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Thursday, 17 November 2011

Earthy Oracle

Trying not to sabotage my happiness.  I know that with enough tenacity and obstinacy I'll extract the roots that have burrowed deeply, one by one.
I decided to try an experiment today, my last one (below) failed, where I was trying to effect the growth of some seedlings with my mind.

Began experiment on the 11th of October, more than a month later = nada.   I dug up some random seeds from the kitchen cupboard -1 Lima bean in each pot & 4 sunflower seeds in each pot. Each was given 15ml of water a day exactly.  On one I projected happy thoughts and feelings, the second negative thoughts and feelings and the last pot I projected nothing onto, leaving it neutral and free to grow by itself.  But alas!  All to no avail!  Ah well.

Today I had an impulse of inspiration after staring at an almost-empty matchbox...I would bury it under the ground and check up on it in a few weeks!  A plan transpired and I decided to record my progress.
I picked two books from my bookshelf at random, without looking...

"Edgar Allan Poe - Selected Tales"
"William Blake - Selected Poems"

And then...open up each book to a random page and blindly point to a random line...

  And write down the lines, cut them out and put them in two different matchboxes...

And THEN... bury them!  But with a plastic spoon...just because it was more dramatic than a dull shovel...and mark it with an old stinky sock that was near by...

And wala!  I will dig up the matchboxes in two weeks time, hopefully at 1:56pm exactly, the precise time they were buried.  Whichever one is the most rotten along with the message inside of it will be ignored and discarded - the experiment is to see which message lasts the longest, and this message will carry a special meaning which I will then have to interpret.  Perhaps it will even answer one of my deeply held questions?

Message #1  Edgar Allan Poe from Adventure of one Hans Pfaall
"Having descended, as I said before, to about one hundred feet from the surface of the earth, the little old gentleman was suddenly seized with a fit of trepidation, and appeared disinclined to make any nearer approach to terra firma"

Message #1 William Blake from Vala of the four Zoas
"Why can I not enjoy thy Beauty, Lovely Enitharmon?"

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

A thing of beauty is a joy forever

John Keats
John Keats, the great 19th century Romantic poet, was humble and obscure during his short lifetime, but his youthful and hypersensitive appreciation of the senses and the fragile nuances of beauty in nature, rendered him a unique and invaluable soul to the poetic sphere and the world at large decades after his death.  
I have been reading through his poetry and letters, and was struck by some things he said...

Saturday, 22 November, 1817
To Benjamin Bailey...

"I am certain of nothing but of the holiness of the Heart's affections and the truth of Imagination."

Like many things, Keats conviction got me thinking quietly to myself about imagination.  The value of imagination...the value of mystery.  In one sense, the idea of Mystery is the child of Imagination.  And I'm convinced all people are captivated by Mystery; thrilled, fascinated.  The opposite of mystery must be predictability, or maybe, that which is mundane.  The mysterious and the mundane, two opposites, and naturally people are repelled and repulsed by the mundane and invigorated and intoxicated by the mysterious.  
Mystery and Imagination are closely related, yet why are they forsaken so soon in life?  
The most Imaginative stage in a persons life is their childhood: make-believe friends, secret worlds and made-up languages, hide and seek, treasure hunts, personified dolls, bears, cars, figurines.  Yet these are seen as childish, and through the sort of austere conditioning in society, the Imagination is put aside for the pursuit of the soulless and mundane.  We must be mature and 'grown-up': we are men and women, we have more serious pursuits - education, and responsibilities, duties and 'knowledge'.  One of the only accepted outlets of the Imagination is art: painting, sculpting, drawing, making, shaping; an inner release of the eccentricity of the Imagination, of the repression of Mystery.  Maybe those who are "poor artists" are only really those who are too comfortable with the soulless and mundane, those who are less resilient, those who are more deeply crippled with an inability to use their Imaginations?  It's like a survival of the fittest of the soul, and the fittest are those who manage to cling to the few dregs of Imagination they have left from childhood, plant them in the earth of the soul, and water them with attention and affection.
An 'artist' is only really a proud little child, with an officious 'mature' title.  The 'artist' title is only really like a security blanket, or a rape alarm against the uninspiring, unimaginative and critically narrow minded world.  To avoid rejection.  We are all scared of rejection.  Apart from breathing air, that is one thing we share; fear.     

 Is there any less truth in the beauty of the Imagination and Mystery, of the truth of childishness, than logic and facts and knowledge and "adulthood"?  No!  Yet the latter is emphasised more greatly, leading many I believe, to place more value and trust in it; to respect cold and bloodless data over ethereal and vivacious imagination.  But which one brings life and happiness?  The latter obviously, imagination!  So why do people avoid happiness, avoid the invigorating feelings of mystery?

When I look at the world through my youthful eyes and fairly precocious mind, I'm afraid, afraid of the lives I see around me, the lives of the 'average Joe's', and what this could mean for me... This same Mr. Joe's life seems to be duplicated a million times over: the same struggles, the same stresses, the same strains and duties and obligations reflected in the daily existence of every person I see.  And all lacking the potency of Imagination and Mystery.  Smothered, repressed, stifled, dead.  What makes me think I'm so special and will be able to avoid all the unnecessary unhappiness I see?    
I guess it's time to grandly adopt the title of "artist".
Or maybe I already have?  

