♪ ♫ ♩ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯


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! : )