it in
Religious freaks forever getting
Deep under your skin
Because when you look into a mirror
You can’t see Him
Just the dildo in your hand
And a hole to stick it in
So now the devil dances
With glee while you fuck
Because if you got nothing but fucking
It’s the devils good luck
But if it’s proof you want
That God truly cares
You can forever escape ignorance
For more heavenly heirs
No religion is needed
Or pigtails in your hair
Just a desire to treat your neighbour
As one who just truly cares
Humility
I stand on my tip toes reaching for the stars, so far always falling short, as opposed to sitting back on my knees successfully fulfilling the humble expectations of somebody else. Better to die trying to fly, than living below the humble wings of others.
Who would like to stand on their toes with me and risk a fall, anybody? Is there no one would join me in counting our footsteps as we climb?
I can already hear the bristling of indignation and the calls for humility, not to mention the questions that drivel from the lips of those who have no sense of self and exist as dirt on the heels of any who should not care to wipe them off. These are the ones who see pride as anathema to their programmed sense of low self esteem. It should, of course, only be the lowest of the low that would invite others to abase themselves before them. Had it been that they were superior, perhaps then they would teach, instead of begging others to hide their talent, which brings me to my point.
Men are not born equal. Men are individuals blessed with many gifts. Whilst I might be faster, another stronger and yet another a greater mind, we are all great. Therefore, only a fool abases himself before others, because a man bows his head to none other before God. To do so is to deny one’s special gifts. Furthermore, it is to declare oneself and the author of one’s gifts, by consequence, not worthy. Whether you believe in God, or nature, only a fool of gargantuan proportion could be so desperate to seek so many heels to cling to.
To be humble is for a man to acknowledge his greatness. It is not to for him to acknowledge that others might be greater or lesser in similar endeavor, but rather to acknowledge that his God has touched his spirit and inspired him, anything else renders man simply competing to claim who is the least worthy or the greater fool when declaring that another is less humble. In the end, who is greater than a man’s own God to judge him less than great, certainly not those who might trample a man’s confidence with their own insecure and incomplete thoughts? I say, that it takes a strong man to pat another on the back, as an age old friend and wish him well with his works, and a weak one to question another’s measure of inspiration and seek to undermine him. For this reason I would rather be strong in my perspectives and as durable as oak, instead of weak and judgmental as a sapling that bends with any prevailing gossip in the wind. In this way humility becomes a source of great strength because of the place from which it comes.
The false humility that is often bandied around by the weak manipulators of the world demands that man has a lowly opinion of himself and that he remains constantly aware of his lowly limits, never reaching above his station and forever submitting to his superiors for validation to ensure that they will always have the opportunity to keep him beneath them. That is what humility is; from “humus”, meaning “beneath us”. That is why when we describe a man as being of humble birth, or residing in a humble dwelling, we talk of a man of lesser character or a dwelling of poorer condition than oneself or one’s own.
But who of men should I judge superior and who of men could I judge inferior? The herd would have it that THEY, as a collective with their religious trappings or social cliques of back stabbing guardians of the third eye, be arbiters of what is humble. But these are no more than men like me, so I question, why should one man call for another to submit to him except to increase his own sense of value or self importance.
In the end, humility is not for the submissive, but for the one who wields the whip because they know they are the ones in control. The wielders of the whip perceive their dreams and turn them into reality. Their success is a blessing to all who take a share in such a person’s journey, so long as they do so without casting stones. Thus, when one adjudges another arrogant or less humble one in fact judges oneself.
Therefore, I say, walk into the world and be your best. Hold your head up with pride and raise two fingers to any who demand you submit to their perverted brand of humility, in the knowledge that no man can beat you down with jealous intention in their hearts, unless you let them. Be great at what you do and stand on your tip toes to let all know that you can. It is only in this way that we show how great mankind really is, as the smallest components of life stand together to demonstrate the magnificence of being.
Who would like to stand on their toes with me and risk a fall, anybody? Is there no one would join me in counting our footsteps as we climb?
I can already hear the bristling of indignation and the calls for humility, not to mention the questions that drivel from the lips of those who have no sense of self and exist as dirt on the heels of any who should not care to wipe them off. These are the ones who see pride as anathema to their programmed sense of low self esteem. It should, of course, only be the lowest of the low that would invite others to abase themselves before them. Had it been that they were superior, perhaps then they would teach, instead of begging others to hide their talent, which brings me to my point.