Thursday, 3 November 2011

The uncontrolled controlled

Personal, introspective blathering...
This blog is becoming a half-hearted diary, a boat without any sails at the moment. But it's the hill into which I thrust my flags of victory, despair, and other random miscellaneous thoughts when they happen to come.  And I've learnt that things can just... happen, they're uncontrollable, unforeseeable! 

Yesterday everything changed.

I knew the change on the horizon I predicted a few weeks ago would come to pass (ultimate albino Oracle).
And I'm still thinking about you.  Almost feverishly.

To change directions... the insight or revelation is simple.  Some people struggle with their emotional sides, repressing feeling, running away from them, ignoring them, to avoid pain.  I'm intensely conscious at the moment on my own personal journey and I've realised that I don't actually know how to be happy.  I don't actually know how to deal with true, deep happiness.  Some people deal with emotional repression, mine is happiness repression.  I'm not skilled at feeling happy.   I came home with my senses burning, feeling alive and love pouring from every inch of my heart, mind and body and then listened to the following song on repeat ..

What is the attraction in such a song?  Why was it played during the most dizzily euphoric feelings of happiness I've experienced ever? It's one of the most depressing songs I've ever heard about a man with a mental illness struggling with a cocaine addiction.  Why the heck would I think to play such a perversely  inappropriate song at such a beautiful, happy time?  I don't know how to deal with happiness?  I had never noticed this before.  This sudden awareness came after reflection on the happiness I felt during the day and the anxiety and uncertainty of feeling so happy lurking in the shadows of my mind. I think it comes down to this: I'm scared of letting go of fear and unhappiness.  It's become a blanket to me.  It has become me, like another mutant limb.  My very demon is my blessing, a paradox, a contradiction, how can my anxiety and depression provide me with security?  Very rarely do I let go of all anxiety and unhappiness and experience complete, unadulterated joy, and it was in those minutes of silence, serenity and solitude...        

We're all so insignificant at the end of the day, like little ants, tiny cars crawling across the freeway, so frail but so powerful at the same time.  It's hilarious! : )

Sunday, 30 October 2011

We're all just grown up foetuses

Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, Lennon, Trotsky, October Manifesto, Stalin, bourgeois, Czar Nicholas the second... the various uninspiring keywords of the hour-long monologue I just listened to from my sister.  Meanwhile I was staring at the way my translucent arm hairs glow in the sunlight, the surface of my skin reminding me of the marshlands that feature in my eternally unfinished novel about a mutant race of nomads.  lol  Two utterly different minds - and that's the key... isn't it...  To encourage, respect and accept each person for the unique contribution they are to the world, although your sphere and their sphere may clash or contradict each other perpetually.  Imagine if none of us ever feared the unknown, or rejected what is different from ourselves.  Imagine how free we'd be.

There are many versions of us in our lives.  
The Ale now is shifting from version 2.0 to 2.1, or to put it in more poetic terms: I'm clawing and kicking my way out of the Womb or Cocoon that is my current life.  
But I think we can become too self preoccupied too easily
with all this personal focus, transitions, revolutions, metamorphosis.  
When you're introspective and introverted it's so easy to align all the planets in your own gravitational pull, to make yourself the centre of the world and forget others   
That's why we should become like guardian angels.  Each of us individually.  
Cue snickers and cutesy connotations of fluffy cherubs and angelic beings flying in rainbow-coloured skies.  That's not what I imply or mean. 
I mean that if it's in our power to do so, and if a person needs help, we should
reach out to protect them and guide them with all our might.
Imagine assigning yourself to someone...yet secretly... The person never knows that you're helping them, or watching over them, you receive no thanks, no acknowledgement, only the pleasure of watching your kind deeds unfold and have their effect on the persons life. ........ .... . .. .
And such is my unoriginal idea this fine night -a perfect candidate for kooky-Ale-science.
I may just conduct an experiment.  

Some Spanish, just cause its sexy

Viviendo en tu vida
todos tus deseos secretos como una puerta abierta para mi
pero nadie los conoce  
puedo verte llorar
un millon de veces 
yo te protegere
Soy tu angel guardian

Thursday, 27 October 2011

One step forward, two steps back

7am musings over a classy Hungry Jacks breakfast

This week has overwhelmed and shocked me more than any single week on record this year.  For multiple reasons.  
I'm mildly pleased and proud with myself.  But in that "display of self love" 'I've taken a step back - really, I'm truly scared of myself.  Scared is an understatement. I'm actually terrified of myself. Still waters run deep - and so do the issues.  I'm naked in my own eyes and it's disturbing and unsettling.  The "goth" "hippy" "airy fairy" "otherworldly" "recluse" is stuck in a rut, but there aint no mummy to rescue her this time, because she can no longer be a mummy to herself.  It's been a struggle to find a link between the cracks for a long, long time.  Now I've found it. I've only taken one step forward, and two steps back.
It's not a game to me any more.  

