Imperfection

Communication is imperfect, as you and I are in this imperfect world/life. Truth dwells within itself, we are not given to it. It would seem not to have the requisite love for us, to reveal itself. Words, as intended expressions of feelings, futile ultimately and futile immediately. So in all of this, we seek comfort and attempt to find it in one another, and perhaps within our own selves. And to look within is to look at the whole of experience, relationship and the lack of it, and of course the relationship with the self, and there then can be the tyrannizing mirror, with memory in place. So then the search begins, Some look for God, some focus on the earth and its nature, some even marry the rest of humanity in their search for God, believing that God is within them, within humanity, and not alien to the existence. Spirit and Soul will invite you to another dimension, away from human life. Human life is born to die, to be rid of, to be discarded, along with its imperfections. Life is more than breathing, and death is more than not. Perhaps death, may open the doorway to perfection.

We are Free

Socialism is crap. Toryism is crap. We are all our own personal characters, and cannot be emcompassed by narrow ideas. We are people, and as long as we are people with ideas, we will thrive. Self expression has to be seized from within our existance. Let us be free.

Dublin Seagulls

Ok a few short weeks ago, on Mary Street, a great big Seagull, robbed a sandwich from out my hand. I think I can take that. But this morning, after buying a cheeseburger on Grafton Street, it gets robbed too.

Its Funny Sometimes

Its funny sometimes, when you aren't feeling good about yourself, not projecting yourself, being alone and inward, someone or two will seek you out, in a kind of protection. Cool.

The Death of Leonard Cohen

When an artist dies, I find myself in the position of asking myself, how much did they really mean to me. Then I try to recall the number of their albums that I had ever had in my collection. Well, I recall that I had four Leonard Cohen albums in my collection, so he must have meant quite a bit to me.

Bob Dylan and the Nobel Prize for Literature

Bob Dylan, and the Nobel Prize for Literature: A great music Icon, wrote his 'protest' songs in the mid sixties, when it was cool to do so. He was something of an actor, embracing, something that wasn't really in his heart, and in recent times, has just about said the same. Phil Ochs wrote better social comment, and actually believed in what he was writing and singing. As for 'Literature,' the people who are responsible are guilty of misrepresenting Literature, by awarding this accolade to a much acclaimed songwriter, thereby dismissing the efforts of those truly involved in writing for the page. I hope the Masons, of which Bob is one, had nothing to do with this. I rest my case.

7th Day of July

So that day finally came upon life, And up until then I had been a stranger to it. Light in the sky and darkness in the night of this day, like any other. And then, the day has travelled on once again, I guess it was to be expected. It moves into the memory of days, So then there is another day to focus upon. Isn't it funny how the past seems to remain when it is gone? And the people who once were, in this past can remain the same, and remain, are recreated within the love for them that you find inside? I guess that love knows no time. Will not change according to the calendar of days. And the spectrum of love can never change, and who it springs between, and who it remains in the heart with. And in this visitation to life, all you have to do is decease from the thinking of now, until you look around at what has been given to you in your life, and see what there is and has been and remains and is and always will be. There is no past in love, it lets go of its moment only to be renewed as it is remembered, embraced and indeed, loved. So there is no escape, there is no release. You are apparently trapped within the love that you found in this life for yourself, and to be in touch with this, you have to be stilled, and get into the slowness and the peace of it all. It will follow you in your life, it is you. and you needn't fear, unless you fear life itself. And if you fear this life that you are living, and fear your feeling and the ones that you shared feeling with, then you aren't really alive anymore.

1916

One hundred years gone now, a number of years, imaginings of the patriots of Ireland, who had more bravery and guts than you or I have today, seeping into the memory of particular individuals, attempting to bring them to the personal heart, in the year of 2016. And the stories of the heroes are legend, as they were and are. Connolly and Pearse, and chalk and cheese, and the 1913 lockout, the precursor, the injustice, the prompt, the instigation. And love at the root of things, the thorn of the rose, and killing of the Irish rose, when nobody was showing interest in the real way. I walk past the GPO about a thousand times a day, on Arbour Hill I have prayed, I have wondered what has happened to the dead, outside even, of the Fenian dead. And there are names, a litany by this time, names to produce, to add to the memory, my family and my respect, and that stilled feeling in the moment of quiet contemplation, attempting to understand, in the year of one hundred years later.

Trees

Frightened within the forest, when not even the sky can breathe, on the edge and in the middle, vision impaired, and it isn't right somehow to seek help outside of an independent mind, and you gaze upon the trees and you study them, perhaps you can meditate on them, and feel the life in them, and know that they really are, and are real. And away from the city, there is soul increase, spirit has the chance to grow, and memories haunt forever until you throw them into the wilds of uncertainty, which memories are already in the midst of, anyway. the day escapes to claim its freedom, it has grown apart from yesterday and has broken the mirror. Light enters the sky, of a still young day, and it comes from the roof of the forest, where the sky had been clad in uncertainty, and could not be discerned. And from the light there is the warmth of this new day, and it looks to you, questioning whether you are prepared to accept it or not.

The New Thought

And in your sickness of it, you reflect on the sickliest times, experiences, and you walk out of the door, just to get away from it all, in your own pathetic way. And faces outside of the door, don't appear to smile anymore, and anyway, they can't remember these sickliest times of yours. So you go for the medicine, and in the morning, this doesn't seem to remember these times either. So between you and the medicine, between the memory and the present thought and feeling, lies the feeling to be translated to the thought. And the new thought is a pure thing, and holds no memories or preconceptions.This thought is your freedom.

On the Legalisation of Gay Marriage

Peace in the Fashionable Camp

Happy New Year

A very happy new year to all my enemies and friends. May your lives be blessed with right decisions founded in love and patience and truth and consideration for others.