Men are not born equal. Men are individuals blessed with many gifts. Whilst I might be faster, another stronger and yet another a greater mind, we are all great. Therefore, only a fool abases himself before others, because a man bows his head to none other before God. To do so is to deny one’s special gifts. Furthermore, it is to declare oneself and the author of one’s gifts, by consequence, not worthy. Whether you believe in God, or nature, only a fool of gargantuan proportion could be so desperate to seek so many heels to cling to.
To be humble is for a man to acknowledge his greatness. It is not to for him to acknowledge that others might be greater or lesser in similar endeavor, but rather to acknowledge that his God has touched his spirit and inspired him, anything else renders man simply competing to claim who is the least worthy or the greater fool when declaring that another is less humble. In the end, who is greater than a man’s own God to judge him less than great, certainly not those who might trample a man’s confidence with their own insecure and incomplete thoughts? I say, that it takes a strong man to pat another on the back, as an age old friend and wish him well with his works, and a weak one to question another’s measure of inspiration and seek to undermine him. For this reason I would rather be strong in my perspectives and as durable as oak, instead of weak and judgmental as a sapling that bends with any prevailing gossip in the wind. In this way humility becomes a source of great strength because of the place from which it comes.
The false humility that is often bandied around by the weak manipulators of the world demands that man has a lowly opinion of himself and that he remains constantly aware of his lowly limits, never reaching above his station and forever submitting to his superiors for validation to ensure that they will always have the opportunity to keep him beneath them. That is what humility is; from “humus”, meaning “beneath us”. That is why when we describe a man as being of humble birth, or residing in a humble dwelling, we talk of a man of lesser character or a dwelling of poorer condition than oneself or one’s own.
But who of men should I judge superior and who of men could I judge inferior? The herd would have it that THEY, as a collective with their religious trappings or social cliques of back stabbing guardians of the third eye, be arbiters of what is humble. But these are no more than men like me, so I question, why should one man call for another to submit to him except to increase his own sense of value or self importance.
In the end, humility is not for the submissive, but for the one who wields the whip because they know they are the ones in control. The wielders of the whip perceive their dreams and turn them into reality. Their success is a blessing to all who take a share in such a person’s journey, so long as they do so without casting stones. Thus, when one adjudges another arrogant or less humble one in fact judges oneself.
Therefore, I say, walk into the world and be your best. Hold your head up with pride and raise two fingers to any who demand you submit to their perverted brand of humility, in the knowledge that no man can beat you down with jealous intention in their hearts, unless you let them. Be great at what you do and stand on your tip toes to let all know that you can. It is only in this way that we show how great mankind really is, as the smallest components of life stand together to demonstrate the magnificence of being.
The Brightness of being
In a drafty room
Void of life
A flame begins to flicker
Strong
Radiant
Almost steady
It is due to the craft of the candle makers will
That almost is all that is required
As each moment of luminescence allows the extension of His vision
Nature swiftly begins to realise
That this single flickering point of light
Will never be a phoenix rising from the ashes
Never anything so dramatic
Because this is an ordinary light
Not given to extremes
It is small and it is strong
So that when the winds come
Though the flame might splutter
And its brightness recedes to become a glowing speck on the candles wick
The flame will always return
To once again banish some small aspect of the darkness
But it does so in the knowledge that it is no solitary light
It was not simply created to expire when its wick is spent
It was created to colour
Just this very particular passage of time
Precipitating the opportunity
To gift others that follow a brighter flame
Worthy of the craft of any candle maker’s name
This is mortality
Our allotted span
As ever it was found
In the heart of man
Void of life
A flame begins to flicker
Strong
Radiant
Almost steady
It is due to the craft of the candle makers will
That almost is all that is required
As each moment of luminescence allows the extension of His vision
Nature swiftly begins to realise
That this single flickering point of light
Will never be a phoenix rising from the ashes
Never anything so dramatic
Because this is an ordinary light
Not given to extremes
It is small and it is strong
So that when the winds come
Though the flame might splutter
And its brightness recedes to become a glowing speck on the candles wick
The flame will always return
To once again banish some small aspect of the darkness
But it does so in the knowledge that it is no solitary light
It was not simply created to expire when its wick is spent
It was created to colour
Just this very particular passage of time
Precipitating the opportunity
To gift others that follow a brighter flame
Worthy of the craft of any candle maker’s name
This is mortality
Our allotted span
As ever it was found
In the heart of man
Open Mouthed With Empty Words, Another Person’s Clothes Are Worn For The Herd
The beggar thief, having found herself in the royal apartment casts a smile. She knows where to find those items of her inspiration. Her search was very brief, she swiftly located the correct door. A few swift turns with her trusty lock picks and the joy was hers.