If there's anything I don't like, it's unsympathetic people.  It must be a creepy, cold  world inside of there, a mixture of Germany, China and Finland with a sprinkle of Russia for good measure. It's hard to sympathise with the lack of sympathy unsympathetic people have for others.  I waste my breath voicing any concern or expressing my emotional responses out loud - it's only counteracted with narrow-mindedness and cruel sharp comments used to berate and belittle the 'sufferer', or my own supposed 'gentle nativity'.  In fact, I usually waste my breath I find, on a regular basis, 50 times daily or more - so why do I even bother speaking?  Maybe that's why I don't try much any more.  There doesn't seem to be much of a point especially at work and especially in my own family.  I feel the most isolated, lonely and freakish in my family, and when there is no family in your mind, what is there?.  Where are you? To whom, to where, to WHAT do you belong?  What is there but your God and the hollowness, the death-in-the-midst-of-life around you?  And what is this death?  Every thing!  Someone today said to me "I've got to make use of every minute tomorrow for work", it struck me as a perverse thing to say, to use life?  Isn't that approach to life a form of death? Possibly it was the perception of a kooky abstract mind.  Possibly I'm not as insane as I think.  There are little deaths I see everywhere, of all things, all activities, all conversations, every present moment, every future moment, all states of being, all thoughts and emotions, all ambitions and anxieties, every hour and minute - little deaths.  Everything fading, and changing, and passing - utter impermanence - and Time is the Grim.  What is beautiful is to see the rebirths.  But that is rare.   

I really hate the sound of bells.  

Really...we're like those deathly pale moths that twitch against the glass of the window at night, burning to reach the source of those rays of Light inside.  That's why moths are adorable creatures, because they mindlessly transfix and obsess, they're seriously the most neurotic creatures that exist on the whole of planet earth.  They're just like us. 

Thursday, 20 October 2011

Prattling, volunteering and the inner boogyman...or boogywoman

A shameful use of $60 (guilt but no regret...S.O.S) -.- bit of light reading (?) up on schizophrenia (?) in the local park midday

Finally did it.  Got off my lily-white posterior, and stirred up the cesspool of my all-talk-no-action mind to do something.  Travelling.  Interview.  100 point ID.  Referees.  Signing forms. Volunteering.
I've been wanting to make some kind of difference for a while.  Philanthropy.  Scorching my imprint on the world.  
I'm misguided.  What truly meaningful and long-lasting difference could I make?  One singular person, with an emphasis on single  (become more aware of that to my dismay, explanations later, or another time) in a big wide world full of billions of people, all passing through life's Wheel, faceless to me, me faceless to them.  How could it possibly matter what I do?  I feel so cutely and acutely naive that I feel like someone should give me a lollypop.
Help a little bug out of a puddle? Save a snail from being crushed on the footpath?  Lure the spider out of the sink?  They seem to mean more.  They don't require a crowd, or applause, or thanks, or reciprocation.  When any of these things are sought for it cheapens benevolence.  
Just because I'm a volunteer now really means nothing.  

The bursts of intense anxiety came again today.  The library was the worst.  Psyche-psyche-psyche.  To even walk through the semi-deserted aisles was an ordeal.  Yet, on Monday I was bursting with energy and self possessed with confidence and poise etcetera.??  But I'm not going to despair, I'm gonna be like Steve from Blues Clues and get to the bottom of this.  After all, what is life without struggle? Struggle gives purpose, and consequently meaning.  But it's not my meaning, and it won't define me.    
Staring at the books in the Religion/Social Sciences/New Age/ Self Help section was overwhelming.  All these people claiming to own the answers, know the secrets, offer the best strategies for this and that, impart special knowledge, blah blah. Some of the books that depressed me: 
= deficiency.  Books like these honestly make you feel like a complete 'simpleton'.  Am I somehow lacking if I don't read them all?  Missing out, getting cheated and duped without my knowledge, worse off, critically uninformed?  Maybe that's the lure of libraries: they prey on the insecurities of people.  All they seem to do is bombard people with offers that are too good to be true, kinda like door-to-door salesmen, but you end up getting cheated one way or another because all there is in the end is concreted confusion.  Or maybe that's just me and my inability to come to conclusions easily because of an abstract mind full of holes.         
On another note, I found the Juxtapositions of juxtapositions lol
Taken at my local Hungry Jacks


Wednesday, 19 October 2011

Why do kamikaze pilots wear helmets?

