Eyes

Wild expectation in the swirling wonderland, where the night is on fire, and the world is at hand. A song sings. The radio levitates. The room a forever changing coloured spiral. I walk inside, try to step aboard, the conductor he waves to me, says 'Are you supposed to be here?' I look him strongly in the eye and throw his hat to the ground. I dance my way through his hat and into the vortex.

The moon reads seven o'clock and the stars are playing football with a puffy, frothy cloud, and all that I can think of is Canada. But Canada appeals to me, and says: 'I am not here, concentrate!' I work to try to forget about Canada and the world as I have known it, and it comes to me that I should take another turning (well Canada suggested it anyway).

I gaze again at the moon and wonder if he will reveal his secrets to me. I think again of a new direction and I meditate on the moment. I open my eyes to find myself in the arms of a beautiful woman, and in her eyes, there is Moon.

And as I beheld her, I thought not of her name or where she had come from, but of the familiarity I felt with her, and the warmth she had brought to me that made me feel that I had made it home.

And we walked in a world of mystery remaining close to one another, and I beheld her beauty once again, and I sensed that her beauty was real, and I wondered if she would remain or she was just a part of a fleeting fantasy, a phantom, that I could have no control over, and perhaps had little right to be with.

And in her eyes the moon had turned to sea, and wave after wave of imagining washed over me. And I was in a pleasant garden and I mingled with the quietude, and my heart was at ease, and flowers danced in agreement, of how the day had become, and I wondered if I could take this day with me, and into tomorrow, although I knew in my heart that today could never be tomorrow and that perhaps tomorrow might hold some fear for me that I wasn't fully aware of in today.

The sun had gone in and had taken its love away. She told me that I had to focus on the clouds in the sky. So I lay down on the earth and I gazed at the sky and I pictured myself as in a cloud till I pictured myself as a cloud and I turned and asked the sun 'Are you satisfied with me now?' and she smiled upon me on a summer's day and she was radiant and she was beautiful.

The Appropriate one and I

The Appropriate one. The yin to my yang. The other half of the Two of Cups, comes running down the stairs as i am running up the stairs. Simultaneous same words. Mutuality of care. A shared look, a book we both have read, a place we both belong. A place called 'Love.' A single warmth radiates singleness of feeling. No touch is required and touch is required. Nowhere is abroad and no-one is a stranger. The world is singular and the clock has no time. There is no past, no future. Now is fully here. This is the only moment there has ever been and need ever be. Abandonment of care. Dreams suddenly have meaning, have a reason why, in the mystical world of the appropriate one and I.

Climate Change

She in the Ice-House, heart in a sling, mouth like desire, touch like the wind, sending me fire, playing my strings, giving her all to me, shedding her wings. Breathing her life to me, making me sing, her eyes burn me with their magical sting, the time has no gauge, the moment no mind, the place is unknown and the world is behind. Dancing her way into me, keeping in time, sharing her rythmm with this rythmm of mine. Angry for love, drawing no lines, loving her loving with this loving of mine.

She flies in the nighttime, long hair flowing, the gown of indeterminate shape and style. Her eyes are for no-one, she is alone with herself, her very breath is beauty, and her song is of desire fulfilled. There are wide open spaces upon which she dances her dance to an unheard melody, within a lovers' trance. She rests beside a rock and closes her eyes to dream. She focuses on the feeling that is inside of her. It speaks to her of understanding outwith her simple understanding, knowledge outside of her knowledge, truth outsisde of her truth. She will return to the Ice-House no more, she will go where she is taken, by the feeling inside of her. Love will determine the future.

Love will determine the future.

The Gift of the Gift

A gift to the outcast which he must recognise and acknowledge with honesty and selflessness, and gift back to where it came from. The gift cannot be from within and he must decide for himself from whom the presentation is from. A gift from within love and caring. An implantation freom a higher power, and the greater the soul of the gift, the greater the quality of it, then the greater the gift of the gift.

Real Life

Real life is in my eyes. There is no cowardice, no fear and no strangeness. If I believe that people are imperfect, then how could I love someone? I then could love only with an imperfect love. Could this be a part of the cowardice or the fear that I see is not in real life? Real life is living without a clock, without having to rush to another place, away from the place that I already am in. There is no drug to take its place, and it's not somewhere you can find in drunkeness. It is right there in the truth of the heart in the honesty of the eyes and the feeling of the touch. Real life is alone and has no companion, it gives its reward commensurate with the quality of your truth.

Life 'as it Happens' on Facebook

Documenting Life as it Happens on Facebook. I'm beginning to wonder about this commentating on ourselves. Seems so Un-Buddhist somehow

At One With the Silence

I looked out of my window, the birds were feasting on my bread, and the Spring was in action. Little sound was in the air and the immediate world was one of calm and loving natuere. I looked at the repetition of my thoughts and wondered why. It seems that some things can never be left behind, that they have no past, or they dwell in a lengthy presence. I wonder what makes these 'some things' so different, so enduring and what makes them seem to possess a different quality of life. The gloves are off and I am at one with the silence.

Easter 1916

Rembering Connolly and Pearse and McDermott and Plunkett and Clarke and Ceannt and McDonagh and Easter 1916. Spent a poignant moment outside the GPO reading the note on a wreath that read: 'For Those Who Died in Vain, for our Freedom, Now Lost.' I thought of the tens of thousands of people now living in this city and calling it home who were oblivious to its past, and I thought of betrayal, but I also thought of hope and of change and how, well, that was nearly a hundred years ago now, and I also thought if the Union flag was still flying above the GPO in 2010 would things be much different by the sacrifice of these brave men.

Drunken Dreams

Drunken dreams make me suspicious of me, and I wake up into the day trying not to deny myself, I walk out in the open hoping that the truth will guide me and I can operate as the one I was before and the one that I am most used to.