Even dressed in the finery of the empress’s purple robes a beggar remains a beggar. It is only her makeshift delusion of grandeur that spites the scene cast back at back her in the bright and angry glare of the firelight. No matter, the beggar continues to cast her eyes over the wealth of garments on display, consuming them with her senses. She reaches out to stroke each garment as though she were the master dress maker, herself. The fine woven cloth, the intricate stitching, she swoons. But no matter which dress the beggar chose, it is clear to all but her that she could only carry the clothes, she could never wear them.
The finery of the dress the beggar chose to bear was real. The regality of the dress was no less true because such clothing expressed the royalty and creativity of others. Such fine garments could never reflect the lack of inspiration contained in one such as a beggar thief who stole. These were clothes to inspire. The Empress would wear such clothes to project and express her royal being, whilst the beggar could only hope to keep her nakedness and poverty fully concealed.
Despite the great joy felt by the beggar masquerading in somebody else’s clothes, these clothes will always be ill fitting, they will always share the smell of someone else and resound of the inspiration of those who have no knowledge of her existence. The vision of the bearer and the dress’s creator remain narrative echoes of a time gone by, so that the current bearer performs nothing less than scenes in a perverted pantomime.
If the beggar ever truly seeks to impress, it would be better to don her own Sunday best. which is a white dress with flowers on it. This dress was made by the mother of a beggar, which matched the colour of her daughter’s cheeks. This dress knows every curve of her body intimately. It tells more of who the wearer is than any royal robe, because for some of us purple does not show our passion or share our inspiration, flowers do.
So beggar, wear your pretty dress with flowers on it and inspire us by telling your story, because the world awaits to be inspired by the reality of you...
Inspired by;
The Finest Story in the World
Many Inventions, 1893
Rudyard Kipling
“He wrapped himself in quotations - as a beggar would enfold himself in the purple of emperors“,
The quotation describes the main character Charlie Mears, the young bank clerk who dreams of being a writer.
Even dressed in the finery of the empress’s purple robes a beggar remains a beggar. It is only her makeshift delusion of grandeur that spites the scene cast back at back her in the bright and angry glare of the firelight. No matter, the beggar continues to cast her eyes over the wealth of garments on display, consuming them with her senses. She reaches out to stroke each garment as though she were the master dress maker, herself. The fine woven cloth, the intricate stitching, she swoons. But no matter which dress the beggar chose, it is clear to all but her that she could only carry the clothes, she could never wear them.
The finery of the dress the beggar chose to bear was real. The regality of the dress was no less true because such clothing expressed the royalty and creativity of others. Such fine garments could never reflect the lack of inspiration contained in one such as a beggar thief who stole. These were clothes to inspire. The Empress would wear such clothes to project and express her royal being, whilst the beggar could only hope to keep her nakedness and poverty fully concealed.
Despite the great joy felt by the beggar masquerading in somebody else’s clothes, these clothes will always be ill fitting, they will always share the smell of someone else and resound of the inspiration of those who have no knowledge of her existence. The vision of the bearer and the dress’s creator remain narrative echoes of a time gone by, so that the current bearer performs nothing less than scenes in a perverted pantomime.
If the beggar ever truly seeks to impress, it would be better to don her own Sunday best. which is a white dress with flowers on it. This dress was made by the mother of a beggar, which matched the colour of her daughter’s cheeks. This dress knows every curve of her body intimately. It tells more of who the wearer is than any royal robe, because for some of us purple does not show our passion or share our inspiration, flowers do.
So beggar, wear your pretty dress with flowers on it and inspire us by telling your story, because the world awaits to be inspired by the reality of you...
Inspired by;
The Finest Story in the World
Many Inventions, 1893
Rudyard Kipling
“He wrapped himself in quotations - as a beggar would enfold himself in the purple of emperors“,
The quotation describes the main character Charlie Mears, the young bank clerk who dreams of being a writer.
My World Given To You Through A Moonfired View
I cannot lie to people that I know truly care, which is exactly why I avoid intersections. I simply prefer to run myself hard as far off-road as possible, to lose myself in places that are only accessible to others who are equally fearless and strong of heart.
Though the cynical and the weak continue to whisper at me from the madness of the motorways, their clichés fall flat. I point this out, not to denigrate other’s perspectives, instead I do so rather to demonstrate that such voices though different to mine still manage to show me another way out, that is they show me where to avoid the queues that devour the souls of those who fear life and the adrenaline rush of having absolutely no control of where they are going. Off road you are only armed with a brake pedal because the road will take care of life's twists and turns.
Unlike those following the road I do not need control of all about me. Should I press the pedal? Fuck no, I was driven to see where that particular white knuckle ride might have taken me?