Last night I did something peculiar...I had a conversation with myself inside of my head...it was entirely consciously uncalled for.  It went something like this...
Me1: what do you really want right now?
Me2: I don't know, I've been thinking about that for a while...right now I feel like slapping a butter sandwich on my cat, pushing it off the table and seeing if it lands face-up
Me1: how does that make you feel?
Me2: sadistic.
Me1: ...
Maybe not exactly like that, lol.  But I've been thinking.  Love is really the most prostituted word there is.  It's used so frequently about everything and everyone, even to express approval of the most minutiae things, that it's full potential and penetrating intensity has been strung out into this tenuous and flimsy noise flickered thoughtlessly by the tongue. "I love that restaurant! I love Brad Pitt's moustache! I love those shoes gf xoxo!!"  It's free to be pimped by anyone, so when I say I love someone or something...do I really?  
I'm not feeling solid at the moment.  I have five empty gum wrappers lying around this portal to my cyber-sanctum, and I'm chewing ferociously at the moment trying to think.  But few thoughts come in any meaningful or concise way.  It's unsettling.  I don't like this sort of stagnant sedateness, states when there is little interesting, purposeful or meaning thought or emotion, it's like being dead. But what does that mean?
There is a change on the horizon, I can sense it.  It's like feeling the world go still and silent right before it begins raining.  I know something will happen soon that will be different from before...
Words, words, words, what do they really mean?  There's such a disparity between the true person and the world, I think the definitions of sanity and insanity need to be changed.  So what's the difference with words? My expression of the person and its interaction with the world
and what the ideal is
Leave that open to interpretation.  In the end it doesn't really matter what I say anyway.  (Even though ironically I bother here.)  It really, really doesn't.  
I couldn't help myself...
 but at least Herbert knows the answer now :^)

Monday, 17 October 2011

Re-purposing me - mission accomplished

Alas! the birds returned the favour.  A few weeks ago I made them a couple of nests and strung up some hair from the branches of some trees & now, I stumble across this tiny nest on the ground.  A gift!  
And the best thing was...there were a few strands of my hair in it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Simple things.
I love being weird :~)

Sunday, 16 October 2011

You either inhibit, control, or liberate others

A load of aimless rambling.  It's been all said and done before. A meander through the piles of festering trash in my mind.  I'll address you as my dismal diary, yet frankly you aren't a true diary to me, because I'm aware of the fact that it's possible you may be read by others.  And of course, naturally I have to be self conscious about that and further conceal things I wish to present as raw and unconcealed, yet deceptively they aren't. It's always about censorship as a protective mechanism, because self inflicted vulnerability is like suicide to the sensitive soul.  Maybe sensitive souls are merely maladaptive cowards - oh no! judgementalism? Maybe it's just a harsh form of the truth. But how could I even tell - the one who's very name means the very thing I struggle so violently with!  What a black joke, or depending on your perspective and mental health: a curse. 
I love someone or something and I don't think they love me.  But why not be saint-like, like beloved Francis..."not so much to be loved, as to love", I could be speaking metaphorically, metaphysically, or personally-specific here, I could be delusional, deceived, or fondled in the crooked arms of reality at this moment. My relationship with the world is one that can't even be prodded out on a keyboard.  So much time is wasted.  I'm living death and so are you, so why do we insist on playing our parts, acting out our roles, and submissively bowing our knees and necks to the onslaught of the emptiness we've created? when we could be living?  But few idealists are realistic, ha, utterly incompatible. Do I think I can really escape?  Won't I?  It's likely I won't.  No!  Won't I just be another wife looking after 3 kids, a home-maker confined to the house waiting for the husband to arrive home - the deathly complacency of comfortable-familiarity living, drive kids to school, disconnected nights watching the TV, make dinner, make love, make more kids, make comfortable sense of everything and live life in a prison without bars, so closed, so narrow minded, until death do we part?  Or even sooner maybe. Isn't that truly the most realistic end? Or switch the roles, and a business-woman instead, yet living an equally empty life. Why is not wanting to settle for second best a crime?  There's such spiritual dryness in my life at the moment.  It's a form of desolation no one else can share as precisely as I experience it personally, an overwhelming suffocating disorientation; confusion experienced through a jaded mind. Parents and friends are no help whatsoever.  Any help is most likely a complication, or an exacerbation of the pussy wound.
There must be sacrifices in life musn't there?  Is it hedonistic to say that I want heaven on earth?  Ha, lemme at myself.  But I'm sick of tearing chunks from myself, humiliating myself in front of myself, I have the right to be loved and cherished, just like anyone else, "warts and all". Don't I?      
There's so much love in the world, there's so much death as well.  I know so little about so many things, but I know more than I ever wanted to know about others.  I want to be everything to you, and you everything to me.  But we're all scared.  We just deal with it in different ways.    

Friday, 14 October 2011

The fingers that brushed against my cheek

I have many dreams about many things at night...unknown places, strange people, odd objects and actions, people I know, people I used to know, all mashed together in a crazy conglomeration of events and stories in my mind.  As would happen to everyone more or less.
The experience I had around 2:30-3am this morning blew them all out of this world.
This dream was completely unearthly.

My strange experience on October the 15 2011.

