Not Letting Go

They all tell me to let it go, but I will never let it go, I will keep it buried in my heart, it will never leave me, and I will recall it endlessly, until the day that I die, it will live with me, right here inside of me, it will be my truth and my spirit and my soul, and no-one will ever be able to interrupt it, it will be a part of the love that I give and take, and in every step that I take it will take those steps with me.

The New Irish

People sitting perfectly still on Grafton Street, I wonder what the interest can be, I am more at home on Moore Street, the dealers and the people from every nation i can think of, a veritable crucible, and the people are milling, without time for the other, the clock is on fire somehow, and there is danger in the stillness, this is how I see it, no-one wants to stand up to scrutiny, they seek to be away from the moment, but the moment has them imprisoned and it won't let them go. Female African posterias, and East European coldness, whom my friend called 'Ice Maidens' and petite Asians grasping for opportunity, I stand to the side, I am lateral to the movement, and sometimes there are eyes placed on me, and sometimes they ask their questions, and sometimes, I refuse their glance, and Chinese girls with their oriental spread, and today I talked to three people and one was Hungarian, and one was Brazilian, and one was Egyptian. This place has me on edge, I don't know what to expect from it anymore, it seems to have exploded, and the sun shines. And it shines for difference, and it shines for compassion and it shines for the longing of prosperity, and long may it shine.

Now of Now

Darkening in the sleeping night, so dark that it awakens, and the darkness looks at past truth, and I am complicit, an ancient love bursts to the fore, it has become forlorn, but yet it strives for acceptance. there is music in the memory, and the seeds of soul, some move away by nature, and some move away by choice, and there is light in the morning sky with the awakening, it will not forget, and it will not refuse, and in the evening time, gazing to the wall, attempting to discover the bright of the day, in the eyes of a present generation, and the heart sinks into its soul, and it hurts in its knowing, somewhere in this town tonight, seed and then seed are alive, there is warmth in the memory of the day, with the thought that it is exact, according to the way of my memory of it, there is solace in the thought of time past, and in its quality and in the love that lived there, demons were playful giants from storybooks of tales that never had an end, and then there was an end, that I won't let go of, won't let drift from me, won't let escape to another place, and feelings feel a certain peace in a certain place apart from here, and apart from here is now, of now.

Folk Music

Digging some great Folk/Acoustical music this evening. What is Folk Music? I have no idea, but Louis Armstrong said 'its all folk music, because I sure never heard no horse sing' and what is traditional folk song? songs written within a tradition? I have even less idea, I just know that the music I dig is so cool and I love it. It seems that in our insecurity we seek for definition to every move we make, and especially to everything that we embrace, and that there is a fear of not knowing, not understanding, when the truth is, that we don't understand, and we are not going to understand, so why can't we accept this? That is what God is for, to let his leash out a little bit to us, and tease and tantalise, and to leave us guessing, we would like to believe that we are in control, to be our own God, but we delude ourselves in our vanity. Long live unknowingness and the search.

Peace

Peace is its own strength, it comes from the innermost strength, it is the bravest thing, it stands apart, and it asks for no reward. It is the companion of love and of beauty, and it can also be the companion of weakness and cowardice, at its height, at its most powerful, it can be a fire, and at its depth of its weakness, it can be a traitor.

The Fool Inside

The fool lurks inside, he is never far from the wisest thought, he returns you to your base, he explains to you, that when you are impressed with your wisdom, he is watching you, from not a great distance, and to be aware of him, makes the fool inside, no less of a fool, he is your personal sense of the self, that has to be understood and for the self to be aware of, he can arise at any moment, and in the drunkenness of vanity, he is waiting to pounce, he is ready, and his song is waiting to be sung, he can be avoided with humour, self deprecation, knowing that the self is nothing more than the self, like any other self, the only difference from self to self is difference of self, and the mind of the self, of any self has a shape and a size, and 'know the size of your mind' is the adage that explains, that the self cannot be all encompassing, and cannot know any more than it already pretends to know.

Night and Day

Even the night, has the memory of light, as the day believes the dark will soon return, truth is not given freely, except when truth and I are one.

After Sleeping on a Sleepy Day

I wonder what the magpies saw in the sleeping day of intermittent rain. There were two of them, I was sleeping in the sleeping day too, at least my mind told me so, when I had looked back on the recent past of the day. I remember that I hadn't thought about what I had been thinking. I angered inside I showed it to the congregation. The evening beckoned, the rustling leaves were dancing for me. A mighty tree, overpowering showed its strength to me. I could only wonder within its majesty. I am the moneylender and I'm closing the door. I had thought about what I was thinking, and then I thought about what I had done. The instruction book was thrown from me about the day I was born, and from my memory, but the seed within continues to grow and explain to me, perhaps like the mighty tree to its rustling leaves. There is no denying imprint. There is no way clear that is a way clear. I doubt if tomorrow will be a sleeping day. There's a cloud in my head and its raining outside.

God of Life

Dream images, clues or distractions? Variation, diversions? Impossibility? And dreams again, and why the attempt within futility? God knows. The only truth that I only partially believe. And belief in something that is in the world of dream, is ethereal, is foreign, and perhaps is even surreal. The day escapes, and it hides its truth away in a box somewhere. And still, there is longing, and the longing will not be stilled, it is breathing and it seeks guardianship, truth is veiled, is a cloak, its mystery cannot be unravelled, yet the search continues. Art and literature and music and creative ideas, are for me, what comes closest, to getting to the point of understanding, subject is naked, provoking interpretation, and then variations of understanding, of a weakened kind of 'knowing' life is crazy and it lives in every soul, it possesses and it teases and it explains that there is no getting perfectly close to it, that it will continue to be your mystery, and your mystery will not inform you, it will not love you enough to give its truth to you. There is magic in the mind, that can touch the mystery that life would prefer you not to understand, so then there becomes, the fight with the children of life and the God of life.

Words

Words are only words, they aren't necessarily that feeling, the feeling cannot be tyrranised by a simple word, attempting description, the feeling is true, it cannot be perfectly touched by words to describe it, to understand it, to make it feel that it owes to words, mattering most is the feeling, on its own, in isolation, it is naked in itself, and it should turn to no other place, it is right and correct, just where it is, words are like a ship on the ocean and the ocean is a place where mysteries dwell, and how can a ship truly know the ocean? Any more than the ocean can know this particular ship, they are together yet apart, and the night will set them free, it will explain this to the two of them, and women and men are like the ocean and the ship, they are not necessarily understanding of one another, they can have the same close connection and then they can travel apart, love resides in a place of mystery, it does not give itself so easily, is not so available,