Getting to the top of each small peak is easy, it is cresting the top and doing the equivalent of white water rafting on wheels which will always be terrifying, or even fun when you strike asphalt again. Riding every bump and feeling every stone and branch as mundania makes every effort to slow you down provides the thrill. But if you hold true to your belief and ride that rapid of experience, then time on the motorway won’t feel bad, it will provide momentary respite to the exhilaration of being. The monotony of motorway driving will instead allow the opportunity to reflect on yet another dream well done.
As I reflect on this short stretch of asphalt I conclude that the last time was “too close”. I almost lost everything. Next time I might think about wearing a seat belt. Damn, where did that thought come from, am I getting old? Am I beginning to fear, to succumb to the voices that extol the virtues of comfort? How long have I been on this particular road, anyhow. It’s been quiet for far too long. Looks like another tail back, lots of blaring horns. Mmmmm, a smile kisses my lips, I think it’s time to get off again, the joy of the off road beckons!
Some days someone finds me, when lost finding themselves. A task no more demonstrated than when I awoke this morning to see a friend’s perspective presenting my world in a Moonfired view. This is a view of life on the edge with its dangers presumed. My friend is one of the few off road spirits who never makes a sound because her voice is too great and essentially profound. It’s absolutely fantastic to know I am not alone in the great outdoors.
I cannot lie to people that I know truly care because I will find them off road, raising dirt in open the air.
A vision given to me by Ariel Moonfire
From "Atmosfear"
I cannot lie to people that I know truly care
Which is exactly why I avoid intersections
Run myself hard as far off-road as possible
They continue to talk me out of the darkness
Their cliches fall flat but still pave my way
Days their faith is more concrete than mine
Though the cynical and the weak continue to whisper at me from the madness of the motorways, their clichés fall flat. I point this out, not to denigrate other’s perspectives, instead I do so rather to demonstrate that such voices though different to mine still manage to show me another way out, that is they show me where to avoid the queues that devour the souls of those who fear life and the adrenaline rush of having absolutely no control of where they are going. Off road you are only armed with a brake pedal because the road will take care of life's twists and turns.
Unlike those following the road I do not need control of all about me. Should I press the pedal? Fuck no, I was driven to see where that particular white knuckle ride might have taken me?
Getting to the top of each small peak is easy, it is cresting the top and doing the equivalent of white water rafting on wheels which will always be terrifying, or even fun when you strike asphalt again. Riding every bump and feeling every stone and branch as mundania makes every effort to slow you down provides the thrill. But if you hold true to your belief and ride that rapid of experience, then time on the motorway won’t feel bad, it will provide momentary respite to the exhilaration of being. The monotony of motorway driving will instead allow the opportunity to reflect on yet another dream well done.
As I reflect on this short stretch of asphalt I conclude that the last time was “too close”. I almost lost everything. Next time I might think about wearing a seat belt. Damn, where did that thought come from, am I getting old? Am I beginning to fear, to succumb to the voices that extol the virtues of comfort? How long have I been on this particular road, anyhow. It’s been quiet for far too long. Looks like another tail back, lots of blaring horns. Mmmmm, a smile kisses my lips, I think it’s time to get off again, the joy of the off road beckons!
Some days someone finds me, when lost finding themselves. A task no more demonstrated than when I awoke this morning to see a friend’s perspective presenting my world in a Moonfired view. This is a view of life on the edge with its dangers presumed. My friend is one of the few off road spirits who never makes a sound because her voice is too great and essentially profound. It’s absolutely fantastic to know I am not alone in the great outdoors.
I cannot lie to people that I know truly care because I will find them off road, raising dirt in open the air.
A vision given to me by Ariel Moonfire
From "Atmosfear"
I cannot lie to people that I know truly care
Which is exactly why I avoid intersections
Run myself hard as far off-road as possible
They continue to talk me out of the darkness
Their cliches fall flat but still pave my way
Days their faith is more concrete than mine
Last I heard, there were no parking spaces in heaven
When a master tells his slaves to leap off a cliff because he can assure of reward after the fall, there will always be those of weak will who will leap at the mere hint or suggestion. They will do so after years of being subject to surreptitious attack on their self esteem, so that pious servitude and humility follows. Therefore, in the minds of the lemmings that leap, they will ascend into the sky to avail themselves of promised rewards, as opposed to the reality of falling to earth with their bodies and beliefs shattered into a broken bloody mess on the rocks below. I mean, if the rewards were so great, why are the masters never at the front of the queue to take such a leap of faith and claim their reward for their pious endeavour?