The beginning of my dream started in a bright room. A woman called Dominique I know from work was putting some sausages in a bowl and I was next to her watching.  There was a white refrigerator next to us and I looked inside. The sausages were not pork, chicken or beef, but were chihuahua meat (wha? lol), and once I told Dominique that they were chihuahua meat she began making these scared whimpering noises, continuing to mechanically plop the chihuahua sausages in the bowl.  She was really scared, but still she kept putting those sausages in that bowl.  The meat was disgusting, like meat you would feed your dog, and I remember smelling the raw meat in my dream.
The dream shifted, and I was in a pitch black room with the only light coming from the refrigerator which had its door open.  My sister was there with me instead of Dominique.  For some reason my sister and I got into an argument about something, which my sister ended by saying something along the lines of I'm (as in me) equal with a dog/I'm nothing but a dog. This was all in the darkness, with the only light coming eerily from the refrigerator.  After the argument, the refrigerator door shut and I was in darkness in this room.  There was a pitch black doorway across the room from where I stood and something came through it.
It looked like this:

Similar to Darkness from the movie Legend - minus the sword.  It's horns were also more curved like crescent moons, like this: (  )

It was an electric blue colour that was luminescent in the dark. (not red)
It said to me after my sisters parting words: "so, your nothing but a dog then?! ...  It won't matter if I kill you!"
I was absolutely petrified - there was a long table between me and the devil in the dark room and it was moving slowly around it to get to me.  All the time it had its eyes fixed on my eyes, and from memory they were piercing and ice blue. 
I began reciting the Lords Prayer, I was self conscious in my dream of how feeble and pathetic I sounded, I remember garbling my words: "Father in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven..." 
I was addressing this prayer to God in my dream, all the while I was looking at the devils face to see if there was any change and if it would relent.  But it was still edging around the table, as I was edging away from it, sort of like a slow and deadly dance, its gaze and attention fully centred on me, like a snake closing in on the kill.  
Soon I was saying "Lord, I know I'm not worthy".  I kept on repeating it, soon I was moaning it, louder and louder until it was like a cry as the terror was increasing inside of me "Lord I know I'm not worthy... Lord I know I'm not worthy...Lord I know I'm not worthy...Lord I know I'm not worthy... LORD I KNOW I'M NOT WORTHY!"
Until I awoke with a jolt.  Right in the climax of the horror I woke up. I was sweating. Something that felt like a hand brushing against my cheek had woken me up.  It was against the left side of my face near my cheekbone and it was a warm tingling sensation.  This didn't happen in my dream, it happened in reality, I lay there feeling the sensations against my face fade quickly once I had awoken.  
I think that something unearthly woke me up.  Instantly I thought it was some kind of angelic being connected with Jesus, or even Jesus who had woken me up.  
It's one of the most creepy and astounding things that's ever happened to me      
I sat up for the next 10 minutes at 3am in the morning madly recording what had just happened to me in my journal. 
We know so little about the nature of reality.
I'm fully convinced that on this day, the 15th of October 2011 A.D. I was directly contacted by God.

Monday, 10 October 2011

Two as one

Really, you and I...we're both multiple people living in one body.
I'm two different people.  You're two different people.  We are two people simultaneously existing inside one body.  If that isn't the most 1970s-B-grade-horror-movie-esque thought I've ever had... I don't know what is...lol
I am me as I understand me. You are you as you understand yourself.
But you and I are also a separate person all together.
We understand ourselves one way, but others don't understand us the same way we understand ourselves do they?  Do they...?  I don't think they do.
What we wear, how we walk, our voices, our behaviour, all these things that comprise the individual, are thought about differently according to the beholder.
We are also the person others perceive us to be.
I am me according to another persons understanding and the same with you. There are two versions of us.  
And isn't it true that we, me, you, us, change all the time according to the eyes and minds that perceive us?
Aren't we all just chameleons?  Inwardly we are the same, but outwardly we always shift and evolve and change colour?
But which perception is correct?  Or is that the wrong question to ask?
Do others really understand more about us than we do by ourselves?
Then again...they have the more unbiased, objective point of view when they listen to what we say, how we present ourselves and our words, our actions, our behaviour.  Don't they?  But they are still biased in a way, they're still influenced by emotions and beliefs about us and so forth, but are they less biased towards us than we are towards ourselves?  Oh man..
Today...what I really care to answer in all this thought and these questions is what does that personally mean to us all?  Because we are essentially two different people: one to ourselves and one to other people...will the gap ever be bridged?
What does this mean?  Will I ever truly understand you as you understand yourself?
Is it true that we possess the most truthful understanding of ourselves?  If it is, what does that mean?
The people we love the most - will we ever know them as they know themselves?
Are we entirely alone in our understandings of ourselves?  Will anyone ever see me as I see myself?  Or you as you see yourself?  Is there always this gap between us and every person around us?
A lot of questions but no answers.
Yep, another day in my mind.

Sunday, 9 October 2011

Mummy...the world lies to us

Mummy...the world lies to us
Mummy...we lie to the world
why do I exist when I never even asked for it?  Why do we love and care for people who never love and care for us?  Why do people say one thing and do another?  Or conceal and wear masks over their thoughts and emotions?  Mummy, why is there so much repression?  Why am I so repressed?  Why do we build such frail and meaningless structures in the world that we seek to live orderly lives through, but end up locking ourselves in our own handmade prisons?  Mummy, why do people hate themselves?  And why do other people hate us?  Why do some people have choices and other people have little or none?  Mummy, is life really only about getting a 9-5 job and having a family?  Mummy, why aren't people loyal or faithful?  Why are there so many religions? Mummy, why don't we always get what we want and what's the best for us? Why do people fight against each other and lust for blood and power? Mummy, why is pain necessary, and a natural part of this world?  Mummy, will anyone ever truly love me in this world when there are so many divorces and so much self obsession? Will I? Why are there so many different truths, what happens if I get it wrong?  Why must I be scared in the first place?  Mummy, why death? Why must I watch those I love die?  Why must I die? Mummy, why do people veil whatever appears to have meaning with day-today vapid chatter, and vain pursuits that I care nothing about because they're pointless, and consequently feel an eternal sense of isolation? Why do people die alone? Mummy, why doesn't anything last?  Mummy, will I become what I see?  Why did I think I used to know some of the answers, why am I asking these questions again?  Mummy, why is my mind becoming so clouded with emotion right now that I can't ask any other meaningful questions that I know you wont be able to answer?