When other masters profit from the labour of his slaves because they can assure that it is better to be meek, there will always be a collection plate close at hand. The master must broadcast messages of humility from the front seat of an expensive car and of course never know the pain of an empty belly because religious messages need the “right” image. There is also the fact that the meek and the poor, of which with the master’s help many more are closer to qualification, they must buy their inheritance. Weekly installment plans are always available to those who can attend week end planning meetings. However, it should also be noted that no statements or updates on the performance of heavenly investment plans shall be produced, but like all investments performance can go up and down and money shall most certainly disappear into the hands of the fund managers who are also "hedging" their bets.
Once again, why does nobody wonder aloud, if the masters are to shepherd their slaves in ways of virtue, then why are they never poor, or meek, or hungry?
It strikes me that if God gave man his own freedom of will, then it follows that every man who seeks out a master of his own to replace Him relinquishes that gift to exist in this life as a slave. In point of fact I think every man who places another over himself, or abases himself before another, serves only to bow down with false or misguided humility.
Humility based on who is better, or who is more knowledgeable of God’s word must be an affront to a creator who reportedly created mankind equally in his image, that is unless he blesses some more than others. But if that were true, then would that mean not everyone was created equal.
Faith has always been about sharing and communion. It is about coming together to share the gifts that we have as a human collective for our greater good. Thus, faith can only be founded upon an expression of free thinking, the very gift that separates mankind from being slave to his instincts, just like the animals.
Religion on the other hand is an exercise in control, which is why there are so many divisions within each competing religion, each subdivision asserting that their way is right. The only thing religion agrees on universally in my observation is that “notes are better than coins”, which often means that religion is too expensive for the real meek and the real poor. But then, the meek don’t have to pay for their places on the earth, this will be their inheritance. However, the priests and ministers and other would be masters of our souls who might need somewhere in the afterlife to drive their expensive cars, well I suspect they might yet have to pay a toll if they hope to get to heaven, so give generously, or find your faith and free them from themselves.
When other masters profit from the labour of his slaves because they can assure that it is better to be meek, there will always be a collection plate close at hand. The master must broadcast messages of humility from the front seat of an expensive car and of course never know the pain of an empty belly because religious messages need the “right” image. There is also the fact that the meek and the poor, of which with the master’s help many more are closer to qualification, they must buy their inheritance. Weekly installment plans are always available to those who can attend week end planning meetings. However, it should also be noted that no statements or updates on the performance of heavenly investment plans shall be produced, but like all investments performance can go up and down and money shall most certainly disappear into the hands of the fund managers who are also "hedging" their bets.
Once again, why does nobody wonder aloud, if the masters are to shepherd their slaves in ways of virtue, then why are they never poor, or meek, or hungry?
It strikes me that if God gave man his own freedom of will, then it follows that every man who seeks out a master of his own to replace Him relinquishes that gift to exist in this life as a slave. In point of fact I think every man who places another over himself, or abases himself before another, serves only to bow down with false or misguided humility.
Humility based on who is better, or who is more knowledgeable of God’s word must be an affront to a creator who reportedly created mankind equally in his image, that is unless he blesses some more than others. But if that were true, then would that mean not everyone was created equal.
Faith has always been about sharing and communion. It is about coming together to share the gifts that we have as a human collective for our greater good. Thus, faith can only be founded upon an expression of free thinking, the very gift that separates mankind from being slave to his instincts, just like the animals.
Religion on the other hand is an exercise in control, which is why there are so many divisions within each competing religion, each subdivision asserting that their way is right. The only thing religion agrees on universally in my observation is that “notes are better than coins”, which often means that religion is too expensive for the real meek and the real poor. But then, the meek don’t have to pay for their places on the earth, this will be their inheritance. However, the priests and ministers and other would be masters of our souls who might need somewhere in the afterlife to drive their expensive cars, well I suspect they might yet have to pay a toll if they hope to get to heaven, so give generously, or find your faith and free them from themselves.
Another Candle Burns
Another candle burns
More brightly this time it seems
I think I see a star
Shining brightly overhead
I wonder how long you have been watching
Waiting
Hoping
And praying for me
I might not have always been watching
But I have always been longing for you
And now that mourning has come
I can smile again at long last
It is an eerie feeling
I can feel my heart beat
Though now it is turned forwards
I am just looking out for you another way
I will never turn my back on you
I can still hear your words
In the snow next to where I wept
Everything is ok
You said
You were right
Everything is
But because you were taken away
It just took me a while to understand
Another candle burns
And for the first time in ages
I am warm inside
Ready to climb onwards and upwards
Grateful in the end
For the life you have finally saved
Your heart has been my talisman
Carrying me through the light of day
Holding me up
Whilst all about me failed
I am now strong once again
Strong enough to carry you
As you have for so long carried me
Your love has once again saved the day
Thank you beloved
For keeping me on the path
When so easily I could have wavered
And for believing in me
Even long after I stopped believing in myself
It is time to once again make you proud
To write my next chapter
Until another candle burns
But this time with joy
As I raise my hand to destiny’s call
I am alive again
And when my mind clears
Life will be calling
Pour Valeria,
Merci pour toujours x
More brightly this time it seems
I think I see a star
Shining brightly overhead
I wonder how long you have been watching
Waiting
Hoping
And praying for me
I might not have always been watching
But I have always been longing for you
And now that mourning has come
I can smile again at long last
It is an eerie feeling
I can feel my heart beat
Though now it is turned forwards
I am just looking out for you another way
I will never turn my back on you
I can still hear your words
In the snow next to where I wept
Everything is ok
You said
You were right
Everything is
But because you were taken away
It just took me a while to understand
Another candle burns
And for the first time in ages
I am warm inside
Ready to climb onwards and upwards
Grateful in the end
For the life you have finally saved
Your heart has been my talisman
Carrying me through the light of day
Holding me up
Whilst all about me failed
I am now strong once again
Strong enough to carry you
As you have for so long carried me
Your love has once again saved the day
Thank you beloved
For keeping me on the path
When so easily I could have wavered
And for believing in me
Even long after I stopped believing in myself
It is time to once again make you proud
To write my next chapter
Until another candle burns
But this time with joy
As I raise my hand to destiny’s call
I am alive again
And when my mind clears
Life will be calling
Pour Valeria,
Merci pour toujours x
MER Y CHR STM S
As the wind blustered its blustery best to whip up the snow and encourage me on my way, I happened to look up above the shop windows to notice the signs.
The dark of the night provided a cold, dark and icy backdrop to the neon fireworks display that was trying to call out to me to delay my journey homeward and continue to spend my hard earned on trinkets and gifts to put a momentary smile on someone’s face.
My hands were already numb. I didn’t think I was going to be this long. My coat had lost a lot of its warmth a couple of coffee stops ago, but the Christmas spirit of consumption drove me on... until this moment.
I could hear a mother in discussion with a child. Something about, if they hadn’t got whatever gift had been requested then this, whatever this was, would have to do, “or he could lump it, or change it on Boxing Day..”. It was then that I noted how few smiling faces there were, as the throng was milling around trying their best to make a Christmas.
There it was, out of the mouth of a child, “It doesn’t feel like Christmas does it mum?”, said a child.
“Well not to worry, it will when we get Michael’s present and we can get indoors“, came mum’s reply.
I made a mental note to mention Michael in my prayers to thank him for Christmas, subject to his mother, or whoever the woman was to him, finding that illusive present.
It didn’t feel like Christmas to me either, funnily enough, and the huge sign that hung brightly above the shopping center of commercial worship said it all. It read “MER Y CHR STM S & WELCOME.. “. The bulbs had blown in several of the letters and nobody had thought or deigned to replace them. Maybe it didn’t matter. People were spending money and so long as Michael got his gift Christmas will be saved.
I crossed the road at the traffic lights to be confronted by a man, who asked if I had any change. I thought for a moment as I only had a small amount of loose change and didn’t want to offend. His clothes and demeanor, not to mention the smell that walked before him spoke a tale of a recent life lived rough. I reached into my other pocked and separated a five pound note. Not a huge sum by any means, but to me it was a lot. I handed it to him. He smiled in mild disbelief and thanked me and mumbled the world “merry”, before the unintelligible phrase “Christmas”, fell from his lips. It seems the sign above the shopping center was appropriate and its message already known, Christmas was indeed going to be unintelligible.
Mer y Chr stm s one and all and may the true spirit of Christmas find you and yours with all of your bulbs burning bright...
Love All
The dark of the night provided a cold, dark and icy backdrop to the neon fireworks display that was trying to call out to me to delay my journey homeward and continue to spend my hard earned on trinkets and gifts to put a momentary smile on someone’s face.
My hands were already numb. I didn’t think I was going to be this long. My coat had lost a lot of its warmth a couple of coffee stops ago, but the Christmas spirit of consumption drove me on... until this moment.
I could hear a mother in discussion with a child. Something about, if they hadn’t got whatever gift had been requested then this, whatever this was, would have to do, “or he could lump it, or change it on Boxing Day..”. It was then that I noted how few smiling faces there were, as the throng was milling around trying their best to make a Christmas.