Saturday, 8 October 2011

What young introverted females do with their Saturday mornings...

Intent: Wander for 2km to a mystical magical place, contemplate profoundly, make the elixir of life, talk to Treebeard..and maybe some elves
Purpose: (i) anti-boredom buster, (ii) going somewhere I don't usually go (fear exercise), (iii) because I'm a dork

Socks with a hole lotta character for the occasion(lol loooool) 
Fragrance for the occasion! (home-made concoction with compliments to patriarchal-type figure)

Left ^

Soundscape - man & nature clashing. Trying to immerse yourself in the ambience of nature is kinda hard when trucks and cars are roaring past in the distance.  Interesting contrast, that's for sure!
All poetically assembled, made and eaten by me!! (Materials: paper bark, bottle brush, ANZAC  biccies x2)

Wednesday, 5 October 2011

Inspiration comes in all shapes and sizes

Some delicacies to add to this cyber platter today.

This biscuit pretty much sums up everything I've been thinking today... 
It's the little perforations in the biscuit that are important, but I'll ramble to myself later about why.
There seems to be two types of people, people that are
i) driven by the known
ii) driven by the unknown
They explain it as precognitive dreaming, but why for example, do I sometimes find myself in places or situations that I know I've been in before, except not in physical reality, but in a past dream?
I realise that I'm driven by the unknown. I'm either motivated or demotivated by the unknown.  Either fascinated, or repelled.  Either obedient or rebellious.  My most fundamental problem isn't anger or gluttony or lust, but fear. I came to the conclusion about a week ago, and now a lot more makes sense.  
That glorious biscuit! pretty much represents my mind, and I think, other people's minds as well.
The biscuit itself is cold, hard, palpable reality - what we're familiar with.  
But through that reality there are little holes, like the holes in the biscuit, that can't be filled.
They represent the things we can't explain, the things we can't "rationally" account for.
The coincidences, the de ja vu, the foresight, spiritual experiences, hunches, unaccountable feelings.
In defence fuelled by fear of the unknown, we narrow our minds and close those holes.
No wonder most of us live materialistic, spiritless lives.
I think I've embraced the unknown (maybe not quite socially yet) to the extent that my mind is full of gaping holes.
I can't grasp a thought for very long, or linger on any one thing without immediately thinking of something else.  All the holes have made my mind abstract, unable to come to conclusions about anything, resulting in lingering unease.  And lingering uncertainty.  I feel like a heretic, because I'm slowly and disjointedly re-examining and at times denouncing everything that has made me me, all the beliefs, all the behaviours, all the ideologies, all the life goals.  Sure, a pat on the back saying "it's okay, it's only natural" is a simple salve, but the depth of the confusion and fear and guilt can't be smoothed over with words.  You really have to live inside of a person to understand how they truly feel and how hopeless everything has become to them.
   We live in a world driven by knowledge - we've passed out of the Industrial Age.  
We're now in the Knowledge Age.
Knowledge is the greatest asset.  
  But I feel that soon this era will end and people will increasingly become jaded. 
We have knowledge, but we don't have spirit. 
I think that there will be a mass awakening.  I think there will be another era after this Knowledge Age that will come after technological advance has reached its climax, and the mass orgasm of temporary fulfilment from this technology (and all the luxury it brings), becomes old news.  People will want more.  They'll see the endless cycle, 'The Wheel' of life and realise how shallow and soulless the pursuits are.  And how lifeless and purposeless their lives felt.  They'll want more.  They'll want progress.  And it won't be left to The Church, or the Monarch, or the Government, or the Business. But to the person.  
I think the next era will involve yet another evolution, or revolution of thought.
To coin a rather pie-in-the-sky name, I think the next age will be the Soul Age,
where people actively go in search of the who, what and why of themselves and the world, I think it will be characterised by a mass interest in theories, cults, religions, and other things that attempt to explain the purpose behind life and offer more meaning and spirit-centred living. 
Instead of looking outside of themselves, people will finally look inside.

Monday, 3 October 2011

Sunlight, sparkles and other cute words that start with the letter S

Mentally exhausted ramblings after a long days work. Hey presto baby. 