There it was, out of the mouth of a child, “It doesn’t feel like Christmas does it mum?”, said a child.
“Well not to worry, it will when we get Michael’s present and we can get indoors“, came mum’s reply.
I made a mental note to mention Michael in my prayers to thank him for Christmas, subject to his mother, or whoever the woman was to him, finding that illusive present.
It didn’t feel like Christmas to me either, funnily enough, and the huge sign that hung brightly above the shopping center of commercial worship said it all. It read “MER Y CHR STM S & WELCOME.. “. The bulbs had blown in several of the letters and nobody had thought or deigned to replace them. Maybe it didn’t matter. People were spending money and so long as Michael got his gift Christmas will be saved.
I crossed the road at the traffic lights to be confronted by a man, who asked if I had any change. I thought for a moment as I only had a small amount of loose change and didn’t want to offend. His clothes and demeanor, not to mention the smell that walked before him spoke a tale of a recent life lived rough. I reached into my other pocked and separated a five pound note. Not a huge sum by any means, but to me it was a lot. I handed it to him. He smiled in mild disbelief and thanked me and mumbled the world “merry”, before the unintelligible phrase “Christmas”, fell from his lips. It seems the sign above the shopping center was appropriate and its message already known, Christmas was indeed going to be unintelligible.
Mer y Chr stm s one and all and may the true spirit of Christmas find you and yours with all of your bulbs burning bright...
Love All
A caged bird sings in the face of a lie, because in the absence of hope a lover’s heart must die...
I can forgive you almost anything
So long as you never stop playing our song
It is a song that beats reverently in my heart
And carries the melody of my love for you
It is a timeless tune
That I could dance to until the end of my days
However
If you entrap me
And put me in a cage
Like a caged bird I will still try to enchant you with my song
I will fly to your hand
At the sound of your every call
I will dance upon your shoulder
To dazzle and entertain your friends
And when you are away
Far from me in the great outdoors
I will await your return
Patiently
In the hope that when you next appear
You will bring a morsel of hope
To feed my dream that you will love “Me” today
Because I can forgive you almost anything
Except that you might feed another heart’s sweetest dream
To render our song a casual background theme
So long as you never stop playing our song
It is a song that beats reverently in my heart
And carries the melody of my love for you
It is a timeless tune
That I could dance to until the end of my days
However
If you entrap me
And put me in a cage
Like a caged bird I will still try to enchant you with my song
I will fly to your hand
At the sound of your every call
I will dance upon your shoulder
To dazzle and entertain your friends
And when you are away
Far from me in the great outdoors
I will await your return
Patiently
In the hope that when you next appear
You will bring a morsel of hope
To feed my dream that you will love “Me” today
Because I can forgive you almost anything
Except that you might feed another heart’s sweetest dream
To render our song a casual background theme
In the beginning
Birth sends us from the calm of the womb where all is one, through a crushing moment where one becomes many. One becomes a maelstrom of light, burning bright, to sear the senses and imprint a world you can never touch in a searing brand upon the mind... another perception is born.
The light is accompanied by booming sounds. It is the rhythm of life that beats its tempo upon newly opened minds, as they reach out beyond their selves. Thus, our first cries are recognition of the overwhelming weight of the world as it bears down heavily upon us. This is another indefatigable truth of existence, that is, it is we who bear the weight of the universe that we inhabit. The universe does not bear us. This is why some of us struggle with living, we think it is the other way around. A symptom manifest of this thinking is a weakness that demands others are to blame for our pain.
Even long before we began to fear for the expectations of an existence that we must carry, we failed to learn until too late, that to drop even the smallest parts of the world is to retreat into madness. This is when fantasy and insanity offer the world’s weakest bearers a lighter burden.
Pain is the cauldron that shapes our life experience to make us either who we are or who we should like to be, because in a world where we can only touch our dreams, nothing good comes of what is offered pain free.
Our desire for love means nothing without first knowledge of heartbreak or loss. To be satisfied needs the compliment of hunger or an empty belly. Joy cannot come at the end of the rains, without the storm that before touches us with its errant pains. Adversity is life. To wish adversity away is the kind of madness that only the insane should pray for. Without adversity how can you know how strong you are, how can you know your true worth to those you treasure unless pain measures your strength?
In the beginning there was not light, light was only a metaphor. The reality is that in the beginning there was pain and its brightness imbues sight beyond sight to those who embrace it, or blindness to those that do not. For those that stand up in the face of adversity there is always great reward. To those who pray for the pain to be taken away there is sleep, a life of nothing but ordinary. The art of letting go teaches that we are all extraordinary beings and therefore all worthy of the rewards life has to offer, so it is incumbent upon us to arise from our slumber and be ... EXTRAORDINARY!