Time is a shadow that stretches and fades
I fell in the grass consumed by green blades
with soundless, small cries, I pleaded: return!
a tomb in the grass, a body in the urn.
Eyes opened wide to an emerald light
this green dimension has no day or night
here all is jade and olive and lime
this verdant sphere has no day,
no time
the moon is a sun-dial
your eyes hide behind
the sun; a petal
frozen in time
your breath forms the clouds that never dim
forests in the sky pouring  kisses on my skin
along my fleshly lines
earth-eaten and lean
a glasshouse of green is my home In Between
we never lived, we always died
 forever unseen.  

Sunday, 2 October 2011

The thought about the thought that I didn't think about

Tonight...a very strange mood.
I have this book, My love you my children, on my left thigh by the Sufi Mystic Bawa Muhaiyaddeen, and a borderline.. erotic song I lost the moon, by Tara Vanflower is playing.
I feel like climbing up a tree and watching the moon, and spotting owls and possums, and *borrowing* a white nightgown and sleeping next to a bowl of apple pudding.  I want to sit in front of a bonfire in a monasteries library with my little boy Luna on my lap and watch stars and fry marshmallows and listen to crickets.  Most of all I want to hug someone.  And somebody to hug me back.

I want to do anything but give in to the spiralling melancholy that starts on Sunday, intensifies on Monday, mellows on Tuesday and is gone by Wednesday.  I can feel it.  Like a black hole inside of me, sucking happiness into a vortex.

Read about the first genocide of the 20th century today.  Looked at the skull of a victim.
When you boil it down, we are a pile of bones and meat, with this incorporeal consciousness.
Fragility.  Futility.  Our own hands create objects that outlive us!  Cement, houses, statues, manuscripts...if that isn't the blackest joke I ever heard, I don't know what is.
So many thoughts about things, couple that with emotions that come from so many thoughts and you have one screwed up mind.

I'm not giving in to fear.  The end of 2011 will be about gambles and faith.  At least, my goal tonight.  Who knows about tomorrow.

And tonight I realised something..............................................

I adore you.

So long.


Saturday, 1 October 2011

Silence is deep as eternity, speech is shallow as time

Today someone said that I was a lifeline to them.  And that I gave them the incentive to continue on...words can't express the feelings stirred by those words. 
I thought about these words.  About why they were a shock to me, kind of like a slap of icy water against the face, or a foghorn blasted in your ear. 
And part of the reason why is frankness.  Words spoken in an uninhibited way.
Too much time is waisted with the evasive, carefully constructed and subtle speech of every day.

I like silence the best.  If only a vow of silence had a practical application to every day life....
But talking is always required, and that sucks.  People should communicate by osmosis or something...looking at or into the other persons eyes.  Not everyone has deep eyes.
For the most part, I think I'm too much of a politician.  
I think I'm too reserved in what I say, and too careful.  
Too disguised, too reticent.
Of course the source is fear.  The source is a fear of rejection, embarrassment and as much as this surprises me, an inability to openly flaunt and display much open emotion in what I say.  
The more I display my sentimentalism, my affections, my emotions as a whole, the greater chance I have of being hurt.  The greater chance I have of suffering through exposing my vulnerability.  Damned fear. 
Even now, writing this, there is always an ebb and flow, a tug-of-war of conflicting thoughts.
But it's an experiment, for me and no other.  I would truthfully demand an audience, because a choir is better than an echo.  But this is an experiment to use fear rather than run from it.  
To play around with my own limits. A leap of faith.

I always spout theories - romanticised ideas meant for the idealistic person, and for utopian-worlds.  But I know that reality has it's own say.  And it says that it's not going to be easy for me to be frank with everyone.  
First fear needs to be culled, or at least harnessed.  I want to tell the people I care for exactly what I feel and think about them.  Repression may have been a virtue in the Victorian era, but it's not in my world.  Not always at least.  I make exceptions.  I don't explode, I implode.  So for now, all I can say is

and I always have.  Even from the start.  


Friday, 30 September 2011

Wrinkles are the best prose

Gold: When something bad happens you have three choices.  You can either let it define you, let it destroy you, or you can let it strengthen you.  

Read this, and thought it was beautiful.  Typically I'll counteract it with something morbid of my own, which from years of observation, I know is depressing, but true. Taking Madame Tilly for a trot around the block today I stopped in some bush behind a playground looking out over all the houses that littered the valley.  Those cement boxes were so separate from each other, so anti-social and isolating.  You wouldn't think real life thinking and breathing people lived in their own separate worlds and dramas inside each house.  We're all too alone when we face our issues.  Looking at houses I never think twice, I always imagine them as empty shells, but they physically ground the lives of people.  They establish reality.  When I look at my house I attach thoughts and emotions to it - it becomes more than I pile of bricks or wood.  Maybe nursinghomes are the same - people look at them and don't think twice about the occupants.  The old should be flaunted and highly respected in society, rather than hidden away and fed mince and custard and re-runs of M*A*S*H, until they finally die, receiving, at the most, three visits a year.  One for their birthday.  One for mothers or fathers day.  And one for Christmas.  Like sitting in a prison cell and being given rations.  8 years in 3 different nursing homes.. I don't think it's an exaggeration.
I could go on a self righteous rant about how everyone is too self consumed, wound up in dead-end soul numbing careers, complicated marriages driven by self absorption, dole bludging miscreant children, hedonistic overly-indulgent lifestyles...but what would it solve?  It would be a lie to say I hate looking at an excess of my own words, it would be less of a lie and more correct to say it would only make me feel high and mighty.  But what use is an illusion?
What use is a chick preaching to the roosters and hens, it's laughable.  I know that most people don't have a choice.  To truly have no choice in life is a crime against humanity.  I think the problem is that people don't realise they are cogs in the Wheel of life.  The same cycle, the same traps, the same routine numbness, with sprinkles of meaning and fulfilment and genuine love here and there.  Or else, they realise too late.  Maybe that's what a mid-life crisis is.  I want to know what an end of life crisis is called?    
Anyway, I know it's not all that bad - at least they have each other... at least, the ones who are independent feeders and movers.  And they get to watch movies together on this massive LCD screen TV and play bingo and hardcore wrestle!!!  Actually..I made the last one up... or did I? 
A poem spoken to the cyber emptiness, just because I can.  

Old Woman 

Who is that with hooded eyes?
Whose eyes are like the ashen skies
which cloud and dim and roam for miles,
a shadowed look
and lonely smile?
And as the curtains billow high
the eyes that sigh for days gone by,
"A mausoleum, a crypt, here sit I,
in regimented loneliness where old souls die,
for the love of family faded and dimmed,
I: an empty cup with an overflowing brim,
grew grim as I sat contemplating the lie:
no guarantee of love from family ties. "

Thursday, 29 September 2011

The clairvoyant leaf

Time = 1:30pm-ish
Explanation = Was cooped up in my room typing up an essay for uni when I needed 'a breather' (aka.quick! run outside and stop the onslaught of insanity!!!)...when I walked down some steps and saw a leaf.
A LEAF I TELL YOU!?!!?!?!  A gum leaf from a gum tree to be precise.  It was just hanging there, right smack-bang in the middle, as if it was trying to get my attention.
Or tell me something...
If I hadn't gone up in an inquisitive frame of mind I probably would have severed the little bugger and told it off.  So after examining it for a while I rushed inside to get my camera, coming to a conclusion...

...the leaf is clairvoyant.
Maybe I'm just a batty weirdo in a timid disguise, but I felt as though that leaf was communicating with me.  Or else a spontaneous sign from God showing me what my life will be like, since I've been dwelling on life and death a lot recently.
The leaf was illuminated by the sun, so that every tiny vein threaded together through the leaf could be seen clearly.  It was like staring through a stained glass window in a church.  The pictures don't do justice to the vision at all.   But this is what I thought while I looked at the leaf:
the long pale vain running down the centre of the leaf is the timeline of my life.
I was born at the top upper tip of the leaf (where the stem protrudes from),
I will die where the end tip of the leaf comes to a point.  In the picture the tip is black & dead.
Throughout the leaf there are dark spots - when they were illuminated they were a crimson red
& they are major life events.  Some of the crimson spots touch the lifeline, or crowd close to the lifeline, and others drift away from the lifeline.  I know that the ones that touch the lifeline are negative events, and the ones that drift away from the lifeline are positive events.
There are also dead spots: one at the very outer edge of the leaf near the middle, and one on the very outer edge of the leaf close to my death.  I think they represent a crisis of some sort: either sickness, death of a loved one...
On the back of the leaf there is also this white line that connects two of the crimson spots, representing marriage I think.

This is irrational absurdity, blah blah, but this is honestly what I thought!
Now the leaf sits next to me as a sort of Omen.
Sometimes I think my imagination is too vivid.

Wednesday, 28 September 2011

Cynical romantic, realistic idealist?

He said it was too depressing, the man who handed me the above book, so depressing in fact, that he couldn't finish it.  How fascinating!  In that instance I understood myself through the eyes of another. 
I wonder if any one can finish me. 
Wuthering Heights + slightly intense frame of mind = one of my favourite books.

Cathy: Nelly, I am Heathcliff!  He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.

Heathcliff: And I pray one prayer - I repeat it till my tongue stiffens - Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you - haunt me, then!  The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe.  I know that ghosts have wandered on earth.  Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad!  Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!  I cannot live without my life!  I cannot live without my soul! 

Of course, this is 19th century fiction, but I can't help but wonder if a relationship between two people could ever be so intense.  Most introverted females yearn for something similar to this, possibly minus all the melodrama, digging corpses up from graves, dying from love-sick starvation etc. etc., I think.
Love is only another form of grief though in my experience, and from what I've observed.  But a kind of grief worthy of burning through.
We talk about safety, comfort, protection, care, and these almost phlegmatic words that exist within the sphere of love, but what about speaking of inseparable souls?  Passionate and consuming love?  Is it true that each person in the world has another who was fashioned for them, and them only?  Their echo, their reflection, their pulse?  Or is this just romantic, unrealistic fluff of poetic daydreams?  Divorces, infidelities, what are they a sign of?  When romantic love is boiled down, what does it actually consist of?
I need a scalpel, some binoculars, and a white board.
Luckily we have modern embodiments of Heathcliff and Cathy around - like Geoffrey and Brynne Edelsten.  Who could not see the resemblance??          

In disguise