The light is accompanied by booming sounds. It is the rhythm of life that beats its tempo upon newly opened minds, as they reach out beyond their selves. Thus, our first cries are recognition of the overwhelming weight of the world as it bears down heavily upon us. This is another indefatigable truth of existence, that is, it is we who bear the weight of the universe that we inhabit. The universe does not bear us. This is why some of us struggle with living, we think it is the other way around. A symptom manifest of this thinking is a weakness that demands others are to blame for our pain.
Even long before we began to fear for the expectations of an existence that we must carry, we failed to learn until too late, that to drop even the smallest parts of the world is to retreat into madness. This is when fantasy and insanity offer the world’s weakest bearers a lighter burden.
Pain is the cauldron that shapes our life experience to make us either who we are or who we should like to be, because in a world where we can only touch our dreams, nothing good comes of what is offered pain free.
Our desire for love means nothing without first knowledge of heartbreak or loss. To be satisfied needs the compliment of hunger or an empty belly. Joy cannot come at the end of the rains, without the storm that before touches us with its errant pains. Adversity is life. To wish adversity away is the kind of madness that only the insane should pray for. Without adversity how can you know how strong you are, how can you know your true worth to those you treasure unless pain measures your strength?
In the beginning there was not light, light was only a metaphor. The reality is that in the beginning there was pain and its brightness imbues sight beyond sight to those who embrace it, or blindness to those that do not. For those that stand up in the face of adversity there is always great reward. To those who pray for the pain to be taken away there is sleep, a life of nothing but ordinary. The art of letting go teaches that we are all extraordinary beings and therefore all worthy of the rewards life has to offer, so it is incumbent upon us to arise from our slumber and be ... EXTRAORDINARY!
Even Jesus bled under a crown of thorns
Beneath the beautiful crown of petals that adorn every rose there are thorns. In a full bouquet of posies men are dazzled by the beauty of the head of the rose and its subtle fragrances, together with the shape and texture of the petals. The rose in many arrangements can cause some men to lose their minds, as their hearts begin to quicken their pace. But the truth of the matter is men are never aware of the thorns.
Every man seeks to find the perfect rose within the world’s bouquet, the one that will bring him endless pleasure and fill his life with beauty. He seeks the flower to brighten the end of his day and give his every waking meaning. He seeks one to help him realise dreams and lift his spirits to a higher place. But in plucking the rose from the earth he will always find that there are thorns.
Placed on a pedestal in a crystal vase, far removed from her place in the ground nourished by the earth, the rose will always wither. Gone from the gaze of a sunlit sky and pampered by the touch of the morning dew, she will always struggle to retain that which gave her beauty. The buzzing bee might still visit and thus with their pollen spent some give up their beauty and choose to wither in order to give birth to another bouquet. But nonetheless, the thorns will always remain.
Forgetting the sight which draws a man to a particular rose, some seek anew for a more vibrant and fragrant flower. We men can forget sometimes that it is we in the end who place her, spent, in a crystal prison, nourished from the sachets of almost food designed to keep her strong for those extra few days before the petals begin to fall. But if a man turns his back there will always remain, still standing tall after the petals fall, a stem whose appearance has long been neglected and it is only when your back is turned that you will find that there are thorns...
Every man seeks to find the perfect rose within the world’s bouquet, the one that will bring him endless pleasure and fill his life with beauty. He seeks the flower to brighten the end of his day and give his every waking meaning. He seeks one to help him realise dreams and lift his spirits to a higher place. But in plucking the rose from the earth he will always find that there are thorns.
Placed on a pedestal in a crystal vase, far removed from her place in the ground nourished by the earth, the rose will always wither. Gone from the gaze of a sunlit sky and pampered by the touch of the morning dew, she will always struggle to retain that which gave her beauty. The buzzing bee might still visit and thus with their pollen spent some give up their beauty and choose to wither in order to give birth to another bouquet. But nonetheless, the thorns will always remain.
Forgetting the sight which draws a man to a particular rose, some seek anew for a more vibrant and fragrant flower. We men can forget sometimes that it is we in the end who place her, spent, in a crystal prison, nourished from the sachets of almost food designed to keep her strong for those extra few days before the petals begin to fall. But if a man turns his back there will always remain, still standing tall after the petals fall, a stem whose appearance has long been neglected and it is only when your back is turned that you will find that there are thorns...
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